Gary Duehr

The Zipper

I'm trying to merge into the right lane to exit onto 83 South, but a white Dodge Charger speeds up to block me. I lay onto the horn for a good 10-15 seconds, longer than I should, to let them know I know what they've done. 

"The zipper, asshole!" I mutter under my breath. The zipper: how two lines of cars take turns and merge effortlessly into one. The Charger broke the zipper, and I am determined to make it pay. 

The blue pickup behind the Charger lets me in, and I give it a thanks wave. I tailgate the Charger around the curl of the interchange onto 83 South, making a mental note of the first three digits of the license plate, BY8, before it accelerates into the fast lane and vanishes. My Camry is boxed in the middle lane behind a Civic noodling along at 45 mph. I honk at it then veer into the slow lane to pass. The stretch of highway is thick with cars headed for the Bayview Mall or fast food chains on either side, Roy Rogers and MickeyD's and Dave's Hot Chicken. The competition, I think, even though the Domino's I manage is in the town center.  

I take no pride in my job, but the paycheck nibbles away at my college debt. My expenses are meager, crashing in the basement of my old man's house, buying groceries and shoveling the sidewalk to help out. I do what I can, even if I feel stretched thin with 60-plus hours a week wrangling pimply teens while I fist shredded mozzarella over swirls of tomato sauce. Sometimes I hide in the storage closet that's my office, surrounded by packs of paper towels and buckets of catsup and bbq sauce, just to catch my breath. I put my head down on the Dell keyboard and let the random clicks clear my mind.   

I'm picking up speed in the right lane, but I can't make out the Charger. Too many white sports cars jockeying for position. What I want to do is cut right in front of it then slow down to a crawl to let it know how it feels. I have time. I'm just on my way to the mall to find a sweater I don't really need. My old sweater got big bites taken out of it by moths, but it's almost April and getting warmer. 

I pass the mall exit and spot it half a dozen cars ahead. I'm doing 80, way over the 65 mph speed limit, but not enough to get a ticket. The Charger is gaining on me, probably pushing 90. Asshole. I feel my adrenaline boil. I press down on the gas, and I can feel the Camry vibrate as the rpms hit 4000. I start weaving in and out of traffic to surge through any blank spots. Other drivers beep at me, but I don't care. By now I'm not using any turn signals, just darting in and out like Dirt Rally on my Xbox, timing my moves perfectly. I'm in the zone.  

I hit a wall of traffic. No way through. A couple semis loom up and block my view. Dammit! I check my rear view and see that the Charger has got caught in the jam too and drifted far behind. 

My left rear tire blows out, and I clutch the wheel to keep steady. I can hear the tread flapping on the pavement. I slow down and ease into the breakdown lane. The rim is starting to rattle. I make it to Exit 51 and hobble off into a Sunoco. Just gas pumps and a convenience store, no garage, so I park beside the air compressor. The hose on the ground is still hissing from the last car. I get out and look at the flat, it's half collapsed. I unlock my cell and call triple A.  

A white Charger pulls up to get gas. I check the plate: BY8. I watch as a young mom gets out, leaving the door open. She's wearing a dressy coat, a pillbox hat on top of her ashy swoop of hair. She says a few words to someone in the front seat, then takes out her credit card and inserts it in the pump. I have no idea what to do. I'm sure she doesn't recognize me or my car. I feel my anger start to evaporate, but I can't quite let go. I decide I have to say something to her.

I walk up closer. I can see a boy of 5 or 6 buckled up in front. 

"Excuse me, could I borrow some quarters for the air?" I gesture back at the flat.

She smiles and digs into her purse. "Sure." She counts out four into my palm. 

"Thanks." I hesitate. "I don't know if you know it, but you cut me off back there at the exit." 

"I did?" Her face tenses. She grasps the nozzle a little tighter; the gas is gushing into the tank as the dollars and gallons spin past, clacking. 

"Yeah, I'm sure you didn't mean anything, but we were both trying to exit and you didn't, you know, do the zipper thing." 

"The zipper?" 

I give her an easy grin, trying to ease things. "How one car goes, then the other, like a zipper being pulled." 

"Oh." 

"That's ok, I just wanted to mention it in case you didn't realize." 

The pump clanks to a stop and she removes the nozzle, hangs it back up, and taps the gas hatch shut. "Thanks," she says. "There's someone I want you to meet." 

"Oh yeah?" 

“My little boy, Ryan. You and I weren't supposed to have any contact back at the exit, that's why I pulled in front of you. I hoped you'd understand."  

She goes around and opens the passenger door, unbuckles Ryan, and helps him out. He's dressed in a nice blue suit, as if for church, and his blond hair is gelled down. He's got a scrubbed face like a boy in a TV ad for cereal. 

She leads him over. "Ryan, this is Jerry." 

Ryan extends his right hand formally, and I shake it. 

"How'd you—" 

"That's not important." Her voice has lowered, and I watch as she puts on a pair of white linen gloves. She lower's her hat's veil over her eyes. "What's important is right now. Our appointment is at this Sunoco. Ryan is here to help you move on." 

"Who are you, what are you talking about?" I can feel my irritation bubbling up.  

"I know you're troubled, that you have difficulties that can feel overwhelming. When your tire blew out, your car skidded under the semi in the next lane, crushing you instantly. This gas station is merely a temporary pause." 

I'm stunned, short of breath, like I've been punched in the gut. I sit down on the curb by the pumps.  

"Ryan," she says, "could you assist him now, please?" 

Ryan walks over with a serious expression and touches his fingertips to my forehead. They scorch my skin. A brightness sears through me like the sun glaring off the windshield. All the air gets sucked from my lungs, and everything goes quiet. The last thing I remember is the rear left tire inflating on its own, the lug nuts falling out with a clink onto the cement, as it wobbles down into an icy ditch and goes still.

Gary Duehr has taught creative writing for institutions including Boston University, Lesley University, and Tufts University. His MFA is from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop. In 2001 he received an NEA Fellowship, and he has also received grants and fellowships from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, the LEF Foundation, and the Rockefeller Foundation.

Journals in which his writing has appeared include Agni, American Literary Review, Chiron Review, Cottonwood, Hawaii Review, Hotel Amerika, Iowa Review, North American Review, and Southern Poetry Review. 

His books include Winter Light (Four Way Books) and Where Everyone Is Going To (St. Andrews College Press).