Born Weird (17 page)

“How long have they been doing that?” Angie whispered.

“About twenty minutes? Maybe thirty,” Paul said. “Is it bad? It seems bad.”

“It could blow up or over. You just never know.”

The van continued forwards. The prairie continued to be flat. And then Richard picked up his camera and aimed it at Kent.

“If you take a picture of me I’ll
fucking
break that thing.”

“Come on.”

“I’ll break
you
,” Kent said. Slowly he turned his head and stared at his brother. Richard lowered it to his lap. His finger remained on the shutter release button.

“You got a problem with photography?” Richard asked.

“I have several.”

“Please, give us your wisdom.”

“Fuck you.”

“No. I’ll be serious. Tell me. We have time to kill.”

“Put it down.”

“Put what down?”

“Put it on the floor,” Kent said. The van travelled several kilometres. Then Richard took the strap from around his neck and set the camera between his feet.

“I do not like the fact that it takes the place of personal memory,” Kent said. He touched his beard as if making sure it was still there. “I do not like the fact that it’s become the ubiquitous documenting tool of personal history. That all other methods, specifically diaries and journals, or letter writing, or even portrait painting, are no longer deemed worthy. That now the use of photography has become so ubiquitous …”

“You like that word …”

“… so ubiquitous that now the only accepted evidence that an event took place, that something happened, is if there are pictures of it. And, not only that, but your perception of the event is forever cemented, curated, by what the camera documents. If there are no pictures it did not
happen. And if you are not in the pictures, you were not there.”

“Bullshit. You can’t …”

“May I finish?”

“Please.”

“This
documentia
is now so overgrown that it no longer documents reality but creates it. Since all of our memories are now stored in these external pictures, creating a false perception that the events happened specifically as the photographs describe, we are now a nation, a species, of observers. Doomed to be spectators at the most important events of our lives. That this perspective is now so highly esteemed and unquestioned in its authority has created a means of social control more powerful than serfdom or even the Catholic Church.”

“You’re bringing Catholicism into this?”

“Not done.”

“Sorry.”

“Throughout the course of human civilization memory has been transient, plastic. The girl who broke your heart can, in time, become simply the girl you lived with ten years ago. Given more time she becomes either the one who got away or the one you can’t believe you almost married. But now, in the reign of the photographic image, the past is no longer malleable. It can no longer shift meaning in order to facilitate the narrative of your present circumstances.

“We are now, all of us, cinematographers for the movie of our own lives. Not the star. Not the director. Not even the writer!”

“Well, those are very interesting—”

“But none of these reasons properly articulates why I hate not only your photographs but your use of photography in general.”

“Really,” Richard said. The whole car was pink and orange from a sunset that had just broken through the clouds. Angie began to worry. Her worry escalated when she noticed that Richard had started picking up the camera with his feet.

“The reason I don’t like your photographs is because you use photography as a shield,” Kent continued, “just like you’re doing right now, Richard, and if you
fucking
reach for it, so
fucking
help me God, I’ll grab Paul and force him to drive this van right into the ditch!”

“What?” asked Paul.

“It’s okay,” Angie said, although she wasn’t sure it was. Richard froze. It remained unclear whether he was going to go for his camera or not. Then he stopped moving his feet and leaned back.

“Thank you,” Kent said. “Your camera is a bubble, a semipermeable membrane that lets in light and colour but keeps out all feeling. Every time you’re in the middle of a sincere emotional moment you reach for your
fucking
camera. It’s a portable cocoon. I suspect that you, dear brother, have not experienced a true emotional, honest, heartfelt moment since the day of our father’s funeral.”

“I think he’s right,” Abba said. Richard looked over his
shoulder. He realized that Abba and Lucy were listening intently.

“You do do that,” Lucy said.

“Agreed,” Abba said.

“How long has it been since you travelled without a camera?” Angie asked from the passenger seat.

“Stop the car!” Richard screamed.

“Don’t get defensive. We’re trying to help.”

“Maybe you should just listen?”

“Stop the van! Seriously. Pull over. Right now. Paul—pull over!”

“Just go with it, Dick. Don’t be afraid.”

“Truth isn’t fair.”

“The right front tire is about to blow!” Richard yelled, and just as he finished saying these words, it did.

Paul struggled to keep the van under control. It veered into the right lane and only the absence of traffic prevented a collision. But Paul did not oversteer. He did not put his foot on the brake. He let the van decelerate and then he coasted onto the shoulder. They stopped, and for several seconds no one moved and then they all got out at once. Angie was the last to reach the right front tire. Lucy was kneeling down, looking at it closely, although she didn’t touch it.

“It’s just spooky when you do that shit, Richard,” Lucy said.

“Very.”

“Totally creeps me out.”

“Remember that time when you predicted that Kent would break his leg if he went to hockey practice?”

“And then I went and I broke my leg!”

“You should have listened to me.”

“Or maybe I broke it because you psyched me out. Maybe it never would have happened if you’d just kept your mouth shut.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I am too.”

“Do you think that place is open?”

“It’s a truck stop. Of course it is.”

“We need a break.”

“Totally.”

“Let’s go, let’s go.”

“Who’s going to change the tire?” Richard asked.

They all stepped off the pavement. They began walking through a small field of weeds, which separated the highway from the truck stop. Not one of them looked back.

