Ron Burch
You’re Stalled Near the Exit
Your car won't start. You're stuck on the side of the 5 Freeway, one of the busiest freeways in the world. Your phone battery sits in the red. You can't remember if you have your AAA card for a jump. Or if you have to pay for the next one. You hear the lively hum of passing cars. Your dog is sick and threw up on your black travel bag this morning. You cleaned it off but you can still see a vague outline of it on the side of the bag. You rub it with a used napkin you pick up off the cluttered seat. The bag doesn't change and you throw down the napkin. This morning, your husband was irritable, hung-over. He barely spoke to you. Your car won't start. Those in the passenger seats look you as they drive by, blank faces, searching, maybe a few who seem concerned but that could be about them, you suspect. You think of how small you are in comparison to the planet. To the universe. You think about punching yourself in the stomach but decide that ultimately will not help you. Your phone is almost dead, more than the last time you looked. You should call someone but you're unsure of who to call yet: AAA if it's going to be free help or your husband.
She mouths the words silently words she has to say but come out as nothing. In the other end he says hello but it’s not a question.
Your car won't start. Your phone battery is now dead. You didn't tell your husband. There were spaces in which to do it. But they all felt like Sunday nights: unhappy and existential. Why does every weekend have to have a crisis of spiritual proportions. Admit it. You didn't want to tell him. He should know why the dog is sick. Your car won't start. A car pulls up behind. A Blue Honda or something. The driver, some guy in a baseball cap, waves to you. You get the feeling he wants to help you. You roll down your window and wave him on. He waves again and you indicate with your hand that he should go. His car backs up and he, shrugging at you, leaves. Your car won't start. Through the trees you see a luminous coffee shop right off the exit. You wish you could stay there forever. The cars pass you like puffs of smoke.
Ron Burch's fiction has been published in numerous literary journals including South Dakota Review, Fiction International, Mississippi Review, New Flash Fiction and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and other awards. His last novel, JDP, was published by BlazeVOX Books. He earned his MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles and lives in Indianapolis, IN.
