Joshua Mohr - All This Life

“They’re coming soon, Hank! Let’s get out of here. We don’t want any trouble, neither does your PO.”

“You go ahead,” Hank says. “They wanna rumble, me and Bernard are willing to oblige them!”

Sara rolls her eyes at Rodney. “Some families we’ve got, huh?”

Balloon Boy shrugs.

Sara and Rodney stand there for a few seconds, smiling at each other.

If he had his pad and pen, he’d write a short note to her: Do you remember me? Can’t you see I’m still in here?

“Birth. Day,” Balloon Boy says.

“It’s your birthday?” Sara asks.

More nodding.

“Well, if they want to stay here and kill each other, maybe me and you can go for a drive, just us,” Sara says. “What do you think of that?”

Rodney doesn’t nod this time, but tilts his head a little to the side, in awe, taking in every inch of her.

“You’ll have to check my blind spots,” she says. “Thanks to your uncle, I’m down a mirror.”

IN THE CAR, Sara’s speakers crank the same music Rodney had heard right before Uncle Felix kicked her car, a rapper once again going crazy over heavy metal riffs. Rodney likes hip-hop, mostly the old stuff. Tribe Called Quest. Wu-Tang Clan. Pharcyde. De La Soul. Anything with a beat that stays out of the way and lets the MC reign. Listening to tracks like that, Balloon Boy is able to hear the rhymes colliding off of one another, a pileup of fast and loose syllables sizzling from mouths. He’s never been much into the whole chainsaw guitar sound of metal, but this he likes. It’s aggressive and angry and crunchy, yet the singer is front and center, not drowned out by the fuzz. He’s like a surfer riding the livid riff, staying on top of it, using the music’s velocity to accentuate his cadences and all his rhymes are easy to make out. He’s a beast. A barker. He’s super-pissed and he wants you to know why.

That would be a great birthday gift: a day, an hour, hell, even five minutes in which Rodney can call out like that.

He points to the stereo.

“Sorry,” says Sara, turning the volume down.

“No.” Balloon Boy brings it back to its original level, which makes Sara smile.

“You like it?” she says.

He nods, listening to the singer rap something so deft, so on the beat that the syncopation makes Rodney bob his head.

“You’ve got good taste,” Sara says.

Balloon Boy nods, not wanting to congest the car with any of his sounds.

“Where should we go?” asks Sara.

But she doesn’t wait for him to say anything, not that Rodney was going to, only two or three seconds passing before Sara says, “Can I show you my favorite spot? You’ll love the view.”

The word view makes Rodney think about being on the balloon, think about the glory of all the open space he was able to see.

It’s about three in the afternoon, Sara’s AC working hard. They drive through what would be called downtown Traurig. It’s only five square blocks, the population of the Nevada town around 2,000. There was a time in the 1970s when people thought that Reno was going to have a population boom, become something closer to Vegas, and so these towns in the outskirts, say within fifty miles, were thought to be up and coming. They pocked the desert and the dominant thought was that they’d all soon be connected, updated, the chain stores moving in and giving it that American cookie-cutter feel.

But it didn’t happen. There was no great immigration to Reno or its “suburbs.” The new people never showed and the chains never wormed their way in, and Traurig and towns like it became not ghosts, exactly — people lived here and worked hard — but there weren’t any real opportunities. You could commute into Reno or Tahoe to find better employment, or you could burrow into a union gig like Rodney’s dad and uncle. You could work those cracked and charred highways, repaving asphalt and cleaning up debris, scraping cooked carcasses like burgers from grills, feeling the meat jimmy from the road to your shovel, the slaughterhouse smell following you home. The nice and terrible thing about work on the highway was that it was never done, not with the sun’s ruthlessness breaking what you’d fixed a few months back. Always fissures to fill. Always a rattler to peel off the road.

Sara takes the turn on the freeway, moving toward Reno.

“Where?” Rodney says.

“A great spot on the Truckee River,” she says. “It will be a while. Enjoy the music.” Sara turns the volume up and kicks the car up to seventy-five. If no semis clog up the way, they should get to the river in about an hour.

It’s unfortunate about not having his pad and pen. He could’ve asked Sara to scrounge something up from her house before they bolted, but he didn’t want to be there, with Hank, knowing that any minute his dad and uncle and the Wombats might attack and who knew what would happen from there. Rodney was wrong about heavy metal guitar — it’s a good accompaniment for rapping. They challenge each other, and they bring out the best in one another. They are greater than the sum of their parts.

If he had a pen and pad now, this would be the perfect time to talk to Sara. They’re stuck in the car, which is actually pretty clean, no trash or to-go cups or papers littered about. The only item is the broken side mirror, riding down by Rodney’s feet.

This could be one of his plays. A one-act. A reconciliation. Something about long-lost friends on the run finding common ground.

But before his play gets the chance to start, Sara turns the volume down on the stereo and says, “I’m fucked, Rodney.”

“Huh?”

Sara says, “Me. I’m. It’s. Um. Uh. Shit.”

She’s talking like me , thinks Balloon Boy.

“Um, it’s,” she keeps going, “like, I’m, uh, I’ve been screwed and my life is ruined and I don’t know what to do.”

“What,” he says and four seconds later, “happened?”

“I don’t want to tell you what happened,” she says. “I don’t want you of all people to judge me.”

“I. Can’t.”

Sara looks over at him. “You can’t judge me?”

Balloon Boy shakes his head at her. “No. Way.”

It comes out of her like she’s the MC with his anger, and Sara meets his and tops it. But she’s not rhyming or staying on the beat. She stomps on the car’s accelerator and gets them up near ninety and the car works from one lane to the next, passing people, and her words mimic their motion, careening, zigzagging, snaking this way and that, telling Rodney about her boyfriend who posted a video of them having sex online and she probably lost her job this morning and everyone is texting her about the video and pretty soon there won’t be anyone left on the planet who hasn’t seen Sara in such a compromised position.

“It’s like,” Sara says, “it’s like I’m frozen. The real me doesn’t exist anymore. All that’s left is the girl in the video. My whole life has been erased except for those minutes. That’s all I am.”

I know exactly what you mean , thinks Balloon Boy.

“Slow,” says Rodney.

“What?”

He points at the speedometer. “Slow.”

“Sorry.” Sara brings the car back to seventy.

Rodney snatches the snapped-off side mirror from the floor and holds it so Sara can see her reflection. “Your. Face. Is. Great.”

It takes him nineteen seconds to get it all out, and he expects Sara to get impatient, to roll her eyes. He expects her to deflect or joke away his sentiments, but all she says is this: “You’re still the same?”

Rodney turns the mirror around so he can see his own reflection. “This. Guy. Likes. You.”

Only eleven seconds. That might be a record for four syllables.