Driving to Tulsa (standard:drama, 1811 words)
Author: Ross O. Corridore	Added: Nov 30 2000	Views/Reads: 3720/2301	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I wish I'd taken something of hers when I left her but I figured at the time that if they caught me then my carefully prepared alibi would be for nothing...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


In the yellow light spilling from the large windows there is something
huddling beside the door and as I get closer I see that it is a ratty 
yellow dog, some sort of retriever-cross with mangy fur and runny eyes. 
It is tied to an iron stanchion by a length of old twine and as I bend 
to pat it it cowers away from me and growls, showing its teeth. My 
offer of friendship rejected, I pull back my foot to kick it but I 
can't really bring myself to hurt it; in fact, I feel some sympathy for 
it and wonder if it belongs to one of the diner's patrons, or perhaps 
the owner himself. It seems unnecessarily cruel to keep an animal tied 
up this way. 

I tell myself I am only here to ask how far I am from the next filling
station but as I enter the diner the steamy warmth and smells of coffee 
and cooking fat make my stomach growl again (I say growl but by now 
it's almost roaring) and I find a booth somewhere in the back and begin 
to peruse the menu. The "All-Day Breakfast" looks fatal but I'm feeling 
a little reckless. After all, so far everything seems to have gone 
wonderfully to plan. 

The waitress is young and friendly and smiles at me as she takes my
order. I feel very scruffy and travel-stained but she's probably used 
to this in her customers. She asks me where I'm headed and I tell her 
I'm going to Tulsa to get married. I almost show her my photograph but 
think better of it; she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand 
that it was taken with love and not through some perverted voyeuristic 
impulse. In my experience, people always want to believe the worst. 

She wishes me congratulations and I thank her with, I hope, an endearing
smile; she is quite pretty in an efficient, no-nonsense sort of way and 
as I watch her walking away from me I admire her trim figure and feel a 
little tug of regret when I realise that she is most likely nice to all 
her customers. 

By the time my order comes the middle-aged couple sitting two booths
away have left and I am the only person left in the place. I guess that 
one of the cars I saw in the parking lot must belong to her and I 
wonder what time she gets off. I suddenly wish I was going to Tulsa to 
get married. As she puts my plate down in front of me I notice that her 
hands are cracked and raw and my stomach turns over. I look down at the 
mess of bacon, eggs, and hash browns swimming in a slick of grease and 
I realise I cannot eat it. I pay my bill and leave. 

The dog I encountered when I arrived seems to have vanished from its
spot outside the door and I look around a little nervously in case it 
has managed to free itself and is waiting in ambush for me. As I get 
quickly into my car I realise I have forgotten to ask the whereabouts 
of a filling station but I don't want to go back inside and draw more 
attention to myself. Instead I wait. The clock over the counter said 
ten after nine when I left and I hope I won't have to wait too long. I 
pass the time by looking at my photograph and keeping an eye out for 
the yellow dog but I can't see any sign of it so I assume it must have 
belonged to the couple sitting near me. 

When she comes out she doesn't see me because I am hidden by the side of
the building and I follow her progress in my rear-view mirror as she 
crosses the parking lot. When she is about halfway to her car I get out 
and walk towards her as swiftly as I can; it does not occur to me that 
I am doing a very stupid thing in approaching her in full view of the 
diner. 

She does not see me coming, and as I put my hand on her arm she whirls
to face me and lets out a scream that nearly ruptures my eardrums. It 
is a scream of surprise and fear and I panic now, and instead of 
letting go of her my grip on her arm tightens as she tries to pull 
away. I tell her frantically that I only wanted to ask directions but 
she recognises me and shouts something obscene and unrepeatable. 

I try to apologise but realise it is too late for that; she sprays
saliva in my face as she shouts and in the artificial light her eyes 
appear yellow and predatory. I let go of her arm but she has already 
pulled a gun out of her purse. We struggle there in the parking lot, 
and I am telling her she has made a terrible mistake and that we can 
talk this over like civilised people when the gun goes off. 

I feel the slide of warm blood down my side and I look at her and open
my mouth to speak but the force of the bullet has robbed me of breath; 
I can feel its metal hardness deep inside my gut and I fall to my knees 
in front of her like an over-enthusiastic suitor. Everything starts to 
go fuzzy and that's when the pain hits me. As I lie on the pitted 
asphalt I open my eyes one last time and see, there under her car, the 
yellow dog staring back at me, its twine bitten through. It shows me 
its fangs in a toothy grin. 

I didn't even do anything, I try to say. I only wanted to ask the way. 

As I begin to fade out, I hear the sound of sirens. 

Finis 


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