Florida, 1979
Life’s a Beach and then You Die
PART FOURTEEN
As we leave Marvin’s and head down the road, I have no idea what direction I should take or what I should do next. Basically, I have become a lap dog. It’s the only thing I can do. And I’m wondering if this girl really thinks I could fuck her after she pulled this power trip.
She doesn’t really know what she’s getting into, does she?
It isn’t long before we come to a beach access road. I wave and point and Dorie obediently turns down. After a short distance, we roll out of the mangroves and discover a beautiful little bay.
It’s a clear day with high, wispy clouds and a good wind from the northwest. Off in the distance, whitecaps roll, but inside the long and narrow bay there is a gentle lapping of soft, blue-green water. Three cars are parked on the side of the road.
We continue farther on the shell road, moving parallel to the water. I can’t stop thinking that they’ve already found the dead cop and it’s only a matter of time before they start looking for a white VW bus with two gun-crazy drug addicts inside. This, of course, will be enough to send every firearm-owning redneck in the area into a feeding frenzy—and who can blame them?
On the southern end of the bay, a long point stretches out. I can see only one car, near the tip. We drive on past the car and then around the point and find ourselves alone as the road jogs its way along a jagged and uninhabited shoreline. About a half a mile down, the vegetation begins to take over and the road narrows from the onslaught of gnarled, creeping vines and spiky foliage. The surf roars in my ears and I can’t think straight.
The road straightens out for a hundred yards and I zip around, quickly pass the VW and make her ride my bumper for a while. We bounce along while I check her out in the rearview mirror.
Looks to me like she’s getting uptight, constantly flipping her hair back with her free hand and gripping the wheel tightly with the other. The van bounces because she won’t shift it out of second gear. Maybe she’s jonesing, needing another blast of coke before the roof falls in on her castle made of sand.
Up ahead, I see an opportunity: a small, offshoot trail going down to the sand. I veer onto it and Dorie follows. The VW’s headlights bounce behind me like the eyes of an insane clown.
I come to a stop. The wind howls and whines; waves slam against the shore. The sound is fierce, like Neptune himself is roaring out his frustration with the state of the world.
I pull out a cigarette—a Kool—and punch in the lighter on the cheesy, maroon dashboard. I’m watching her in the mirror; she has a cigarette, too. She’s puffing on it and looking around nervously. Then she climbs out the driver’s door and walks around to the front of the van, turning her head toward me as I’m putting the lighter back in its hole.
I swing my right arm onto the seat back and face her. I smile my best fake smile.
She waves, turns her eyes back to the ocean and stretches her arms up to the sky.
I’m still facing her, smiling, when I slip the shifter into reverse with my left hand and floor the gas pedal.
Her eyes widen and she turns rigid.
The Chevy’s rear bumper catches her below the knees; her body jackknifes and her head smashes down on the trunk. It’s one hell of a thunk. She goes limp like a rag doll, her last gasps and gurgles signaling the end of another wasted life.
I shift into drive and pull forward until she rolls off onto the sand.
I get out and drag her body to the side door of the van.
(To be continued)
