Phantom Carriage

Guy Young left the brightness of the waning sunset behind as he sped along the San Francisco streets.  He felt like a knight in chrome-and-black armor, capable of delivering 192 horsepower of sleek German ingenuity with a purr that quivered like a starved feline.

Suddenly, he braked to a stop and found himself face-to-face with small, impatient eyes that grew tired wending their way through different futures.  As a result, he became hypnotized and judged by an unblinking red stoplight that stared at him like a one-man jury. 

Also confronting him was the pulsating enemy of aches in his vein that vehemently paralyzed him.  Any chance of returning to normal what the sins of business had altered was wishful thinking, as was the possibility of ever escaping his addiction.  He felt trapped by the towering, ornamented structures of wood, brick, stone, and steel around him. 

The other cars communicated with snarling replies through their horns as they boxed him in on all four sides.  Mouthfuls of car exhaust crept into his lungs as he hopelessly tried to untie the knot in his satin, multicolored tie.

He curiously glimpsed a woman waving wildly at him in his rearview mirror.  Her face looked grave and distorted but still agelessly beautiful.  She rose from the bus-stop bench a few moments earlier and shouted at him, running toward his car, but he couldn’t understand her words.

Suddenly, she was beside him, making him jump in surprise.  Only the BMW’s passenger window stood between them.  The woman desperately yanked on the door handle while her other hand rapped hard and fast on the glass.  He watched as she slowly and sloppily slid her face down the window, leaving behind what appeared to be the moist outline of a pig snout and large oval mouth.

Her behavior baffled him, and his first instinct was to get the hell out of there.  Instead, he pressed a button and lowered the window.

“Can I help you?”  He tried to sound calm.

“You sure can.  I need a ride not far from where you live.”  Her tone set the hair on his head on end.

“You’re quite a persistent hitchhiker,” he said with a smile.  “Yeah, sure, but how do you know where I live?”

“I have to be honest with you.  My sister knew your father very well and told me the route you take home.”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Come on in.”  Guy opened the door, and the pretty older woman plopped into the passenger seat.  The fragrance of her shampoo permeated the car, jogging a teenage memory of a girlfriend he once had.  He loved that scent.

“That name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said.  “Not that it would.  I mean, my father’s friends are, let’s say, not too conversational with me.  I wouldn’t have a clue who she is.  If dead men could talk, I’d call him on the cell phone, but he died a couple years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

“Any friend who was a friend of my dad’s is a friend of mine, and that goes for her sister, too.”

He jammed his right foot down on the accelerator and let his left foot come off the clutch.  The black BMW surged forward through the green stoplight, which had changed twice while he talked to the woman.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“I’m so sorry, Dear.  How awful of me not to tell you sooner.  I’m Jane.  What’s yours?”

“Guy.  I was wondering, if you’re not in too much of a hurry, if you’d come up and have a drink with me.”

“Hell, why not?  I’d love to.”  She gave him an innocently wicked smile.

Guy searched through his CD pouch and pulled out an older Metallica album encased in worn plastic, then fed it to his stereo and set the volume to low.  He made a sharp right at his corner and stayed on the urban artery of antiquated dwellings.  Two blocks later, he turned again.

Within minutes, he parked eye-to-eye with the Victorian Queen Anne he lived in.  After prying themselves from the car, they walked to the house’s concrete steps and climbed them before halting below the multifaceted façade.  Jane’s eyes went to the moldings and thin splits beside her feet that probably came from the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes. 

They stepped inside, leaving behind the humming streets and gloomy sky that hours earlier showcased the sun peeking through the clouds during intermittent drizzle.

“Honey, I’m home!” Guy playfully shouted as they walked through the foyer, turned right, and ascended the stairs, their hands grasping smooth wooden railings for dear life.

Finally, they reached the second story, where Guy’s room was.  Once inside, they threw themselves across the bed and sprawled breathlessly.  They spent a few seconds studying the room, then stripped naked and dozed comfortably.