Taking the Highway (10 page)

T
he next morning, Andre
walked to his usual fourthing stop, the parking lot of a bowling alley a kilometer from his apartment. He chucked his empty orange juice bottle into a recycling bin and checked the time. Six forty-five. Early, but not too early. He usually waited no more than ten minutes for a ride, earning the hate of the first-rush leftovers. If he was without a ride at seven, he would go home and pick up his Dodge Raven, speeding past this same fourthing stop on his way to work. Some of the losers would still be standing there, hoping for a car that would never come.

He assessed the five men already waiting. All five dressed well, stood straight, and acted indifferent, as if a ride would be nice, but they didn’t
need
one. They were perfect, and Andre knew without a doubt that they had been standing here for a long time. Since the Overdrive crash, pickings had been slim. Traffic once again flowed normally on 96, but Andre estimated that overall highway use was down at least twenty percent, maybe thirty.

His datapad vibrated for attention, and his hand automatically dove into his pocket, bumping against the Challenger key. It was funny. The key to the Raven, the car he drove every day, was a flat card tucked away in his wallet. Never touched. He rarely even looked at it. But the key to the Challenger, which he never drove, was always in his pocket, getting in the way of other things. Still, there was no way he was leaving the Challenger key at home. Ever.

He reached past the key, lifted the datapad from his pocket and accessed the display. Damn it, not again. He did an about-face and walked away from the fourthing stop. To miss a possible job was bad, but to be caught with an open datapad while he was supposed to be fronting up for a ride was unthinkable. To ignore a call from his mother? Impossible. When he was far enough away, he answered the call, keeping his back to the other fourths.

“It wouldn’t kill you,” Mom started. “It’s just inconvenient. Of course, you don’t want to be bothered.”

Which obscure relative’s birthday had he forgotten this time? Someone important, since it was barely dawn in Arizona. Mom sat by a window, the soft light making her white hair glow. He raised his eyebrows at her. “I’m sure it wouldn’t kill me, but since I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Of course you do. Your brother.”

“My brother wouldn’t kill me?”

A dramatic sigh. How did she do it? Mom had lived in America her entire adult life and hadn’t lost a trace of her accent. She even sighed in French. “He wants to kill you, sometimes. That’s what brothers say. But he does not kill you. No. He’s a good son. He calls his mother.”

“I call you.”

“Of course you do, darling. You and Oliver are both such good boys.”

Andre turned his body ninety degrees and scanned the parking lot out of the corner of his eye. Two new guys already in place, eager for rides. Cars slowing, choosing their fourths. He turned back to the pad. “Is this about Oliver’s fundraiser?”

“You say you will go. Then you say you will not. Your brother calls me, hurt.”

“Hey, Mom, how many politicians does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

“What do you mean by this?”

“None. He gets his mother to do it for him.”

“This joke isn’t funny, Andre.
Mettre de l’eau dans son vin.
”

“No!
He’s
the one who has to tone it down. I was doing my job, trying to help people, I had a head full of police chatter, and he wouldn’t shut up about his stupid party.”

“Oliver loves you and wants you there.”

“If he really loved me, he’d let me stay home.” Both of the new fourths had accepted rides. The bowling alley’s lot was down to five, the same five that had been standing there when Andre had arrived. He wondered if he should try to get his mother off the phone or just give up and go get the Raven. “No, if he
really
loved me, he’d invite me to a good party, with people he actually liked, with no agenda other than having fun. How come Oliver never gives that kind of party anymore?”

A new car slowing down, creeping up to the lot. A window lowered, a choice made, and one of the first-rush losers actually got a ride. It was one of those miracles that gave the other leftovers hope. It was the reason they stayed. If Andre got there now—right now—the next ride would belong to him. Five minutes and it would be too late. “Mom, I have to go.”

“Oliver will be so happy.”

“No, I mean I have to disconnect.” It was always this way. His mother—in fact, her whole generation—could talk on the phone for hours. About anything.

