In the Unlikely Event... (7 page)

In the car on the way down the road, Bud said, “Can we stop and get the mail? I’m expecting a packet.”

“Bud…” Gitana said, swiveling in her seat to find the camcorder back on. Bud saw her face jumping around as the TM900 moved with the car hitting the rocks and ruts.

“It’s not like Chase is going anywhere.”

“A packet?” Donna asked, peering in the rearview mirror. She glanced over at Gitana, who appeared nonplussed that Bud was receiving packets in the mail at the advanced age of six. “For what?”

“I’m going to get this fucking road paved.”

“Bud! Please don’t say that word.”

“That’s what everyone calls it,” she said, and as if to accentuate this fact the car lurched to one side and then bottomed out on a particularly bad patch.

“Fucking road,” Donna muttered as she maneuvered her car to avoid the ruts.

Bud panned the camcorder to Gitana, who’d turned to look at her. “Point taken.”

“So what exactly do you have planned?” Donna inquired as they pulled alongside the mailboxes at the end of the road.

“I’m petitioning the state government to argue that as tax-paying members of the community we are being discriminated against and give notice that I intend to put a stop to it,” Bud said, putting the camcorder on the seat and hopping out of the car.

“Hey, don’t you need the key?” Gitana said, rummaging around in her purse.

“I have my own.”

Gitana furrowed her brow and looked over at Donna, who shrugged.

“I had it made so I would have access to my mail,” Bud said.

“Do you get mail?” Gitana called out as Bud opened the mailbox.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Bud said, which became evident as Bud handed Gitana hers and Chase’s mail. She kept the bulk of the delivery for herself.

Donna appeared intrigued as she turned in her seat to survey the stack of stuff in Bud’s lap. “What is all that?”

“I get fan mail,” she pointed to one stack of letters. “And trade publications on painting, writing and illustrating.”

“I see,” Donna said. She pointed to a large packet. “Is that the state one?”

“No, these are my reviews and my to-do list from Myrna,” Bud said, perusing the list. She panned the TM900 in so the list came into the focus. “My life,” she spoke to the built-in microphone.

“Myrna does realize you’re six,” Gitana said.

Bud opened her eyes wide in her surely-you’re-kidding look which she captured with the camcorder by pointing it back at herself.

“Never mind,” Gitana said.

“Everyone buckled in?” Donna said.

“In this family we don’t go to the bathroom without a risk assessment chart,” Bud said. “Of course, we’re buckled in.”

Donna and Gitana both swiveled to look at her.

“I just said that for the benefit of the documentary,” Bud said.

Donna nodded.

“Are you setting the cruise control?” Bud asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Because I want you to tell the future viewing audience of the documentary about why you have a fear of the police,” Bud said.

“Bud!” Gitana said.

“No, it’s fine really. Well, last year I was running late and got a speeding ticket, which was bad enough, but it was the traffic school debacle that clinched it for me.”

“Because?” Bud prompted. She had the camcorder pointed at the rearview mirror so that Donna was visible but still had her eyes on the road.

“I attended the class with Chase, who insisted on going because she wanted to improve her safe driving skills, which is admirable in itself. However, she nearly got us lynched by the other students in the parking lot after the class finally got out because she asked so many questions that the class ran over two hours. Ever since then, I never speed and one place where a person is prone to speed is on the highway, so I set the cruise control.”

“Well done,” Bud said, setting the TM900 back on the seat.

“Can’t we go at least five over, since it is an emergency?” Gitana said.

Donna didn’t waver. “No.”

Gitana sighed. “Maybe the documentarian shouldn’t have reminded her about the speeding ticket debacle.”

“I could not withstand another trauma,” Donna said.

As they drove down the road at exactly the speed limit of sixty-five, Bud tapped Gitana on the shoulder with a pen. “You’ll need to sign this as I am a minor.” She handed her a set of official forms from the state of New Mexico Roads and Circulations Bureau.

Gitana took the documents. “Do you really think you can convince the state government to give us a new road?”

“Oh shit!” Donna said, studying the rearview mirror.

“What?” Gitana said, so alarmed that she forgot to admonish her for swearing in front of Bud.

“It’s the police,” Donna said, swerving slightly as she turned around to make certain.

“Donna!” Gitana said.

“I had to make sure.”

“You’re going the speed limit,” Gitana said.

“That’s what is making him suspicious,” Bud said, panning the camcorder at the police cruiser as it followed them. “No one goes the speed limit in New Mexico.”

“Well, let’s all act normal and he’ll just pass us by because we aren’t doing anything,” Gitana said.

“You’re right. We need to behave as if having a police car behind us is nothing out of the ordinary,” Donna said.

“Okay. So Bud, tell me what is your plan for persuading the most obstinate entity on the planet—the state government—to pave our road?” Gitana inquired.

Donna was still peering in the rearview mirror.

“I’m going to schedule a presentation and demonstrate what happens to a person’s internal organs when they are constantly barraged by jolting.”

“What?” Gitana said, her confusion evident.

