The leather steering wheel never twists left nor right. The four loitering eyes search for movement ahead. Any anything ahead: a jackknifed truck, crumbling oases, the hoped-for weed or squirrel squelched beneath the tire. None of it materializes—only the asphalt mirages they’ve hurtled toward since noon. They don’t mention them anymore, Alex and Malfez. Not since hours before when Alex bobbled in naïve hope: There, he said. What’s that up ahead? The air’s waving strangely across the freeway—like an aquarium. A Mirage, Malfez said definitively. It’s only a mirage. You’ve never seen one before? Ehh. Yes, Alex said. Yes, but I wanted to pretend for a moment that I hadn’t.

Malfez now drums the radio’s beat onto the steering wheel. The plodding thump, thump, thump into the finger tap, tap, taps while Alex sounds whole notes with his door’s silver lock, popping it with every fourth beat then jamming it down to begin a new measure. Malfez tries gauging their mileage. The odometer’s broken. The speedometer, too. Lacking all meter, Malfez counts the song’s measures between the rock he passes now to the truck-sized boulder ahead. Seventy-four measures, he counts. Two hundred and ninety-six quarter notes from stone to boulder. A three-minute song. Divide the notes, the measures, the minutes. A mile? Sure. About a mile. We just drove a mile since that rock back there, he says to Alex. Rock? Yes, Malfez says. It’s a mile back now. You probably can’t see it anymore. With nothing else to pass the time, Alex turns to gather how Malfez fills the boredom. He looks out the back window, confused, turns back forward, then realizes he doesn’t comprehend what he saw. He looks again. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. He did see it behind him.

There’s cops behind us, he says to Malfez.

What do you mean?

A cop. His lights are on. He wants us to pull over.

Malfez glances up at the rearview mirror hanging between them, the mirror racing parallel outside his door, and once more above. I wonder why? Malfez says.

Were we speeding?

Malfez looks faintly toward the broken speedometer, the needle still obnoxious and stagnant at zero. No, I don’t think so.

Not even a little?

Not enough to be pulled over, no.

The taillights. I bet a taillight’s out.

Oh, I doubt that.

Alex asks for no rationale.

It must be something we’ve done, Malfez says.

Something we’ve done?

Yes, something we’ve done.

But what did we do?

I don’t know.

Then how could it be something we’ve done?

Why else would they stop us?

Alex considers this for a moment but summons nothing intelligible as the siren squeals behind them. Its violent cry-and-whir blankets them in a coarse texture reminiscent of the color red. Its daunting eye in the rearview mirror even tastes red.

Well, Malfez says, what do you think I should do?

I guess you should pull over.

Malfez stares ahead. He responds with unwarranted conviction: Let’s not.

The confidence unsettles Alex long enough to shake him off his door lock’s beat. What do you mean ‘let’s not’? he asks.

We need to get where we’re going, Malfez says.

He presses his foot against the accelerator, letting the cruise-control light go dim for the first time in hours. The reasoning strikes Alex like a halo’s glow, hovering above his head without origin, and then, just as inexplicably, it disappears.

Well, yeah, he says, but we should probably stop.

No, Malfez says flatly. We’ve covered too much land to stop.

Alex turns to Malfez, realizing something irrational is happening, something he’ll need to apologetically explain from the backseat of a police cruiser. He’ll stupidly banter from one illogic to another, sounding curiouser each time he tries rationalizing it away: We didn’t see your lights. Or hear the siren. We needed to get to a hospital. Fast. A funeral. We thought you were a highway robber. We heard something about them on the news. The news, yes. Everyone will think they’d gone mad. And the thought of it makes Alex almost sexually aroused. Inklings of a hard-on begin pressing against his jeans. This trip’s sprawled too many states, too many deserts, too many time zones to not go just a little mad. Alex feels briefly ecstatic, as if he’s pissing himself. But then he feels damp and disgusting.

You’re making me nervous, Malfez. Did you do something?

No idea.

Then why aren’t we pulling over?

Because we won’t know until he pulls us over.

Know what?

If we’ve done something.

Come on, Alex says, we’ll deal with the ticket and just keep going.

But maybe not, Malfez says. Maybe they’ll cite some infraction we’ve never heard of: your bare feet, or my too-dark sunglasses. Maybe they’ll lock us up for the weekend. Who knows how matters are dealt with here. If we pull over, we might not ever get where we’re going.

And if we don’t pull over? Alex says. Don’t you see the problem in us not pulling over?

We’ll be criminals?

Well… Alex stops. Yeah.

To whom?

To the cop back there.

What do we care what he thinks?

He could put us in jail?

Exactly. So we should keep going.

But what if they catch us up ahead?

We face the consequences.

And if we don’t keep going?

I suppose there’ll be consequences back there as well.