“So you will attend the party?” Mom clasped her hands in front of her neck. “Shall I tell him?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“
A bientôt.
”

“
Salut
.” Andre cut off the phone and hurried to the lot, slowing his pace at the edge and strolling into it. He didn’t need a ride today, and he wouldn’t act as if he did.

Cars passed. Green, blue, yellow. A white Octave Quartet pulled all the way into the lot and cut its engine. The other fourths shied away, but Andre held his ground. The bowling alley wouldn’t open for hours, and he could make out three passengers in the vehicle. These people needed a fourth, they just didn’t know how to get one. He straightened the license badge on his lapel and approached the car.

The Octave’s window slid down and he made a split-second assessment. Thirtyish woman in front, hair in a ponytail, casual clothes. The man driving—her husband?—also dressed for a day off. Andre peeked into the back seat. A little girl, smiling at him. A gap in front where her baby teeth had fallen out and the new ones hadn’t come in. His proposed fee shot skyward. Nobody brought their kids unless they were desperate. A licensed fourth was perfectly safe, but not something most parents were comfortable putting in the back seat with their child.

“There and back?” he asked.

“Sure!” the driver answered, too quickly, too friendly.

“Three sixty.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Andre hopped into the back seat as the mom dug through her purse. She pulled bills out of an envelope and handed them across the top of the seat.

Nine of the twenties went into his tailored inner pocket. He returned the other nine. “Ma’am? You pay me the other half on the way back.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. I’m Andre.”

“Pleased to meet ya.” The dad stretched his hand over the bench seat and shook. He turned to his wife. “See? A fourth.” He brandished a pad. “Can I scan your badge?”

Andre offered his badge. A scan would list his full name, eligibility, and clean record. It would also register in the database as a pickup, which meant taxes.

“So, where are you folks from?”

“Chicago.” The dad put the car into gear and exited the parking lot, heading toward the highway. “We’re in town for a week.”

Tourists. Andre had heard of such things, but had never ridden with them himself. Tourists usually stayed in the city, being too well-fed and entertained to want to leave. He’d been hired by out-of-town business people, too cheap to pay downtown hotel rates, but never anyone who stayed in the suburbs for fun. He put on a happy face for them. “You having fun so far?”

“We went to the Jackson Chihuly exhibit at the State Museum yesterday. We had dinner at Losts.”

“You don’t have Losts in Chicago?”

“No! And Lauren loved it!”

Andre had to assume that Lauren was the child, not the wife. None of them had introduced themselves. He wasn’t expecting a business card or an e-handle, but an exchange of first names was customary.

“It took us forever to get to the museum,” the wife added. “We’re staying with my sister out here. So today I insisted we take the highway.”

“We almost didn’t,” the husband said. “After the crash, the glitch or whatever. But they say it’s fixed.” The husband waved one hand above the steering wheel. “I mean, the governor came from Lansing and everything.”

“The monorail would take you right downtown,” Andre said.

“We’re on
vacation
. We’re in
Detroit
.”

“Of course.” They were stupid for driving their own car. Too bad he couldn’t tell them that. He had to be what the carpool wanted, even if they didn’t know what that was. He glanced at the kid, who was still staring at him. None of his usual jokes worked at a seven-year-old level. Politics was out. Fashion, sports, music? He could amuse little Lauren very easily by talking about the Town Brothers or doing his Emma Dink impression, but the parents heard that all day. A fourth had to do better.

They entered the highway and a flickering auto-banner admonished them,
Pool is the Rule!
along with a warning of steep fines for minimum passenger violations. The husband eased off the accelerator and let the car find its cruising speed.

“Where are you headed?” Andre asked.

“We’re going to the Castle,” Lauren said, bouncing in her seat.

Of course. No one could come to Detroit without visiting the Castle. The games alone could occupy a family for the entire day before they even got to the petting zoo or the night market. Some people didn’t bother to pay the admission fee, content to stand outside and watch the exterior holographs change the building’s appearance through a rotating series of famous landmarks—from Himeji to Neuschwanstein.

“You know they open at noon, right?”

“What?” the wife squawked. “They’re not open twenty-four hours?”