“Come on!” Richard called. He knew that in their minds predicting the blowout had made it his responsibility. And as he opened the rear doors and found the jack, part of him did not disagree. He knelt down beside the blown tire. He tried to figure out how to work the jack. He looked back at them. What he saw was perfect. In single file they walked through scrub and litter. The truck stop was their obvious destination. Two parked eighteen-wheelers defined the edges
of the frame and the whole thing was lit in purple and orange.

Richard rushed back inside the van and got his camera. He found focus. He walked three steps to his right, crouched down, and focused again. His finger hovered over the shutter release.

Richard lowered his camera. He watched them walk across the field. When they were inside the truck stop he took the strap from around his neck. He set his camera on the ground. It stayed there while he changed the tire. It was still there when everyone carried food back into the van and Abba drove it away.

“J
ESUS
C
HRIST THERE
it is again,” Kent said.

Leaning forwards in his seat Kent watched as the Maserati passed them. Soon it was two lengths ahead of them. Its single tail light glowed in the dark. It got farther away and Kent stared at his brother.

“You’re crazy,” Richard said. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and ran it over his hairless head. Then he put it back. He did not increase the speed of the van.

“Why do you always doubt me?” Kent said. He punched the dashboard. It was not the sound of the hit, but the gasp of pain that followed, that woke Angie. She saw it too. Unwinding Paul’s arm from her shoulder she scooched forwards on the bench. She put her face in between the driver’s and passenger seat.

“You can’t let it get away,” Angie said. “Do not let it get away.”

“You can’t be serious?” Richard asked.

“Lucy and Abba and I saw it before.”

“When we were in Manitoba. When you almost drove off the off-ramp!”

“Ontario. We were still in Ontario. But yes, then.”

“So you’re crazy too?” Richard asked.

“I just know that we saw it then and here it is again and that’s weird.”

“It’s
fucking
getting away …”

Richard looked out at the highway. The single tail light had already begun to fade. He slapped his head with his open palm. He did this three more times. “This is a very bad idea,” Richard said. His foot depressed the accelerator. The engine whine returned; a speed-wobble started. Both of them together woke everybody up.

“What’s happening?”

“Why are we going so fast?”

“Slow down, Richard!”

Richard increased their speed. The distance between the single tail light and the van decreased. Then the red sports car was inside the beam of their headlights.

“It is a Maserati,” Richard said.

“See?”

“The left tail light’s out.”

“Was it the left or the right? I can never remember.”

“It was the left,” Angie said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And shut up!”

“What now?” Richard asked.

“Flash your high beams,” Lucy said.

“Get closer!” Kent said.

“Don’t let him get away,” Abba said.

“Not this time,” Angie said.

Richard flashed his high beams. He honked the horn. But the Maserati did not slow down. It didn’t pull over. Richard shortened the gap between the van and the sports car. When only centimetres separated the bumpers, he veered into the left lane. He pulled alongside the car. He matched its speed. Inside the van everyone except Paul rushed to a passenger side window.

They pushed their faces against the glass. They cupped their hands around their eyes. The van raced beside the Maserati.

“Can you see him? Can you see him?” Richard asked.

Angie looked away as motion sickness set in. Richard found her eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“It’s too dark,” she said. “I couldn’t tell.”

Richard looked back to the road. His lower jaw ground against his upper one. His eyes narrowed. The van began to move faster. Angie sat down and she buckled herself in.

“What is going on?” Paul asked her.

“Put on your seat belt.”

“Tell me what’s happening!”

“Do it now!”

“Okay, okay,” Paul said. He complied. They gained a length on the Maserati and then a second, a third and a fourth, but not a fifth.

“Not yet, Richard,” Angie called. “We’re still too close!”

Richard did not respond. He turned the wheel sharply to the right. He hit the brakes. Abba and Lucy were thrown to the floor. Kent crashed down on top of them. Angie heard two sets of tires squeal. She felt the van skid to a stop. She shut her eyes. When she didn’t feel an impact, she opened them.

The interior of the van was quiet. Everyone was still. Then, all at once, they rushed out.

The van cut a 45-degree angle across the westbound lanes. Their headlights remained on. Dust drifted through the beams. They congregated at the centre line and stared at the Maserati. Less than six centimetres separated the two vehicles. The smell of burnt rubber was still in the air. None of them approached the Maserati. Its engine was still running. The driver stayed behind the wheel. They couldn’t see his face. For several moments not one of the Weirds spoke—then they all started shouting.

“Get out of the car!”

“Right now!”

“Get out of the
fucking
car!”

“Show your face!”

“Now! Right now!”

The driver’s side door began to open. The driver put his silhouetted feet onto the road. Standing up he held on to the door. He stayed behind it.

“We can’t see you!”

“Turn off your lights!”

“Turn them off!”

“Show your face!”

“Now!” Angie yelled. “Right now!”

Quickly, the driver reached inside his car. He turned off his headlights. They saw how short, young and terrified he was.

“What do you want?” he asked. His voice trembled. He raised his hands over his head.

Kent turned away first. Abba, Lucy and Richard followed him. This left Angie and Paul standing on the road. Their feet straddled the centre line. Paul put his hands on her shoulders. He turned her towards the van. She was halfway there when she stopped. She looked over her shoulder at the driver, whose hands were still raised in the air.

“Your left tail light is out,” she said.