Johnny and Clare VI

"I don't know if I trust you.  I've already had a preview you know."

"You don't trust an Irish woman behind the wheel.  Lean back and relax Johnny."

She starts the engine and reverses slowly out of the parking space.  

"So, whats the story bud..."

I know this is my cue and I sigh.  Looking over at her and back around the garage.  There are families climbing into cars, an old man opens the door for his aged wife, three children run in front of their father and mother.  Human life pulses all around and I don't want to go to that place.   It feels almost as if I've escaped it.  Or not escaped but arrived at another place here with her, and now she asks me to go back.

"Until three days ago I was a writer, and then I forgot how... Well I didn't forget, I guess I... I don't know how to phrase it.  You see something happened, and when it happened all the words and phrases and characters dried up inside me and now each time I sit down and start to think the only words that float into my head are words and lines of the critics reviews tearing apart my last book... It's a bit like I'm trying to clear my throat, but my voice is gone and won't come back and the worst part is I can still feel something scratching in my throat, but I don't know what to do to get it back.”

I pause and wonder whether to stop or keep on. What is normal procedure.  Is there a normal procedure for this.  For missing a plane and renting a car with a complete stranger.

"That's what I was thinking looking out the window when you began talking to me."

"A writer, really?  That's romantic. I could never have imagined I was sitting next to an author."

Her face is playful, her lips pursed, her hazel hair gathers in wavy strands to frame her face which is focused straight ahead as we wind down the parking garage ramps.

"Do you think you could cut the sarcasm. I'm kind of bearing my soul to you right now"

A pained expression paints her face, her brow tensing.

"You can't change circumstances Johnny, all you can do is make light of them.  Black humour that's what we Irish do best. At least your young, maybe you could write greeting cards or, I know what you could do.  One word, gravestones. Something a little less sexy, you know, it's not like your life is over."

She chuckles and I feel the need, suddenly to legitimise my seriousness.

"I was sad when you saw me looking out the window.  You're right about that. I was sad because..."

But I can't say it.  My throat dries up and she stares over questioningly.  All I can do is stare back.

"Why were you sad Johnny?"

Her voice is tender and soft, the laughter is gone and concern is written in delicate lines drawn around her eyes

"I'm sorry, but I'm not ready... I can't go there. 

It all flashes before me then.  In this one moment.

“What am I even doing here?  I missed my flight.  The funeral.  No, no, no, no, what am I doing?”

--

He bangs his head against the dashboard repeatedly but not violently as he softly mutters to himself. 

“No, no, no.”

He says it again and again, until suddenly he stops.

We both sit staring out at the passing road.  I clear my voice.  

"I don't know where I'm going."

"What do you mean you don't know we're you're going."

"I mean I have no idea in what direction we are headed, how far we've come or where we are going."

"Then why did you rent a car?"

"While sometimes it's just good to go for a drive."

"Usually when you start a vehicle you have a destination in mind."

"Ah where's the fun in that.  We're much better off not knowing where we're going.  Sometimes you have to get lost to find you're way."

His face is scrunched up in an ugly way.  I guess this to mean he is annoyed, or angry. I flip on the radio.

"What are you doing?  We should decide on a destination before we do anything else."

"Stop trying to control everything Johnny, there are things in life that we can't control."

I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing coaxing him into coming along on this little journey, but I do know he needs to stop moping.  I wonder how he'll react when everything is revealed.

"Maybe before that critic, that sad individual who has somehow gained notoriety as the voice of judgment in an art form that he himself can't perform."

At this his head perks up.

"Maybe that critic had a sandwich with a gone off pickle before he began picking away at his keyboard, and that pickle was giving him a particularly bad stomachache and the only way for him to gain any relief at all was to reflect that irritation, the irritation the pickle was causing him, in his review of your book."

I pause to catch my breath and continue on.

"And maybe you were meant to be on that plane, and maybe you were meant to miss your flight. Maybe we're meant to be here right now in a car going nowhere. Let go Johnny, just let go."

He stares out at the green as if looking for something.  The fluffy white dots of sheep stand out like fallen clouds.  He looks back over at me.

"A pickle, really?"

"Don't focus on the pickle Johnny.  The pickle isn't the point.  The point is you're not in control."