Exercise 4: Frost Heaves

Exercise 4: Frost Heaves

The radio hadn’t worked in months, but the wheels kept spinning and that was all Jackie cared about. He’d hit New England just in time for the horrors of late winter, that epic inverse of the calm before the storm. The job had been simple. The money stuffed into an envelope and sent home to mother. And now the trunk was closed on his spartan gear and the first mile out of the cold was behind him. Another thousand and he could take his sweater off and enjoy a shot of tequila like a normal human being.
It was just a little after midnight and the long stretch of commercial road was empty. Nobody drinks on a Wednesday in the middle of suburbia, so the little Japanese four banger rolled right on through all the green lights on motion sensors and a few of the red lights on timers without any trouble. Perfectly timed to be out of New Jersey by rush hour.
Jackie thought about the rhythm of the road. Out in the laughably monickered Heartlands it plays out long and slow. One hand at 6 o’clock, the other hanging out the window or resting pointlessly on a shifter that hasn’t needed shifting since Cleveland or fishing around in the passenger footwell for a Snapple bottle half full of something that isn’t exactly tea. The car banks from one side to the next, taking acres to complete its arc.
But here? Frost heaves hit the wheels hard and fast. Every 15 feet the old concrete roads that were first laid down during the industrial revolution have broken and risen like the White Mountains to the north. The rapping of the road could not have been good for his tires, but there was no slowing down once old Jackie got to going, so he began to play.
At first, Jackie sped up. The beat accelerated with the pressure of his foot and he bobbed his head. A good groove, something to move to, something to set a fast guitar to. He liked it. Rolled down his window for a moment just to feel the ice in the air.
Then he pulled back, let it ride for a bar, knew his little brother would have jumped at the opportunity to beatbox and spit a few lines of copycat hip hop into the night, and thought briefly that a subwoofer would fit in his trunk if he could find one cheap somewhere. Might make the drive go faster.
He pulled back father. His eyes wet in the yellow street light. His mind reached back and ruffled around. A waltz. Slow and steady. His mother in a blue dress, sitting on the porch with an old guitar, singing an old song while his father danced with hermanita in the dust and sand. He didn’t want to let it go, his foot stayed steady until the blue lights came on harsh behind him.
“Fuck.” The spell of the road was broken.
“License and registration, sir?”
“Evening, Officer. What seems to be the trouble?”
“License and registration, please.”
“Seem to have left it in my other coat, Officer.”
“Gonna need to see some papers, boy.”
Jackie looked at the broadshouldered blackboot, frowned, and pulled the trigger. Cops look for slow drivers. Might be easy drunks. No time for whimsy now. The frost heaves blurred as the engine roared all the way to the turnpike, and off into the cold sunrise.