I F&*@ING HATE THE EAGLES
Harris slammed the accelerator. His Ford Taurus bucked forward, laying a trail of blue smoke. His pulse raced in time with thrash metal on his radio. Guitars shredding scales like cheddar cheese, Harris struggled to keep a steady distance behind Arthur's Subaru. The persistent image of tall, graceful Arthur in an elephant costume kept nudging Harris' Taurus forward. Who holds back a jail-saving alibi? Always the scientist, the more Harris pondered this equation, the more it didn't balance.
Arthur followed his usual path home, his Subaru riding Bakersville's dips and valleys at a lazy cruise. Harris' Taurus, on the other hand, coughed and sputtered like Doc Holliday after a pack of darts. The car sighed burnt plastic, angry over being punished with such unusual exercise.
Each passing second loosened the vise squeezing Harris' heart. One song gave way to the next. Harris drummed along with the radio, fingers thumping the steering wheel, dangling keys substituted for various cymbals. Arthur soft-stopped the next intersection and rolled onto Main. The Overlook Apartment Complex lay a few miles ahead. Arthur would be home and showering in less than five minutes.
Sherlock Holmes' nasal voice echoed in Harris' mind: "Eliminate all possibilities." Harris cranked his Taurus into the automotive flotsam of Main Street, incognito among the stay-at-home SUV moms and Cadillac grannies. Through a gap between minivans, Harris spied Arthur's car, holding steady in the right lane, ready to turn into his apartment complex. Harris let out a long breath and ran a hand through greasy hair. A shower didn't sound so damn bad. If he turned around soon, he might still make it home for The Price is Right.
"Just being paranoid," Harris said to himself. "Too much excitement for one day."
Another song cut out, gave way to an overcaffeinated drivetime DJ. "That was 'Hellfire Mothersucker' by The Pirate Fire on Screaming Eagle 104.7," the radio growled. "What an absolute skull-melting track—awesome. It's so freakin' sweet it makes me feel funny in my pants. Yeaaaa!"
The Overlook's three blocky stories rose to Harris' right. Built in the postwar boom, the building had all the architectural intrigue of a soldier's high and tight. The road stretched wide to accommodate a right turn lane. Arthur's Subaru drifted into the turn lane, the green traffic light beckoning him home.
"Enjoy your shower, Kite" Harris said.
"Let's keep that ball-busting rock coming at you!" The radio voice screamed. "Who wants to go to the Hotel California? It's Henley and company on the Screaming Eagle 104.7."
Harris couldn't scrabble to the radio dial fast enough. Left hand stroking Bertha's wheel (what better name for an ancient Taurus than 'Bertha?'), Harris' right furiously turned the radio dial. Had his full attention been on the road, Harris would have seen the stop light turn yellow, and, as usual, gassed it through the intersection. Instead, Harris only looked up in time to see the red light. Bertha bucked and skidded to a stop in the right turn lane, dial safely tuned to 96.3—80's, 90's, now!
The only problem (admittedly, a Fermat's Last Theorem kind of problem) was Arthur veered from the turn lane and shot through the intersection. Away from his apartment.
"Sonofabitch!" The atmosphere condensed around Harris. He struggled for air, couldn't swallow. Sweat pricked cold needles at his hairline. He wrenched the wheel to wedge back into traffic, but the sweet old woman in the adjacent Caddy welcomed Harris' maneuver with a double bird. No combination of swears and honking could pry him from the turn lane.
Finally, red flipped to green. With Mrs. Bird-Flipper sputtering ahead, Harris merged back onto Main Street. Arthur's car, however, was nowhere in sight. Wherever he was going, it wasn't home.
"I fucking hate the Eagles," Harris muttered.
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