Racing the Devil on a Lonely Utah Highway
0.
The devil grins. My knuckles drain white clenching the wheel. He revs his engine and I can feel the reverberation of his eight hundred white-horsepower engine stampede through me. I can see him laughing but can’t hear it over the sound of the beast under hood as it roars across the open desert. My eyes bounce across the darkening horizon. Caffeine twitches from coffee, dark roasted. The highway is empty, save the devil and I. Not a soul. Save anyone.
Aerial ballerinas pirouette across the smeared sky leaving red and orange nubial streaks in their wake. The Utah landscape is almost alien with Martian protrusions jetting out from the earth in cascades of plateaus and arches.
Why I am here I will save for later, but in retrospect, all roads lead here. Terrible timing on the devil’s part, if I say so myself. More opportune times come to mind, but why quibble now, right? Destiny or free-will?
That was only a test. There’s no such thing as free-will.
I met the devil at the last gas stop for miles. I had a pack of doughnuts and a coffee. He had a pack of cigarettes and designer suit. He asked me what I was doing in Utah and I said I was a traveling preacher. He laughed. I asked him the same thing and he said he was looking for something and found it here. Strange parallels. When we leave the store he mentions that he likes my car. Asks about the horses and what-not and then he asks if I want to race. Winner take all. Strange parallels. I accept, because I will always accept. It’s how the cards are laid.
His tires squeal. As do mine. And it begins.
5.
Speed and age.
I ran from my house in tears, halfway down the block before I could hear the screen door shut behind me. I knew by the time I came back, if I ever went back, that he would be gone and she would be putting on makeup to cover the bruising. And so I ran.
And so I ran. To where I didn’t know, but away was the goal. Dust from the road sticking to my tear licked face. Slicing through dust whirlwinds causing them to disseminate and settle. Left or right? My only options when I reach the end of my road. I turned right.
Pause. Why? Why did I turn right? Would anything have changed if I turned left? Destiny says I would still be racing the devil, free-will tempts that I could have been on a yacht in the south-pacific. That’s not fair.
So I turned right and ran to the first place that was familiar to my five-year-old mind. The Sunset Market and Deli. Out of breath. Swinging the door open. The bells above the entrance ring. The candy aisle, my bliss, my sanctuary. I am not the cause of my own suffering. Sugar, my antidepressant. And it should be her’s too. By the handful I begin shoving candy into my pockets, lining them with melting chocolate and sugar crystals. When my pockets filled and jawbreakers and gumballs fell and rolled on the floor, I packed my mouth with yogurt covered pretzels and candy corn. Sugar, my hyperactive friend. It wasn’t long before I realized I was stealing. Not just for me, but, for her. I begin walking toward the exit leaving a confectionary track Hazel would be proud of. As I rush through the doorway with licorice dangling from my socks, I faintly hear the owner call out.
Add burning oil to the mix and we didn’t stay in Tennessee much longer after that.
The sun has almost fully submerged itself below the mountains peaks and darkness parades toward the devil and I like a pack of wild horses.
85.
Speed not age.
When I look over at the devil all I can see is the light of his cigarette and the glow from the dash board on his face. Third gear. The transition is fast and I push the stick shift into place with so much force I think for a moment that the skull shift knob will break in half.
At the age of 25 I had been rejected from every med-school I applied to. Destiny. I took up a job as an EMT to survive in New York City. Poverty. They called it a living wage, they lied. Killing wage. So I found other means.
The human body produces Dimethyltryptamine. DMT. The same chemical addicts smoke to lay back, smile and let life pass them by, let them converse with Abraham Lincoln, or induce intense paranoia leading to suicide. If you want the real stuff from the body, you have to be alive… or barely alive.
After a while I began replacing the defibrillator with a syringe. Young female, experienced cardiac arrest did not resuscitate, extracted DMT, dead. Very sad. Older male, car accident, spinal laceration, lungs collapsed gasping for air, extracted DMT, dead. Very sad. Young boy, three bullet wounds, equilateral triangle of pulsing blood, dead on arrival, no DMT. Extremely sad. I wonder how many people saw me as the last thing they ever saw. I wonder what they would say when they saw me rummaging through their wallets and purses looking for just a little extra dough. A 3-car pile-up bought my flat-screen television and my largest DMT extraction. Human progress trumped by a driver on a cell phone. Murder-suicide, a trip to Vegas. Exsanguination due to impalement against the steering wheel, helped pay for the car I’m driving now.
Working a double. A late call to loft in Brooklyn rumored case of domestic violence. Vivid memories like old home movies without audio. My mother’s loft. Beaten to death. We knew he was looking for us, but he finally found us. Had I not taken the double-shift he would have found me, but he found her. God didn’t give us free-will; he gave us the illusion of it. Anything that has happened will happen. Her face lacked emotion. Forever etched in my mind. Reporting to my own mother’s murder. No DMT.
Her murder was my personal Black Swan event. The police couldn’t find him. So I did.
125.
Speed not age.
We are fully engulfed in the dark. The only thing my headlights see are the dividing lines. The road is infinite. For all I know, we’ve sped off the edge of the earth. The car is shaking and roaring violently like a caged beast. As far as I can tell we are neck and neck. The devil’s smile never fades.
When you set your mind to one task, dedicate yourself to one purpose, you find it does more harm than good. But this was always how I was supposed to do it. Let it consume me like the night sky.
For years I chased my father across the United States. Always steps behind him but finding the collateral damage of his presence. And then, by destiny, I caught up with him in a pool hall in southern Utah. It had been 15 years since I had seen him last. He didn’t recognize me, but I could never forget his face. Scarred by hot oil, a gift from my mother permanently etched to the second degree on his face. Sipping his bourbon on the rocks I challenge him to a game of pool.
Where he’s from? He says Denver. What he’s doing in Utah? He should say hiding from Johnny Law but he says he’s a traveling preacher. I buy him drinks. Another bourbon on the rocks. How did his face get messed up? He says some whore from Tennessee gave it to him. Eight ball, corner pocket. He challenges me again, double or nothing. God doesn’t roll dice. He takes a break for the pisser, I offer a cigarette and follow.
The bathroom is out of a horror movie, urine and hatred spray the walls. We step to the trough urinal and I ask why a man of God is in a pool hall drinking and smoking. He says something about having bigger things to be penitent about but he doesn’t finish the sentence. His pupils dilate and he falls to the ground in convulsions. A syringe hangs out of the back of his head, thrust into his cerebellum, sensory overload. He flops on the wet floor for a few moments in whatever dream world he’s in before he stops. A frozen smile plastered on his face. The entire ordeal lasted seconds, and I watched the whole thing. Just a junkie with an overdose. Leave the pool hall and drive I tell myself. But where?
At the end of the road there’s a left and a right? I turned left into a gas station. Mission accomplished. The rest is history.
165.
My name is Daniel.
An hour ago I killed my father. I killed him because he killed my mother. I killed him because I was supposed to kill him. That is why the devil knew to find me in that gas station. He watched me pick up every piece he laid down. The devil has come to collect his due. Looking for lost souls.
Racing into the infinite space I look over at the devil once more. He’s changed. He looks like my father and he’s smiling. Because he knows how this has to end and his car pulls ahead. His car will always pull ahead and it would be foolish to bet against it. This is destiny and there is no free-will. My purpose in the grand scheme is not mine to ponder, but I’ve done my job and the devil has won. Blinding light and intense sound. Oncoming semi. Nothing is chance. Don’t believe for a moment you can change anything.
And the devil smiles.