Alex sinks into his seat, cowering from Malfez’s rationale. Or irrationale. Unreason? Malfez speeds ahead but Alex finds no exit guiding them. He wants to throw an anchor into the police car’s dyspeptic grill, to let the officer decide for them whether they turn back or continue. Malfez won’t let the policeman make decisions for them. He only stares impassively ahead, as if no weight’s been thrown to decelerate and detour their passage. The policeman is nothing. Simply.

Tell me again why it matters that we get where we’re going? Alex says, fighting for middle ground with his partner.

It’s where we’re going.

But where are we going exactly?

You know where we’re going.

I guess. But how is that any different than here?

Because it’s not here.

But is there anything you can say about it that’s different?

Of course not. I’ve never been.

Then why do we need to go so badly?

Because it’s not here.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, but why’s that enough? What does it matter if it’s not here?

If we don’t go, we’ll never know why we had to go.

That complicates matters, doesn’t it?

It doesn’t need to be complicated. We can just go.

But the police. They’re still behind us. It’s more complicated than you saying, ‘It doesn’t need to be complicated.’

I don’t think that’s exactly true.

So it’s not exactly false either?

Maybe. But it’s not exactly true either.

What does that mean?

It’s somewhere in-between.

No. It can’t be in-between.

That depends on who you ask.

I’m asking you.

And I say it’s somewhere in-between.

Stop being an ass. The cop’s still behind us. We can’t be in-between.

But we are. We’re definitely in-between.

Between what?

That business back there, everything back there. And where we’re going.

Don’t be clever. We need to choose.

Then let’s pull over.

Then we’ll never get where we’re going, Alex says, finding himself turned around and mislaid in Malfez’s conviction. He gags on the words, wanting to wrench them from Malfez’s ears.

There is that, Malfez says.

Alex decides, Well… well… Alex decides nothing. If it were up to him the police car would have already said, Now this will happen. And after this happens, it will be this. And if you let yourself consider the options, you’ll find it can only be this. And no, there will be none of that. Nor that. Nor that. But this. Yes. There will be this. Pack all of your bags for this. Discard all of the nonessentials because you won’t need them. The nonessentials? No, Alex doesn’t know the nonessentials. Not even a single essential. And it’s burrowing through his veins now, poisoning the oxygen, sending him impossibly gone. Not merely exasperation. Alex is physically exhausted, his body deflated.

And, and, Alex tries throwing the sentence from the back of his throat, Tell me again why it matters that we never come back here.

Maybe it doesn’t.

But what if it does?

The only way we’ll know is if we keep going.

But what if up ahead turns out to be all wrong? What if we were always supposed to be right here?

We won’t know until we get there.

This is excruciating.

Alex feels unbearably infantile. When he looks to Malfez, his neck cranes back. When he speaks to Malfez, he spits his voice toward the ceiling. He feels the noises from his mouth are only dull echoes to Malfez, the syllables merely rattling through the automobile like a mechanical failure too-long ignored. Searching for any way to pull the car’s decisions out of the cab’s domain, he says, very feebly, as if he were a starving man striking upon his last great idea:

We could get into a car crash.

This doesn’t strike Malfez’s confidence. He’s too preoccupied with what’s ahead, no matter how unknown—perhaps for that very reason he is. Alex looks to Malfez once more but realizes he’ll elicit no response. He feels himself sinking further. The police siren contracts his spine. He decides then, yes, Alex decides, finally, to reach for the knobs on the dashboard. He turns the radio up. Just minutely the police siren behind them is drowned out, floundering under moribund country rock. There is stand-up bass and mandolin. The crackling voice of some washed-out rogue of the roadhouse bent.

Louder, Malfez says. Louder. Louder.

Surprised by the commands, Alex quickly catches on and begins spinning the dial round and round until all of the sirens are devoured by the cab’s echoing dirge. The music crescendos around them, demanding everything of their ears. The country roots in G—chords G to C to D shuddering through their heads.

And then there is nothing, really. All returns to whatever semblance of the everyday lurched along with them hours prior. They’re able to postpone any need to make the pressing decisions. They don’t need to think. It’s only the music in the air pummeling them from all sides. Alex mouths the phrase, Are they still behind us? But it’s mute beneath the music. He looks to Malfez to see if he heard. But Malfez only stares blankly at the road ahead. Then Malfez begins talking but he too is strangled, unheard. He goes on for five minutes. More. Until the music begins fading out. Alex slowly begins hearing what Malfez says. It’s mundane business that’s only said when nothing else is pressing: My mother taught me everything about gardening, he’s saying, the words slowly prying themselves above the country squall. All of us, my sisters and I would get our hands into the… the words growing brighter as every washboard fades off the speakers. But with it comes that nasal chant of the police siren faintly heard in the background, picking up where everything else leaves off. The music stops completely. A DJ’s voice thuds across the air to name that tune, name that voice. But the DJ’s nowhere near as rowdy as the siren now screaming no less obscenely than before. Alex turns to look out the back window. He grimaces. He tenses up. He loses himself. Oh for fuck’s sake, he says, the cops are still behind us.

