~Sasha R. @ www.asylumlabs.com
Mist fell on the streets of Los Angeles, forming millions of tiny rhinestones on my windshield that caught passing streetlights in a blinding wave of gold. The rare visitation of water coaxed dormant oils from the asphalt, slicked the streets and sent LA drivers into fits of hysteria. The engine’s throaty rumble diffused the baseline of the tune on the radio, no matter what ear-shattering volume I set the speakers to. I hadn’t slept since Saturday night. My mind was numb and disjointed from eleven hours of struggling to focus on long lectures delivered in soothing monotone. I was flipping the windshield wipers from ‘off’ to ‘panicked frenzy’ and switching lanes anytime I could tear my eyes away from the depthless black abyss forming in the back of my head. Lactic acid burned my forearms and bleached my knuckles white. The frantic black windshield wipers were just as annoying as the sheet of diamonds that appeared seconds after I turned them off.
I silenced the radio and listened to the unadulterated roar of the Chevy Camaro six cylinder dropped in the ’69 Nova chassis forty years ago. I remembered reading an article online about scientific tests that measured women’s spike in libido when they felt the vibrations of a fine Italian engine in their eardrums, against their skin, resonating in their bones. From the curve of the onramp to the traffic of the 405, I opened the throttle and let Shiela drink deep her high-grade wine, only letting off when her full, passionate voice grazed a high, painful edge. She switched gears and purred happily at 65–or 70, or whatever the real world equivalent of the 65 on my speedometer is. As her voice died, oblivion returned to burn spots in my vision, leaving splotches of nothing that gleamed like unpolished chrome. The dark, half-furnished cabin encroached on the already-small windshield. Behind me, pillars of steel-bondo amalgam hid fugitive motorcyclists and idiot drivers from view.
The road peered through the windows and mirrors with hundreds of angry red eyes, burning bright as they rushed to face me. My body cautioned Shiela into an uneasy distance, but my mind was still in Illustration class, uncomfortably close to the girl whose name I can never remember. Her face is gentle and calm, with cute, indie-thick black glasses and a friendly smile. She speaks to me less than I speak to her. Is she just as shy? Does she even like girls? I can’t tell. My gaydar is atrocious. We’re both doing the comic book assignment, but hers is dark and edgy, while mine is light and amusing (to me, at least.) I want to explain–I’ve been doing serious comics for so long, and I tried to make this one dark, too, but the main character is a mad scientist, and mad science cannot be held by goth chains and studded leather straps. I am the Golden Age, complete with silly captions on the cover, and she is the Nineties, replete with skulls and shoulder spikes.
I want to say goodbye to her when I leave, but I don’t because she’s talking with a friend. I don’t know how to interrupt without being rude.
The entire freeway glowed bright red as the traffic slowed to a crawl. The emptiness above the engine’s even hum set my teeth on edge, and I turned the radio back on to fill the empty passenger’s seat with noise.
