THIS, AND ONCE WHEN HE WAS TWELVE

by John Patroulis

One drives, and the other, sitting in the passenger seat but not really because he’s half slung over looking for something he thinks he left in the back, is telling a story. It’s only a story in the sense that it has a beginning, middle, and end, but nobody would know it’s a story except for the one driving. That’s because they’ve known each other since they were five.

The one half slung over finally gives up and says This car is a mess, Look at all this shit and the one driving just says Yeah because really he’s thinking about a place. He thinks it was Spain and it had a small door you had to duck to get through. When he went in it was dark and warm and voices floated like smoke then settled into the wood of the floor and tables and stools. It smelled like ham. This place this room had been there for hundreds of years and the one driving had stayed there a long time drinking beer poured from a porcelain tap and eating little plates of cheese and the more he stayed the more he thought maybe he would never leave. Maybe when a place has been there for hundreds of years and you find it without anybody telling you, he thought, maybe you’re supposed to stay.

The one half slung over sat back up and said Anyway. Anyway what was I talking about?

The one driving said Who the fuck knows and they both laughed because, really, what the hell was he talking about, but also because a lot of things seem funny when you really know someone.

The one sitting in the passenger seat with feet up on the dashboard and left hand on the radio says Man there’s nothing out here, but the one driving was still thinking of that place. It was Spain, it was Madrid, nobody knows because he had never told anybody. The one with left hand on the radio says This sucks I hate country except maybe Hank Williams or Johnny Cash and the one driving is thinking it was nice in there. It was dark.

The one with his left hand on the dial starts to tell a joke. It has to do with a whore and a priest and the one driving says I already heard this. The whore says I spend half the day saying Oh God and I don’t stop ‘till I send them to heaven. I heard it, I was there. It’s a stupid joke.

The one who had stopped fiddling with the radio says I like it and the one driving says Remember when I went to Spain? Remember I went and when I came back it was snowing and, remember, I hardly even talked about it?

The one with his hands on his knees says I remember you went to Spain I remember. What do you think I am, ignorant? The one with his hands on his knees said it in a funny way, “ignorant,” and then made a face and pushed some saliva out of his mouth like it was drool and started saying Ahhh. Ahhhhhhh. Ahhhhh. You went to Spain, you did. You went to Spain, and the one driving shakes his head with his mouth kind of open because it was funny and besides, the one with his hands on his knees started getting drool on his shirt and still wouldn’t stop.

He was always doing stuff like that.

The one driving was shaking his head and saying You’re so fucking stupid and before he knew it he pulled over. It was dark and he said You drive. The one drumming a beat on his thighs said What the fuck and then he didn’t say anything else.

What the fuck was enough.

Now they switched and it was quiet for awhile except for the one who just started driving kept saying What What What he said it just like that. It was funny the way he kept saying it and there’s a theory about repetition in comedy and chances are the one driving had never heard of it. He just kept saying it What What What with no inflection and it kept droning on and the one staring out the window starts to fill in the silence between every other What with Chicken Butt so it sounded like What What Chicken Butt What What Chicken Butt and like I said they knew each other a long time and when that happens it’s hard to grow up. Well not grow up, but something else. Like learn to put away.

The one driving stops saying What What What and the one bobbing his head stops saying Chicken Butt and all they could hear was the sound of the tires on the road and for awhile that was enough. For awhile the tires on the road made it okay for there to be a place in Madrid in the middle of Spain that had been there for hundreds of years but still you could find it by accident.

The one with his hands in his lap says When I was in Spain and the one driving says Here we go. Here we go I knew this was coming, you’re kind of a weird fucker, you know that? He says that and the one with his hands at his sides gets quiet. The one driving says No tell me what. You were in Spain. I got it. I thought we went over this and the one staring out the window says Forget it. The one driving didn’t want to forget it so he starts up with the What What What business but the one staring out the window didn’t say chicken butt so pretty soon the one driving got the picture. He finally quit and it was quiet except for the sound of the tires on the road. The one with his hands at his sides kept staring out the window listening to the sound and he couldn’t think of anything but he could feel that spot in his throat so he sat and watched the darkness slipping by and waited for it to go away.

 

 

JOHN PATROULIS lives in Brooklyn, New York. His short stories have appeared in various publications and he is the author of two screenplays “Blindsight” and “Truffle Pig.” He is represented by the Robert Freedman Dramatic Agency.