“Not after Labor Day.”

She reached over and smacked her husband on the arm. “I told you!”

Lauren closed her eyes and slumped against the door. “You mean we got up early for nothing?”

Andre shrugged. “Lots of places for brunch in the New Center.”

The mom glared at her husband, who kept his eyes on the road, even though the Overdrive system was taking care of that. “We ate a huge breakfast.”

“You could visit the Pier.”

“We did that yesterday.”

“Shopping?”

“Michael hates to shop.”

“You could see the Heidelberg Project.”

“We did that on Monday. We’ve been everywhere.” The mother sighed. “This is our last day in town and we wanted to spend it at the Castle.”

“Mom,” Lauren whined. “What are we going to do?”

Andre looked over her head at the passing traffic. All around them, four-adult carpools were laughing, working, listening to music, drinking coffee. How many of the cars contained fourths? How many of the fourths wouldn’t be here at this time next week?

The bitter smell of burning tires wafted through the car as they moved through the last bit of the oh-zone. Something was always burning in the oh-zone. Both sides of the highway were strewn with garbage, dumped there by people who insisted on living someplace uninhabitable.

Then they were through and everything was soft and green and shiny, as if they’d been transported from Kansas to Oz. Trees lined the highway, maples glinting neon orange in the morning sun, surrounded by still-green grass. The buildings grew gradually taller, like stair steps leading to the city center.

Andre returned his attention to the job at hand. There were other things he could suggest. These people hadn’t been everywhere. Not in a week. He walked through a mental map of the city. Eastern Market, The Motown Museum, Autumnland.

Lauren pointed out the window. “There’s a Java Jungle. Can I go play there?”

The wife looked at Andre. “Is it different here?”

He spread his hands. “I have no idea.” Andre usually thrived on shaping his social interactions and a wild, unscripted conversation like this should have given him a thrill. Any other day, and he’d make it a point of honor to deliver the perfect half day of entertainment. He’d make this little family’s whole vacation and they’d go home telling all their friends about their adventures in Detroit.

He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. Everything was wrong about this carpool. He wasn’t into them and they weren’t into him, and the awkwardness extended far beyond them being tourists, or having a kid along. He didn’t care about their morning plans. He didn’t care if they hired him for the return trip. He didn’t care if they pushed him out the door and drove back to Chicago.

He settled in his seat, and felt the butt of the Guardian dig into his left armpit. It wasn’t the tourist’s fault. It was his. He’d been on the clock from the moment he’d stepped into the bowling alley parking lot. He might as well just flash his shield at this family and demand a ride to police headquarters, where he could hand Captain Evans all the cash he’d earned this morning, because he certainly hadn’t earned it fourthing.

He sat up straight and leaned forward. “Ah, ah, ah. You missed the exit.”

“What do you mean?” The husband pointed to the dashboard navigator. “It’s not for ten more—”

“That’s the exit to the Castle. You have to drop fourths off at the very first Cityheart exit.”

“But how are we supposed to—”

“Surface streets.” Andre spread his hands helplessly, hoping the guy would buy it.
What are you going to do?
“New regulations. The city council voted on it last week. Let’s see. The next exit is Warren Avenue. Drop me there and I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you.” The husband punched in a new exit number and prepared to take manual control at the end of the ramp.

“Don’t mention it.”
And thank you for bringing me right to work.
Andre directed him to Perrien Park on Grandy Street. He left the car, then leaned in for a final word. “You’re probably going to stay at the Castle pretty late.”

“Until Lauren collapses,” the wife said.

“There are always strays downtown at night and the later it gets, the cheaper they are. It shouldn’t cost you more than fifty to get back to the suburbs. I’ll find my own way.”

The family drove off and Andre sat on a bench near the fountain, soaking up its ions. He watched two more cars slow and discharge fourths. The first took off walking at a fast clip. The next couldn’t seem to leave the car, the laughter and the “just one more” pulling him back. The fourth finally gained the sidewalk, and the car’s occupants shouted their goodbyes and see-ya-laters.