Free Cannibals in Love by Mike Roberts

rusted side panels, I tried to imagine the thing riddled with bullets. Mike liked to joke that the pickup never really rode the same after I drove it. There was a rumble, or a cough, somewhere deep down in the guts of the machine, he said. Buried a level below whatever I was hearing.
    I looked up and watched a white van go wheeling through the intersection. This was strange, actually. I realized it was the first one I’d seen all day. What had happened to the others? I wondered. Was it possible that white vans were being rounded up and taken off the streets now? Registered? Detained? Disassembled?
    I watched the people as they got out of their cars and circled the pumps. I watched their heads snap up as the tarps caught in the wind and shot out like sails. I watched the way they flinched when the nozzle clicked off in their hands. P-pop!
    I saw a woman in black tights go scurrying across the street in a zigzag pattern. No one could decide who had told people to do this, but you would see it happening everywhere. The Metro Police were adamant about dismissing their own liability. They called it wanton superstition, and asked that people try to remain calm. But no one cared. It made sense to behave erratically now. I mean, what could it hurt?
    Unfortunately, people were cracking up left and right. Something bad had happened that morning. One of our faithful disc jockeys had broken character and mentioned real life. I could hear it happening, too: this quaver in his voice as he started to speak. He was dedicating David Bowie’s “Heroes” to all the brave men and women of law enforcement.
    â€œUgh,” I said, getting down off my ladder, dejected. This man had broken through the fourth wall now, and there was no going back. This was not his job, of course. It was like watching a flight attendant start to lose it at thirty thousand feet. This was the moment we were all supposed to panic.
    â€œDid that just really happen?” I asked.
    Mike smiled and kept on painting. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be taken off the air for a few days.”
    *   *   *
    My brother was already putting his shoes on when I walked through the door. With that fucking necktie hanging down in front of him, like a dog’s tongue. We didn’t even talk about it anymore. This was just our routine. We got into the Camry and drove out to College Park, where we ate our free meal together in silence.
    Afterward, walking back out to the car, I gave him the keys. I told him I wanted him to drive now. I pointed out a liquor store with a burning yellow sign, and I told him to stop. My brother pulled the Camry into the parking lot and left it idling, with the doors locked, as I went inside. A minute later, I was back in the car, with a bottle of whiskey in a brown paper bag.
    â€œOkay,” I told him. “Drive.”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œWe’re going to Michael’s,” I said.
    â€œMichael who? The guy you work with ? I thought you said he has a kid. It’s like ten thirty at night.”
    â€œDon’t worry about his kid. Just drive the car.”
    My brother sighed and put the Camry into gear.
    â€œTurn up here,” I told him.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œRight here. Get onto the Beltway.”
    He looked at me like I was crazy.
    â€œJust do it.”
    My brother shook his head and accelerated up the on-ramp and into the sea of red taillights on the westbound lane. Nobody had actually been killed driving on the Capital Beltway, of course. The Sniper waited till you stopped, till you stood still, till you looked the other way. But it was in the man’s name now; it was part of the stigma. And I watched as my brother’s grip grew tighter on the wheel.
    I knew we weren’t far. There was a Home Depot in the suburbs where Mike and I would pick up paint. I could see it in my mind’s eye perfectly. Standing in the parking lot and staring