Goddamn it, Malfez. Tell me. Tell me what’s going to happen ahead! Tell me!

But he retrieves no response from his partner. It’s only Malfez shaking his head, unapologetic, annoyed, murmuring, I don’t know, and again very quietly, I don’t know.

What is it you goddamn prick? Why can’t we stop? What is it?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

What logic? What’s it going to take to stop?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

What’s going to happen up ahead?

I don’t know. I don’t know, still shaking, still shaking No.

I must know.

I don’t know. I don’t know.

Alex falls weak, his questions quieting under each burst. What’ll it be? now uttered so low that Malfez no longer bothers responding. What? Alex whispers. He mumbles so faintly that his queries only pout like malnourished sighs. Huhhmmmm. Hhhshhhhhh. And then a long, surrendering pause as Alex considers the present conditions. The police siren, yes, it still howls menacingly behind them. The mirage, too, that’ll continue taunting them for hours yet. And the stale air-conditioning. The music still gently vibrating the speakers. Alex feels a headache mounting. He wants to spit it out. But he doesn’t have the energy.

Malfez, he says slowly, very quietly, I want you out of the car. Please. Get out. Get out of the car.

But I’m driving the car.

I don’t care! Alex says, suddenly bloating with rage, his hands clenching the cushion beneath himself. Out! Out! Damnit. This is too much. I can’t handle it anymore.

Malfez brushes it off only to be inundated once more:

Get out of the goddamn car!

Malfez considers his partner, the door, the pedals beneath his feet. The road, the speed, the autos passing neither left nor right. He opens the door. He turns his neck. He watches the pavement. It speeds eighty miles per hour beneath. The white divider flashing in a panic.

Alex sees Malfez’s foot hanging out the door, his shoe lightly skimming the pavement. He is stunned. Dumbfounded. He has second thoughts: What are you doing? Alex says.

I’m getting out of the car.

Malfez unclips his seatbelt. With the cruise control now revving beneath them, he now stretches his right foot out the door over the pavement. He looks worried but certain he’ll resign himself to it anyway.

What do you mean you’re getting out of the car? Alex says.

Malfez says nothing. His feet graze the highway. They spastically pop off the ground. They get thrown back. The pebbled asphalt kicks up beneath him. He lets go of the wheel. The car gradually drifts into another lane of highway.

Jesus Christ! Alex yells. He throws his hands onto the wheel. The wheel yanked. The car realigned before careening off the road. Get back in the fucking car! Get back in the car. What are you thinking? Realizing that he’s disparaged his own argument, or has had his point settled, or—or?—Malfez leans back into the automobile. He takes hold of the wheel. He slams the driver-side door shut, pushes the lock down, places his foot on the accelerator and presses harder than any mile prior. A ploy all along? A Ploy? Goddamn it, Alex says. Don’t do that again.

Do you, Malfez says as if he weren’t the least bit shaken, really want me to pull over?

Alex nervously smiles, wondering whether the two may have reached something more than an impasse. He considers how it may develop. The policeman approaching their car. The policeman demanding license and registration. The policeman asking Malfez if he knows why he’s been pulled over. Malfez without any clue why they’ve been stopped. Alex having no clearer idea. And then everything afterwards wanting but unknown. And, God, what’s to come after that? And again after that? And, God, Alex thinks. We don’t even know what we’ve done. That man could do anything. Who knows what crazed motives carry him limp-legged across the freeway? His capabilities? The incapabilities, as well? We may never see anything again. Stop? Alex says, blurting the word as if dropping it to the floor tied to a brick. But… but… What do you mean stop? What if we’re never supposed to stop? What if we were always supposed to be up there? He points through the windshield, into the erratic waves of the mirage, past them, to somewhere that neither of them can quite see.

Tell me, Malfez. If we keep going will we be able to bring everything with us?

Everything? Whatever we packed, I suppose.

But more than that, Alex says. The things we’ve done. All the little reminiscences. Will we be able to bring them?

Depends.

Depends? I need affirmatives. Please, Malfez. I need to know what I can bring.

