Jason Pinter - The Mark

I approached a portly guy pretending to read Harper’s Bazaar, his eyes lingering on the well-endowed redhead across the room instead of last summer’s fashion trends.

“’Scuse me,” I said. He lowered the magazine and leered. “Do you know where they post the student shuttle listings?”

“No, sorry.” He picked the mag back up and commenced fake reading.

“They’re down the hall to your left. Right before the registrar’s office.” I turned to see the redhead smiling at me. She was reading a paperback with the cover torn off. The word Desire was visible on the spine. I pointed down the hall she was referring to, and she nodded.

“You can’t miss it,” she said. “The red tickets are for day trips, blue are for overnighters. Where you headed?”

“Uh, home,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, her eyes wide, as though expecting more conversation.

I grabbed a student newspaper and followed the hallway, hiding my face behind the pages as I passed a row of offices. Scraps and postings covered the light blue walls, hanging desperately on bent thumbtacks and staples. I casually glanced at a few. Table and chair sets for sale. One used rug, green. Three Siamese kittens looking for a home.

Then I found it. A wooden rack with about two dozen slips nestled inside, half red, half blue. A name was printed on each. Underneath the name was the student’s destination. Underneath the destination was the date and time each student was departing campus, along with how much money they expected their passenger to contribute. Most asked for gas, but some expected meal money and/or room and board in case a hotel stopover was needed.

I started with the blue batch, which were apparently longer trips. Three were driving to California, two to Seattle, some miscellaneous trips to Idaho, Nevada and Oregon. I considered Oregon for a moment, debated taking a chance at going home. No way. The cops would be waiting for me to contact my parents. Luckily I had no intention of doing so.

Looking through the last of the blue slips, my heart sank. The next trip was leaving three days from now. No good. Time was running out.

I replaced the cards, smiling at a heavyset woman who lumbered past me with a stack of manila folders under her arm.

I took the batch of red slips, which were for shorter, day trips. If I didn’t find what I was looking for here, the Path to New Jersey was a possibility. I really didn’t want to be anywhere near New York, but getting out of the city was priority number one.

As I went through the red batch, my hopes began to sink. Nobody was leaving today. The phrase Plan C echoed in my head, but unlike Plans A and B the words rang hollow.

Kevin Logan

Leaves 5/28-12:00 p.m.

Montreal-gas, meals

Samantha Purvis

Leaves 5/30-10:00 a.m.

Amarillo, Texas-gas, E-Z Pass

Jacob Nye

Leaves 6/4-3:00 p.m.

Cape Cod-gas

Then, right as I was about to give up, I saw the second-to-last slip.

Amanda Davies

Leaves 5/26-9:00 a.m.

St. Louis-gas, tolls

At the bottom of the slip she’d left two phone numbers-apartment and cellular-for interested parties.

I checked my watch-8:57 a.m. Amanda Davies was leaving in three minutes.

I dashed outside, through the waiting room and past the redhead, hurtling down the block where I stopped, breathless, at a pay phone. My leg was aching and my ribs throbbed.

Tune it out.

Sweat, once dried on my skin, was now oozing from my pores. I picked up the receiver-my watch read 8:58-and reached into my pocket for change.

In my palm lay a dime, two nickels, three pennies, and multicolored lint. I didn’t have enough money for a goddamn phone call. I took a breath, debated for a moment, and dialed 1-800-COLLECT.

Last year, after my cell phone was stolen from my dorm room, I’d registered a calling card for emergency use. The fees were so astronomical I’d only used it once, drunk dialing Mya after a party where I accidentally dropped my new cell phone into a vat of spiked punch.

When prompted I punched in the calling card number, then Amanda Davies’s cell phone number.

My watch read 8:59. I wasn’t going to make it. A friendly voice came on the line.

“Thank you for using 1-800-COLLECT. May I discuss our new long distance plan with you?”

“No thanks, just connect me.”

“Thank you, sir, have a good…”

“Just connect me!”

The automated voice of James Earl Jones thanked me for my patronage. Then the phone began to ring.

Two rings. Three. Four. I tried to match an image to Plan C. Still nothing.

Five rings.

I was about to hang up the phone. Then, with the receiver a fraction of an inch from the hook, a female voice came over the earpiece.

“Hello?”

I brought it to my ear, and said, “Hello?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Amanda Davies?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Amanda, thank God. I got your number from the student shuttle posting in the OSA. Are you still driving to St. Louis this morning?”

“I’m in my car right now.”

“Shit. Listen, would you still be willing to take a passenger?”

“Depends. Where are you?”

“I’m on West 4th, somewhere on LaGuardia.”

“What’s your name?”

I hesitated.

“It’s Carl. Carl Bernstein.”

“Well, Carl, I’m in a red Toyota on 9th and 3rd, in front of the Duane Reade. I’m running into Starbucks to get a cup of coffee. If you’re here by the time I get out, you’re in. Otherwise, I’m gone.”

“I’ll be there.”

“That’s up to you.” Click, then a dial tone.

I dropped the phone and sprinted east. The muscles in my side began to tighten, a cramp settling in. Pain lanced through the wound in my leg. Hopefully there would be a huge run on mochachinos. Maybe the espresso machine would explode. Anything to give me more time. I prayed, running as fast as I could, my leg feeling like an iron fork was being repeatedly jabbed into it.

I got to the Duane Reade at 9:06, doubled over to catch my breath, had to refrain from dry heaving. As I surveyed the cars parked on the street, my heart skipped a beat.

There was an empty spot directly in front of the drugstore. Big enough to fit a car.

Please, no.

I stepped into the space, frantically looking at the adjacent few cars, hoping to find Amanda’s red Toyota.

“Fuck!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, all my frustrations escaping in a single, wretched outburst, all the pain and horror and shit that had suddenly fallen on me like a ton of bricks leaving me devastated. Amanda Davies had left. I was too late.

I collapsed on the curb, head in my hands, warmth spreading through my cheeks. My self-pity needed a minute to ferment. I had no other plans, nowhere else to go, nobody to turn to. My life was over. There was no salvation. Soon I’d be arrested, and if I got lucky I’d make it to trial.

Then a car horn blared, jolting the morbid thoughts from my head. I turned to see a humongous black SUV waiting to pull into the vacant spot where I was sitting. The driver was wearing designer shades and his hair looked like it could deflect small-arms fire. He lowered his window and said, “Hey, buddy, that spot’s reserved for cars.”

Nodding silently, I stepped onto the sidewalk and started walking. My fate, it seemed, was sealed.

“Carl? Hey, Carl!”

At first it didn’t register. Then I heard it again and I remembered.

My name. The name I’d given to Amanda Davies.

I spun around, searching for the source. Then I saw it. A red Toyota idling at the intersection. A girl was hanging out the driver’s side window. And she was staring right at me.

I jogged up to the passenger side, the pain in my leg and chest receding. The girl nodded at the empty seat. I opened the door, slid in and latched my seatbelt. She had a playful grin on her face.