Free Dislocated by Max Andrew Dubinsky Page A

sprawled face-down on the pavement. His arms are outstretched, and a set of keys rests just out of reach of his right hand. He must have made a run for it, tripped, fell, and never got back up. I kneel to retrieve the keys, wiping the blood that is dripping into my eyes from the bits and pieces of the Lamborghini’s windshield embedded in my forehead. I cannot tell if those sirens I hear are another side effect of my fragile mental state, or real. I toss my bag in the trunk, set the shotgun in the backseat, and drive away.
     
    I make it seven miles before I have to stop to pee and vomit. I look for a good place not just to use the bathroom, but to stop forever and die.
     
    There’s another car in the rest stop lot. Abandoned. Naturally. It’s the end of the world, and I’m still concerned about using the proper restroom facilities. I hurry into the men’s room next to the payphone, and start thinking about the phone numbers I have memorized. The only people I call frequently enough to remember their numbers live within a ten-mile radius of home. And are dead. I curse the cellular age, and empty my bladder.
    It smells of rotting flesh and feces in here. There are so many flies I have to hold my breath. Not on account of the smell, but on the misfortune of accidently breathing in one of the pesky sons-of-bitches.
    I can’t stick around long enough to look in the mirror and see just how bad things have gotten. I’ll use the car window to the remove the glass from my face. My bones feel pulverized. Every inch of skin seems to be tightening. It’s becoming harder for me to move. Perhaps it’s the perilous amount of blood on my skin finally drying. Or I’m finally dying.
    I see a pair of boots and jeans bunched down around some ankles in the stall next to the urinals. I don’t bother checking to see how he’s holding up in there.
    I leave without washing my hands. I’ve never been so thankful to breathe fresh, smoke-filled summer air. I take in big, heaping gulps before returning to the car—which doesn’t start.
     
    The engine won’t turn over.  I pop the hood and pretend to know what it is I’m looking at.
     
    I pace around the parking lot, hands on the back of my head, fingers interlocked. I can’t stop the bleeding caused by the Lamborghini’s wreck. I’m not sure I was ever behind the wheel. I hold my hands up in front of my face and try to focus on them. Hands. I can rely on my hands. I can trust my hands.
    Whatever was in those darts Roderick shot me with, it’s wearing off and the pain of the real world is settling in. Specifically what I am certain is the rabies-infected wound on my shoulder.
    I kick the passenger door of the Honda; open the trunk. I enjoy a soda and a bag of chips, and sit on the car. I finish dinner, and take the tire iron from the trunk. I smash the passenger side window of the pickup. The interior is littered with fast food wrappers and open ketchup packets. The vinyl seats are held together with duct tape, and the Virgin Mary is mounted to the dash, crusted with the dust of Cheetos. I climb inside and search for keys, but come up empty-handed.
    I wrestle with the fact that I’ll have to search my unfortunate friend in the bathroom if I ever want to get out of here.
    Surely someone must have heard the explosions. I could just wait. Waiting sounds like the best plan I’ve had all day.
    Someone will come.
    Someone has to come.
     
    No one comes.
    I wrap a jacket around my head, and return with reluctance to the men’s room. The number of flies seems to have doubled during my brief absence. The stall door isn’t locked. I give thanks that I don’t have to crawl underneath. Sitting inside is a man larger than life, thighs the size of tree trunks, sixty, maybe seventy years old. Who can tell when you’re dead on a toilet and covered in flies? He sits slumped to his right, head against the stall, and a hand tucked gingerly between his legs.
    The smell is debilitating. I brace