The Ride (a story)

The door opened, and the woman slipped into the seat next to his.

This was unusual, and not only because it was a woman; no one had ever before climbed into his car while he was on the freeway, even when he was stopped, as he was now, in traffic. He watched as she reached over her shoulder, pulled the seatbelt down and across her body, clicking herself in and facing forward, expressionless, hands resting on the black leather clutch in her lap.

He regarded her for a moment, his mouth open as if about to ask a question — Can I help you? or Do I know you? or (breezily) So, where to? — but the white Mercedes in front of them began to roll forward. He checked his mirrors, took his foot off the brake, and followed suit.

His stereo was tuned to a playlist that he himself had put together, presumably, though he didn’t remember doing so. As one might expect, given the genre, the current song was headed toward a chorus with a clever but unsubtle double entendre. He became increasingly nervous as the chorus approached, until he finally reached up and switched the player off — though, as should have been obvious to him, the silence carried its own embarrassment. He winced.

The Mercedes jerked to a sudden stop, but he was ready for it. He was a careful driver. He’d seen the cascade of brake lights from far ahead.

He cleared his throat and started to turn toward her, ready to say something, anything, but she turned her head away, looking out the side window. He sensed that she’d done this on purpose, that she was silently requesting silence. So he said nothing, just kept his foot firmly on the brake and watched her.

When she’d first slid into his car, he’d had the impression that she was in her early 40s. Right about his age. He wouldn’t have been able to explain that impression; he wasn’t good at guessing ages, and “right about my age” was probably his default guess. Nonetheless, she had moved well, easing herself into the seat and twisting for the seat belt with no hint of stiffness in her joints or limited range of motion. She was dressed professionally — white blouse, black jacket and knee-length skirt (he couldn’t see her shoes, but assumed they matched her purse). It was an older outfit than those worn by the thirty-something executives at his work, but younger than those worn by the older administrative assistants, most of whom were on the brink of retirement. Her make-up hadn’t seemed to be working too hard, either.

But now, her face turned away, he wasn’t so sure. Her black hair, pulled back into a tight bun, revealed a long, smooth neck, but the hair seemed a little too black, perhaps dyed in defense against impinging gray, and the backs of her hands, clutching the purse in her lap, were smooth but prominently veined.

And there was something else: her bearing, her posture, maybe the way she entered a stranger’s car on the freeway…. Well, he would never know for sure. There was no way he was going to ask her age.

He checked his mirrors again and thought he saw movement. He felt a jolt of adrenaline as he suddenly wondered if he was in one of those movies, where the strange woman appears and begs the hapless man to save her from gun-toting spies or mobsters. But there were no burly men running between the lanes of cars, no one peering into car windows or yanking doors open. Just a long string of restless cars, most with headlights on but barely visible in the early evening sun.

He turned his attention back to the road as the Mercedes pulled forward again, but a Men-in-Black Crown Vic — squat, square, muscular — nosed in before he could close the gap. He clenched his jaw. If he’d been alone, he’d probably have cussed out his windshield. Futile, sure, but cathartic. But he wasn’t alone, and he didn’t want those to be the first words she heard from him.

What should those first words be? He shaped possibilities in his mind: What’s your name? he could say, or Traffic is worse than usual; I wonder if there’s an accident, or (breezily) Come here often? He almost smiled at that last one, and even opened his mouth to deliver the quip. But by now he felt it would be more awkward to break the silence than to keep it.

The Crown Vic pushed on into the next lane, opening a gap that filled his attention, and he crawled forward the next few feet.

Wherever she’s going, he thought, she’d get there faster if she walked.

Twenty minutes later, they reached the accident, if it could be called that. There was a brief trail of red and white plastic, a lone hub cap, and a twisted fender off to the left. To the right, two featureless, mid-sized sedans and a gun-metal two-seater had pulled over to the shoulder. No ambulance, no tow truck, no Highway Patrol, just two couples and a solo male pacing among the vehicles, cell phones at their ears.

Past the accident, the traffic lightened. It was still rush hour, so they never quite made it to freeway speed — though, he supposed, any speed on the freeway is, by definition, freeway speed…. He snuck another glance at his passenger and found that she was again — still?— looking out her window. He wondered how far she was going, or how he’d know when she wanted out. Would she speak?

His exit appeared, so he leaned the car off the freeway, slowing well before the sharp bend to the right. The light was red, and he pulled up behind an old Porsche, its right signal flashing as it waited for an opening. The woman unclicked her seatbelt and opened the door in a single motion — not rushed, but quick and efficient. As the belt retracted, she unfolded herself out onto the street, turning a full circle, smoothing her skirt, straightening up. She paused a moment, leaned down, and looked him in the eye, and said, “Thank you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she backed away and closed the door. He watched her walk, unsteadily on the uneven pavement, until she reached the corner and stepped up onto the sidewalk and headed down the street to the right.

A horn blared behind him. He glanced up into his rear-view mirror, into the too-close black-and-chrome grill of a lifted Ram truck, and then ahead at the gap that had been left by the Porsche. He cursed, half at the impatient driver on his tail, half at himself, and pulled forward, and waited for an opening in a seemingly endless line of cars.

At last, the oncoming traffic slowed. His light turned green, and he barely had a chance to react before the idiot behind him blasted his horn again. He cursed and made his turn.

He reached the woman a few seconds later. He slowed, looking out the window as he passed, but he couldn’t stop; the idiot in the truck laid on the horn, crowding his tail until finally swerving around and blowing by, far too close, engine raging.

He drove on, watching her grow smaller in his passenger mirror, then in his rear-view mirror. He thought of pulling over, of offering to take her wherever she needed to go, or to dinner, or anywhere.

He flipped his turn signal on and pulled to the curb at the next light, looking back and forth between the distant woman in his mirror and the cross traffic. And then the light changed, and he made his right turn, and was gone.