Carpool Lane

Daniela felt safe in the carpool lane. The windows were fogged. The head rest of the passenger seat was up high. A tall man could be sitting in front. She mimed conversation. If the police pulled her over, she’d introduce them to ‘Harvey.’ 

Few cops would step outside in a rainstorm for a carpool violation.  Then again, it was as warm out as it was wet.  She held her breath every time the lines between lanes opened to allow her to merge, back, into regular traffic. Every time she thought about doing so, a trail of red brake lights glared through the mist. 

A sign above read, “Slick conditions, drive slow.” The tail of a jackrabbit stuck up from a puddle of guts. She looked straight ahead and pressed down on the gas. Empty white diamonds on the black top slid under her car. 

Breaking this little law kept anxiety at bay. She remembered thinking that if everyone were allowed to break little laws, they’d be less likely to commit the big crimes that anxiety caused. That was the last thing she remembered thinking before being lulled by the rhythm of the windshield wipers.

Utilitarian orange of a Home Depot sign crept into the corner of her eye. She took a swig of coffee and turned the radio on. The DJ was giving away a trip to Manhattan. She turned the radio off again. She tried to separate the parts of  New York she knew from experience, and the parts she remembered from watching The French Connection.        

Popeye Doyle racing through Bensonhurst in a slick brown ride that would have been considered a beater by the time Daniela was born ... Robert in grey corduroys stepping out of a yellow cab onto Eighth Avenue. A rush of heat fogging his glasses. He polished his lenses with a corner of his checked shirt tail and squinted into the sun.  In that moment she knew she could love him. The fact they were already six-months married was an irreconcilable shame. 

When the lines broke again, a motorcyclist crossed in front. His taillight looked like two apostrophes forming a heart. A heart, or the nose of an animal’s skull. Nostrils on a human skull looked more like lungs. She realized it had stopped raining, turned the wipers off and took another breath.  A sugary scent in the car made her feel sick.  She glanced down to crack the window open. When she looked up, an SUV jerked from the traffic jam, out across a block of double lines ahead. 

If the driver had checked their mirror, the motorcycle had been in their blind spot. The bike hit the SUV at full speed. She didn’t remember swerving, but she knew she must have swerved when she hit the brakes. There she was stopped on the median of the carpool lane, alone in her car, with a man on the hood. 

His hands were closed as though he were still steering the bike. His body shook and the ring on his finger tapped on the broken glass.

 “We’re born with our fists clenched ...”  

A taxi driver once said as they drove around Columbus Circle. 

“... the closer we get to death, the more our hands fall open.” 

“He must still be alive.” Daniela thought. 

But the rider’s eyes were open wide and fixed on nothing.