Free The Empty Ones by Robert Brockway Page A

Carl, my boss—he was a great guy. He really wanted to be something like a vulgar father figure to me. To all of the waitresses, actually. Some guys are into that. Some girls, too. I was not. My dad was amazing. He died when I was a teenager, but he was there for me my whole life. I didn’t need or want another dad, but Carl needed as many daughters as he could get. We didn’t know if he actually had kids, or what. The other waitresses and I, we made up stories about sterility, tragic deaths, kidnappings gone wrong—romantic tales that justified his compulsive need to dote over young girls in his gruff, harrumphing way. I never played the role for him, but he was still nice to me.
    My other job—my real job—was that gone too?
    It was only ever freelance. That’s the nature of stunt work. To be honest, I wasn’t making much headway. I did my gigs well, better than most, but I was crap at networking. I can jump a flaming motorcycle into a helicopter on cue, but I can’t schmooze. I never made enough connections to get anything regular. I could probably pick it back up when I got back home.
    Â â€¦
    When?
    If.
    I spent the first few hours of the car ride pretending to sleep. I didn’t feel tired, but I felt like I should feel tired. Back when I pulled doubles at the restaurant and had to be on set later the same night, I’d survive on adrenaline and caffeine, trying to sync the crashes with my downtime. No matter how tired you were, there were always moments when you could ride a wave of alertness. Up there at the crest, skimming along and feeling great, but always with the knowledge that exhaustion lurked just below you. Eventually, the wave would hit a break and send you hurtling into sleep.
    I felt like that right now. Like I was up on that wave. But it wasn’t crashing. It hadn’t crashed for weeks.
    I gave up even pretending to rest. I was holding my left hand out the passenger window as we drove, catching patterns in the wind, using my fingers like a sail to make rolling arcs through the air. Jackie was driving. She had been since we left the motel this morning. She’d driven through two countries today. We crossed the border into Mexico late this afternoon. I freaked out a little about passports.
    We didn’t have any. That’s a big deal, right?
    But the guard just looked in the car, made sure we were all white, and waved us through. Getting back would probably be another matter.
    Jackie had to be getting tired by now. “Driver calls the music” was her rule. We’d been listening to her iPod all day. Real yelpy indie stuff. High distortion and quavering falsettos. Carey rode shotgun, rolling his eyes so hard you could hear it from the backseat, over the guitars.
    â€œI’m changing it,” he said, poking at the iPod. “How do I work this thing?”
    â€œYou know the rules,” Jackie said.
    Carey prodded and swore, but it made no difference. Jackie had locked it. It was just a simple swipe-to-unlock deal, but that was apparently like a child-safety cap to the elderly.
    â€œFine! Then just let me fuckin’ drive already!” he said. “If I have to listen to one more of these pussies compare a girl to the ocean, I’ll grab the wheel and swerve us into traffic.”
    Jackie beamed at him. The track changed.
    â€œIs that a fucking harp?” Carey screeched. “Is that a fucking harp?! No, pull over. I’m serious!”
    Jackie laughed. I knew her. I knew she was tired hours ago, but she wouldn’t stop until she broke Carey.
    Anything for the joke.
    She finally tapped the blinker and guided her sun-faded white Jetta onto the shoulder. The tires crunched rocks against the pavement beneath us. Jackie opened her door and spilled out the side in an avalanche of empty Red Bull cans. She’d bought two cases before we left, and they had been smoldering in the trunk ever since, the afternoon Mexican sun