A Story About Sleeping it Off

Headlights shone through the front window. I had fallen asleep in the living room. The clock on the microwave read 3:14. Instinctively, I whispered my wife’s name. “Cindy. Cindy are you there?” The car sounded like it was still running.

My clothes were a rumpled version of what I wore to work yesterday. My shirt was un-tucked and my fly undone, which I must have managed in my sleep to myself more comfortable. I put myself together, even pressing down a cowlick in the front hall mirror. I couldn’t find my shoes, so I took off my socks so they wouldn’t get wet in the grass. I went to unlock the front door and hesitated for only a moment. Should I grab something, like a baseball bat or something? Certainly that’s not the life I’m living.

Outside, it was hard to tell what was going on. The street light obscured the interior of the car. It didn’t look like anyone was in there. The bumper had smashed up against a low retaining wall in front of our flower bed, steam rising from under the hood. The back wheel carved a mud hole out of the grass. I realized something I already knew – this wasn’t my car. This wasn’t my wife’s car. I don’t know why I thought Cindy was out here or that John had taken the car in the night to hang out with his friends.

I know cars like a Sea Captain knows bicycle brands – I know they exist. But this one seemed familiar. Our neighbors a few doors down had that party Cindy dragged me too. The guy, the husband, what was his name, was so proud of his car. This car, whatever it was. Something about this made me feel brave, or at least, braver.

Here’s me, barefoot in a suit, on my wet grass, leaning into the window of a lightly crashed car. Two figures, the one in the passenger seat was smaller – Georgia, who would sometimes babysit for us. There was blood. I pull on the handle. Locked. I go around to the other side.