Eddie’s head jerks back with such force that it would snap the neck of any living person, the lens of his glasses giving way to what is now a massive hole. The opening leads out through the back of Eddie’s skull by way of his eye socket.
He rocks on his heels, somehow still upright despite his head tilted straight back and flecks of his gray matter dotting the nearby booths and tile floor. I keep waiting for his legs to give out, for his body to finally succumb to all the damage and take its final bow.
It appears my bullet shattered the glass of the jukebox behind Eddie, cracking the mechanical arm and causing the record to skip through some incredible twist of fate. It begins to repeat the same two-second loop, Eddie’s wobbling serenade droning over and over again. “Like me. Like me. Like me. Like me. Like me.”
My ears are ringing and, despite bracing myself for the intensity of the recoil, a sharp pain radiates across my wrist.
“Like me. Like me. Like me. Like me.”
The song begins to lower in pitch, every passing round of the pithy little phrase degrading more and more until the whole machine just short-circuits in a pop of whitesparks. The record takes its time, but gradually the circular vinyl disk glides to an excruciatingly long stop as the wordmeis stretched into horrible oblivion.
Then silence.
Eddie’s body remains frozen in place as he stares up at the ceiling and a few cold pieces of brain drip from his open skull. I can hear them slap against the floor in soft, wet clumps.
I realize now that I’ve been holding my breath this whole time, finally letting out all that pent up air in a single puff.
Eddie’s head snaps forward, his toothy grin wider than ever. “Boo!”
I raise my weapon again, but this time he’s ready. Before I can pull the trigger, Eddie makes a clear, direct command that stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t shoot,” he bellows.
I don’t shoot.
It’s not for lack of trying, though. My brain is commanding the tendon across the top of my hand to pull taut, a simple retraction of the pointer finger that I’ve accomplished a million different times in a million different ways. The trigger is right there, resting coolly against my skin and waiting for me to take the next step, but for some reason my hand refuses to accept the command.
It’s as though this part of my body has gone rogue, announcing a conflict with the rest of my biology and then promptly switching sides.
I try again, straining to produce the tiny, insignificantmovement, but it seems no amount of willpower can get the job done.
Eddie takes off his sunglasses and winks at me with the one cloudy eye he’s got left. “That was fun, sport, but we’ve got work to do.”
* * *
In a strictly objective sense, I understand how I got here, but leaving my experience at that would be a disservice to the utterly bizarre events that just unfolded.
I could tell you that I simply put one foot in front of the other as Eddie and I exited the restaurant. I could describe the way Eddie made me wait some twenty yards back while he inspected the truck, including a few minutes under the hood, then handed me the keys. I could tell you that I climbed into the driver’s seat while he closed up the back and then got into the cab next to me, and I could explain the careful, steady manner with which I pulled onto the road.
But even then, a critical question remains:Why?
My process varied slightly, depending on the commands I’d been given by Eddie as he led the charge.
“You feel like walking back to your truck” was a very different experience than “Climb into the driver’s seat.” The former was something Iwantedto do—at least, that was how it seemed. The latter command was like riding along as a passenger in my own body.Duringthis experience, I was more disturbed by the second feeling, but in retrospect I’m having a harder time processing the first.
“You’re not going to signal anyone or ask for help,”Eddie informs me. “You’re not going to wreck the truck. You’re just here to help me have an easy, smooth night.”
My eyes are fixed on the asphalt ahead as we travel down a long desert road in the opposite direction of our previous journey. We’ve charted a course back to the heart of Palm Springs.
“Give me your wallet and your phone,” Eddie says.
I obey his commands without hesitation.
Eddie opens my wallet and extracts the driver’s license. “Alice Roosevelt,” he reads aloud. “328 Springwater Drive. Nice to meet you, Alice.”
The way he says all this is a little odd, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. Right now, I’m mostly just thankful that my habit of carrying a fake ID on these excursions has finally paid off.
Eddie shuts off my phone and throws it out the window, then tucks my wallet into his pocket.