Malfez doesn’t automatically respond. He considers this deeply. He winds through the different possibilities tumbling not once or twice through his mind but numerously, continuously. He aligns what he may. He clears his throat. He begins: You’ll be able to bring the minute where the 12-year-old girl said she could feel you shaking as the two of you danced hideously in the middle-school cafeteria. You’ll be able to bring the heavy, country nights where you laid out with friends, staring skyward and inventing constellations based on insane, fabricated myths. You may bring the light you’ve seen at dawn. And the indecent slights, as well. The snakebite that left you pale and heaving in Wyoming. And the overweight preteen who put up his fists and said, We’re going to fight. Now. You’ll also be able to bring the moments that today only feel like déjà vu. You will not be able to bring the full memories with you, which will lead you to continuously ask, Have I done this before? But that is all you will need.

Malfez continues naming dozens of odd details. He begins making lists of them. And then begins making lists of lists. Saying, You will be allowed to remember all of this as long as you forget all of this. But don’t dare try remembering any of that if you want to remember that. Or vice versa.

And then the lists are further compartmentalized. Titling each and turning them into vague volumes. Hate. Fear. Love. So forth. You may bring the Fears. But you cannot bring Love. The only way to keep the Loves is to stay where you are. Otherwise, you’ll have to move on and begin again with new ones. You may leave the Fears but only if you move on. You may bring the Hurt but it’s not necessary. The Joy, however, is necessary. The Dreams are up to you. As is Anger. You’ll always remember the Regrets. Until you don’t.

Malfez doesn’t stop. No matter the police siren infinitely whirling behind them. Alex continues nodding his head as he considers each past laid out by Malfez, leading him finally to say, Right, right. Yes, Malfez, you may stop. You may stop. Let’s think.

Let’s level with ourselves. What do we truly know about what’s up ahead?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

And everything behind?

Malfez softly hums to himself before continuing to list numerous bits of this and that from everything behind. Not memories so much as strange details. Minutiae: There is the To Do list on the fridge. The neighbor’s dog pissing everywhere. The dust settled between the windowpanes and the aluminum screens. The rotten food you’ve been meaning to throw out. Handwritten notes from now-nameless women you haven’t spoken to in ten years. Books you haven’t read in longer. Countless fingernail clippings. Stains behind the toilet seat you never managed to reach. Morning breath. The beguiling kiss from the early part of the century that won’t be replicated as long as it’s remembered. Dreaming of reckless nudity. The police siren begins to fade. The fog, the cloud, the too-many mornings spoiled by drink. Dozens of spiral-bound notebooks headlined with topics you barely remember. A decade of tax returns. All of the bank statements. Museum maps from eight different countries and uncounted cities. Photographs from parties five-years gone where not a guest today might recall another. Souvenir buttons. Souvenir t-shirts. Souvenir mugs. A souvenir elfin figurine saying the stars, the light, the mystics lined up for you to be here or there for however a fleeting jaunt. The siren fades. The mason jar full of Death Valley sand. And, yes, that’s on top of the dust between the windowpanes. And the miscellaneous, frayed ticket stubs to every downtown concert as well. Which reminds me, Alex, there is some really, truly great music. Alchemical, really. Things that could make you absolutely fall apart. Destructive might be another word. And then there’s some really terrible music, too. Horrific little ditties that will skin your ears. And then there are sounds that you might merely call mediocre. The siren fades. The art? Yes, great art. Unimaginable. You won’t need to see again after encountering some of the paintings, sculptures. The colors. Brushstrokes. How one overlapping another creates something new and then new again and new again and, well, I’m sure you understand. Frankly, though, there’s a lot of art that’s quite bad as well. The siren is gone. Things that will blind you for drastically different reasons. Hideous things. And then there’s some absolutely wretched stuff out there, like improv comedy.

The siren is gone.

So it’s settled then? Alex says.

Yes.

We’re going to keep going?

Yes.

Then what happens next?

It will be this, this, and this.

But what is this, this, and this?

You won’t know what this, this and this are until this, this and this happen.

That’s not terribly helpful.

No. But tomorrow rarely is.

May I have a hint?

Ephemera, quixotic search, and magic.

Anything more specific?

I’m afraid not.

That’s fine, Alex says. That’s fine. And, really, not especially surprising. But I still wonder, Malfez. How do we fill out everything that’s missing between these little artifacts? Is there a way to find the end sum? An equation? The Pythagorean theorem? Does it work in everyday life? If I double the past and then double the present, and then take the square root of their sum, will we be able to reach a viable conclusion between the two? Will we be on the same plane? The same future? How do I solve for C? Or, do I somehow already know C? And just don’t know what’s here now? If I plug some speculation into C, will I be able to surmise what’s happening here? And then we may be on the same page? The equation? √ (the Past² + the Present²) = the Future. But if we use a triangle, does it imply that the future somehow touches the past? Or is it as I assume, or hope, or dare for, just the means for an outcome between the two of us? Ugh… The same plane may not be possible. The present may never happen. Everything is past. Yet the past is never replicated by the future. Pythagoras was a monstrous prick.

Story by Eric Magnuson
Photography by Agnes Samour