Bud now had the camcorder set up on the shelf behind the backseat. She explained, “The road is slowly damaging our internal organs. I plan to show how, over time, we are suffering this damage. I am making it a health and safety issue, which falls under state law on traffic safety.”

“But how?” Gitana studied Donna’s white knuckles on the steering wheel as Bud panned in on them.

“Collins and I are building a machine that we have tentatively named the Jolt-A-Matic. I know it sounds corny, but it suits the purpose. We’re going to measure the amount of force the bumpy road exerts on kidneys, hearts and livers.”

“Where exactly are you going to get these body parts?” Gitana said.

“The university morgue. Collins’s cousin works there and he’s getting us a loaner set.”

Both she and Bud noticed how Donna, who normally would have been extremely inquisitive over Bud’s proposal, hadn’t said a word. Instead, she kept glancing in the rearview mirror at the police cruiser, who was now tailgating them. As if on cue, he flipped on the lights.

“Oh, my fucking God! What have I done?” Donna said, slowing down and pulling to the side of the road. Her face was beet red and she was shaking.

Gitana rummaged in the glove box for the registration.

“Top right in the black leather holder,” Donna said in an automaton’s voice.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Bud offered.

“No!” Gitana said.

Bud captured her urgency on film.

“Let Donna do the talking.” She eyed Donna. “Are you going to be able to talk?”

“I don’t know,” she screeched. “Oh, God, oh God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

Gitana pinched her shoulder hard.

“Ouch! Why’d you do that?”

“To pinch you out of it. You were in shock,” Gitana said.

The bullhorn from the police car boomed out, “Everyone out of the car and keep your hands above your head and put them on the roof of the car.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what did I do?” Donna said, trying to unclick the seat belt that she had succeeded in jamming.

“Donna, calm down,” Gitana said, leaning over and unbuckling it for her. “Bud, get out of the car on my side. Donna, here is the registration and your wallet.”

“Okay, I need to be calm, cool and collected.”

“I’m taking the 1080,” Bud said. She put on her Contour HD 1080P helmet camera. It wasn’t the best for filming as it captured a lot of kneecaps and nose hairs, but it was better than nothing in certain situations.

Gitana looked skeptical. “Just in case we encounter anything untoward,” Bud said.

“Untoward?” Gitana said.

“Police brutality,” Bud said.

“But we haven’t done anything,” Gitana said.

“Then why have we been pulled over?” Bud retorted.

Gitana frowned. “You’ve got a point,” she said, as they exited   the car.

“Put your hands on top of the car,” the police officer said. He was as tall as he was wide and wore mirrored sunglasses. His nametag read “Officer Juan Baca.” He swaggered over and looked down at Bud, who had her hands up in the air. “I said, put your hands on the roof of the car,” he said imperiously.

“I can’t. I’m too short,” Bud replied.

“Are you getting smart with me?”

“Officer…” Gitana interjected.

He held up his hand for silence.

“No, sir, I am simply stating the obvious, but if you give me a minute I will comply to the best of my abilities,” Bud said.

She climbed on the bumper, then up the hood and onto the roof of the car. She sat down with her palms flat on the roof of the car.

The police officer nodded approvingly. “She’s a smart little bugger.” He studied her helmet for a moment but said nothing.

“Officer, what exactly have we done?” Gitana asked.

Twenty minutes later, Donna banged her head on the steering wheel and said, “I should never have put that stuff in my trunk.”

She was about to do it again, when Gitana put out a restraining arm.

“Well, at least it wasn’t the illegal aliens he was looking for. It could’ve been worse,” Bud said as she scrolled back through the entire affair, which she had captured on film. This footage was priceless, and she couldn’t wait to see it.

Donna turned on them. “We will never, under any circumstances whatsoever, speak of this again. I want you to swear that you won’t tell anyone, I mean anyone. It’s like the whole thing never happened. In fact, I am erasing it from my memory as we speak.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Bud said.

Gitana studied her. Bud looked at her innocently. Showing, after all, isn’t telling, is it?

Chase stared at the
Norton Anthology of American Lierature, Volume One
. This was definitely torture above and beyond something as horrid as waterboarding. There wasn’t anything else to do or read unless she recanted her resignation. Despite being in a library, she could only pine after a good book, because she was handcuffed to a library chair.

“That bitch,” Chase muttered, as she skimmed the table of contents in search of something tolerable. Early American fiction left a lot to be desired. She remembered the dreadful class that spawned this book. The only enlightening part of it was when she wrote the term paper on women in fiction in which she compared how English writers felt American writers were lesser beings similar to the way male writers viewed female writers of the time. “Sweet Jesus on the cross,” she said. Holy shit, she was beginning to sound like Gitana.

“Are you praying?” a disembodied voice said from the gloom.

“No, I was swearing,” Chase said, peering into the dimness.

“Why?” the voice said.

“Because I was thinking about the convoluted term paper I wrote in my Early American Lit class.” Chase knew she was desperate because she was exhibiting chatty behavior.

“I hated that class,” the woman said, coming out of the stacks.