Page 81 of Up in Smoke

The engine revs like he’s confused the brake for the gas pedal.

“Stupid motherfucker,” I curse under my breath as my abdomen clenches with every rapid stride.

As the truck leaves its parking spot and veers right, I lose all track of logic. The driver’s side is opposite my position now, so my best bet is to catch up and open the passenger door.

The tires screech as he comes to a momentary halt at the stop sign leading to the road. It’s enough time for me to finally close the distance and take the opportunity. With gritted teeth, I reach out, lift the handle to open the door, and jump in.

I’m not sure he notices me until I reach for the emergency brake. His elbow flies up in defense, landing square on my jaw. Naturally, I jerk back and cover it with my hand. By the time I look up, we’ve left the parking lot entirely.

The wind whips through the cab of the truck. I blink several times because my vision is blurred. Not enough that I can’t see the wide open passenger door and the paved frontage road blurring a few feet away from me.

Monty swerves around a car that’s moving at a snail’s pace in front of us at the same time that I reach outside to pull the door closed.

“Fuck,” I shout, bracing my left hand on the dash just in time to catch myself from falling out. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

With a grunt, I finally get the door closed. I wish I hadn’t had the mixture of beer and shots that I did tonight. Then, I’d be able to control my breathing and my ability to execute a plan.

“Monty,” I say with as calm a demeanor as I can manage considering the circumstances. He ignores me with one hand tightly gripping the wheel and the other holding a lighter to the cigarette in his mouth.

This is not the time for observing. Still, I can’t look away. His profile, sharp like mine, is ingrained with torment. His knees sway back and forth like he’s a child on a swing, causing the truck to speed up and slow down every few seconds.

This is the stupidest thing I have ever done. I pat the front and back pockets of my jeans to find my phone with no luck. My eyes zero in on the spot where I know the emergency brake lever is located. It may have been a quick fix in the parking lot. Now, pulling it might make matters worse.

If I did it fast enough, I could lift my body and extend my leg over his to come down hard on the brake with my foot. It wouldn’t take much time for me to turn the keys back and kill the engine then.

It’s risky, but the pounding in my head is bound and determined to block any better idea from coming to the surface.

I’ll try to talk him down one more time before trying to press down on the brake.

“Monty,” I repeat. He blows out a cloud of smoke with the window still up, and it fills the cab. I cough and raise my voice to a shout. “Dad.”

That finally gets his attention. He whips his head to the side, fully ignoring the road.

I glare into eyes that match mine so closely, it’s nauseating. “You’ve had too much to drink and need to pull over now.”

“Ahg,” he growls. “I’m not stopping in this rain.”

I hadn’t even noticed it until now. What started as a sprinkle has now turned into heavy sheets against the windshield. The sky lights up with charges of thunder.

“Let’s find a spot to wait it out. You don’t want to drive in this.”

His bitter laugh is unsettling. “Buck up. I know yer not a chicken shit. My son’s a true Davis. We’re almost to the motel.”

And I see now why my mom gave me her last name. Maybe it’s not that deep. But if the version of him that she knew is anything like how he is now, I’d venture to guess her choice was intentional. Blood is enough. She didn’t need to tie me to him for the rest of my life by making me a Davis, too.

“For fuck’s sake,” I groan. My annoyance is morphing quickly into fear.

Every word out of his mouth is more slurred than the next. We’re nowhere near a single motel and, in fact, are headed straight out of town. A passing car flashes its headlights, and Monty swerves back into the right lane. Another hugs the white line and honks its horn before speeding by.

“Screw the motel. Someone’s going to call in your plates, and we’ll be getting pulled over and taken to a nice cold floor of a jail cell if you don’t stop this fucking truck.”

Being drunk myself, I’d probably get arrested, too. Mesa isn’t a judgmental person, but it’s not the impression I’m hoping to make. Even without Mesa in the picture, I’m about done with being the fool who throws a punch in a bar for fun, yelps from the roof of a house with a bottle of whiskey in my hand, or greets each day with the question of what new shenanigan I can stir up before the sun goes down.

It’s getting old. But after more than thirty years as that guy, I don’t know any other way to be. I’ve been him all day today, for crying out loud.

No one is here to witness the turbulent scene of two inebriated dumbasses arguing over whether to stop the damn truck. Still, I’m hit with the unfamiliar emotion of being mortified and having to convince someone who’s supposed to be older and wiser to do the right thing. My vision blurs again, and all I can picture are the infinite number of times I’ve chosen to throw caution to the wind in the name of fun or a wild, good time, even when some of the people around me warned against it.

Being on the other side of things makes me question my identity altogether. I don’t know if I loathe each reckless version of myself or if I look back on them with sentimental fondness anymore. It’s starting to feel like the former.

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