Percival Everett - Damned If I Do

He handed her a ten and a five. “This stuff just keeps going up.”

“Everything does,” Susie said. She counted his change out to him. “Want your receipt?”

“I guess.”

“Bye now.”

Randall waved and walked away, the blast of heat at the doorway bothering him once more as he exited.

Randall paused at the entrance to his building, looked up its side to his window. He decided to walk around back and check on the situation with the driveway and the Dumpster. He rounded the corner and saw the car before he was there. He couldn’t believe it. After all his complaining and his last letter, here was Holly Diehl’s car, big as life, in the very same spot, blocking the Dumpster. He saw exhaust coming out of the tailpipe and realized that the car was running. Holly Diehl must have just run inside for something. He walked to the driver’s side and peered through the window at the purse on the seat. Dumb girl, Randall thought.

Mr. McRae came out of the back door with a bag of garbage and had to squeeze by the blue Honda.

“Can you believe this?” Randall said.

McRae looked at the car. “Pretty tight.”

“I’ve begged her not to park here. It’s a fire zone, you know.”

McRae nodded and tossed his bag into the container. “I guess it’s not a good idea, all right.” He was back at the door now. “Nice car, though.” He was gone.

Randall looked at the car, then at the closed door. He thought about taking Holly Diehl’s purse, to teach her a lesson, then it occurred to him that he should just take her car. He could get into her car and park it around the block. She’d get the point then.

There was no one on the street at that moment and Randall opened the car door. His heart was racing. He looked around again, then fell in behind the wheel, keeping his eye on the door of the building. He stepped on the clutch, put the car into reverse, and released the brake. He backed out slowly, still watching for Holly Diehl. He drove forward away from Wayland Avenue and toward the stop sign at the corner, but he didn’t stop, he rolled through it, turning right and noticing behind him a Providence city police car. The cop turned on his blue light.

Randall was sitting in Holly Diehl’s car, her open pocketbook beside him. He had taken the car without her permission. He had stolen it. His foot pressed more firmly on the accelerator. The policeman honked his horn. Randall looked at him in the mirror, saw the cop see him looking. He floored it. The car lurched forward and Randall sped away toward the university. The cop turned with him and switched on his siren. Randall felt a pressure in his chest. He careened through a series of alleys and side streets and lost the police car when it slid into a white Plymouth. He saw a cop talking on his radio as he rolled out of sight.

Randall was terrified. He was a criminal on the run. Holly Diehl had no doubt called the police by now to report her car stolen. It occurred to Randall that the policeman could have gotten hurt in the crash. What if that had happened? He would be to blame. He saw the man on the radio, but what if he was calling for an ambulance? What if he had sustained internal injuries or had a bad heart? He could be dying. Randall Halpern Randall could be a murderer. He looked at the little white bag on the seat beside him. He needed one of the pills now. He tried to breathe calmly and deeply, tried to slow his body down. What he needed to do was stop the car and get out, run, hide, and sneak back to his apartment. No one knew that he was the car thief. McRae had seen him by the car though. He needed to get to a phone and call Claudia, tell her to tell anyone who asked for him that he was in the bathroom or something like that. He began to slow to a stop when another siren blast pushed his foot to the floor. The tires of the blue Honda squealed as he narrowly missed hitting a woman with a sheepdog. A light snow began to fall. The cop was right behind him, talking on his radio as he drove. Randall found himself on busy Thayer Street, college students everywhere, cars everywhere, people pointing.

There were two police cars behind him now, lights flashing, sirens blowing. Randall imagined he heard his name over a loudspeaker. He made a sharp right and headed down the bus-only tunnel toward downtown. The police were caught off guard by this maneuver and slammed into each other at the mouth of the tunnel.

To Randall’s surprise there were no police at the bottom of the tunnel. He screeched to a halt and got out of the car, ran along Main Street for a half block, then up through someone’s yard, through a couple of yards and up the hill until he was on the campus. In fact, he was suddenly back on Thayer Street, just a block from the accident involving the two police cars. People were standing around, watching, telling each other what they had seen. But no one was looking at Randall even though he was panting and his clothes were grass- and dirt-stained from his scurry up the hill. He walked away from the commotion, looking up at the snow, which was falling harder now. The white flakes made him think of his white bag and he remembered that he had left his medicine sitting on the seat of Holly Diehl’s car.

He found a phone booth on a corner in front of a gas station. He closed the door, fumbled through the change in his pocket, dropped in a quarter and called Claudia.

“Where are you?” Claudia asked.

“Shut up and listen,” he barked.

“Don’t you tell me to shut up,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Has anyone asked for me?”

“Randall? What’s going on?”

“Has anyone asked for me?” he repeated.

“No, no one has asked for you. Why?” He could hear her sitting down on the recliner. “Where are you?”

“If anyone calls or comes by, just tell them I’m in the bathroom.”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

“Don’t yell at me,” Claudia said.

“I’m sorry. Do it, please?” Randall hung up the phone, knowing that she wouldn’t do it. An ambulance rolled by him, lights flashing. The cop was hurt. He knew it. He couldn’t count on Claudia. He was suddenly very cold. The snow was beginning to stick to the grass and bushes.

Randall pushed through the wind to the gas-station office. He pieced together forty cents and dropped the coins into the vending machine. He collected his bag of cheese curls from the tray and pulled it open, began to eat as he watched the weather. The man behind the desk, a big greasy man was staring at Randall. Randall left, shoving the remains of his snack into the pocket of his jacket.

Randall counted his money. He had nearly seven dollars, not enough for anything, certainly not enough for a life on the lam. If only that cop hadn’t died in that collision. He was sure the matter could be straightened out if not for that. The cold air was beginning to make his lungs ache when he entered a branch of his bank that he had never visited. There was no line and he went directly to a teller, a youngish woman with big glasses and a gold crown that showed in the back of her mouth when she said, “May I help you?”

“I’d like to withdraw some money,” Randall said. He felt his pocket and realized he didn’t have his checkbook. “But I’m afraid I don’t have my checkbook.”

“What’s your account number then?” the woman asked.

“I don’t know.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glasses.

“My name is Randall, Randall Randall,” he said.

“Randall Randall,” she repeated. “Would you mind waiting here for a second?”

“I just want my money,” Randall said.

“I’ll be right back.” The woman fell away from her stool and walked briskly across the floor to another woman and together they regarded Randall.