Don't Kill the Messenger

It began, as it always begins, with pain. Two days ago, in the privacy and comfort of my home, I suffered a searing firestorm of pain that started in my right leg and worked its way up through my abdomen and into my chest, radiating out through both arms. When it struck, I dropped to my hands and knees and struggled to stay focused. Because I knew that with the agony came vital information. It was how I learned about Rebecca. My life has not been my own for almost two years; I go where I am sent. I don’t know who is sending me or even why I’ve been chosen. All I have are the circumstances of the moment as each new day begins. This day’s circumstances find me in a car, a gold-colored Chrysler Sebring convertible. It’s not mine, but it’s not stolen—a rental car I picked up in Maryland. I’m the good guy, if there is such a thing; I know they’re a little hard to find these days. But I like to think that my intentions are good, even if plenty of people think I’m crazy or I’m scamming them. In America circa the new millennium, cynicism has become a cash crop. I’m driving south on a little strip of road called U.S. 1, down to Key West, Florida. I’ve never been, but courtesy of the information I received, I know the way, turn by turn. It’s a piece of knowledge that saves some money and some hassle. The rental companies want twelve bucks a day to rent a GPS for the car. I remember when they used to give you a free map to where you were going. Most of the time, no matter how far I have to go, I drive. I make a conscious decision not to fly. It’s not because of fear, but rather a question of control. Flights can be delayed or canceled, airplanes can be re-routed to unexpected airports, but the road is always open. And if I’m late for an appointment, somebody could die. It’s early September and it’s dark out; just past 9:00 at night, I am still about thirty miles from Key West. U.S. 1 is a straight shot, an asphalt line, snaking its way to the southernmost point in the continental United States. Side streets jut out to the left and right, taking travelers to the Atlantic Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico, depending on which way they turn. There’s a decent amount of humidity in the air tonight; an indecent amount might be a better description of it. Even without the heat of the sun, the moisture makes the air feel very close, even with the top down on the Chrysler and the wind moving through my hair. I’m outdoors and I still feel like I want to open a window. But I paid an extra $30 a day for the convertible, and unless it’s raining or the damn thing is parked, that top is staying down. Then there’s the crackling. When I first heard it, about ten miles back, I didn’t know what it was or where it was coming from. At first, I thought something was short circuiting on the car. Then I slowed down and looked up at the high-tension wires paralleling the road, and there it was—the crackling. Like something out of an old science fiction movie, where the killer robot is staggering toward its defeat. The dampness is reacting with the power lines, resulting in a disturbing constant buzz, and that buzz is traveling across those wires, making it sound like they are leaking electricity, which might drop on my head at any second. It almost makes me want to put the top up. Almost. Instead I make an effort to ignore the crackling. A mile or two down the road, the speed limit drops to thirty-five. Apparently the road crosses through a wildlife refuge for something called key deer, an endangered species of animal little and cute enough to warrant not just protecting it but showing it off to the public. I drive through at the reduced speed, irritating drivers behind me who clearly could give two craps for any species—endangered or not—and impatiently ride my ass until such time as they can pass me at about fifty. Halfway through the sanctuary, I’m free of ass-riders and alone with the night air. I see the deer ahead at the side of the road, about fifty yards, maybe a hundred yards up—hell, I don’t know. Spatial relations were never my thing. But there he is, as little and cute as I expected, and wandering squarely into the middle of my lane. Fortunately, this isn’t the story of a car crash. I’m going slowly enough that I can bring the Chrysler to a full stop a good five feet from the deer, who—in a moment too cliché to appreciate—stands staring into my headlights. Since he doesn’t seem too intent on moving, I turn on my hazard lights and sit looking at him. I honk the horn; he’s unimpressed. After a full minute of this standoff—and for reasons I don’t really even understand—I say, “Hi there.” The furry little beast looks at me for a moment, then opens his mouth a bit, and I hear the word “Hey.” Less jarred by this than I should be, I continue the conversation. “You hungry or something? I have Funyuns.” “Didn’t you read the sign?” the deer asks. “You’re not supposed to feed us. It’s the number-one cause of road kills among my species—drivers hit us when we stand by the road, getting fed.” “Not to be pedantic,” I chime in, “but I suspect the number-two cause of road kills among your species would be standing in the middle of the street.” “Touché,” he says calmly. “Don’t worry. I’ll move in a minute.” I ask the next obvious question, only dreading the answer a little. “Is there a particular reason you’re talking to me?” “I’m not, really,” he answers in that same calm tone. “You’re projecting. You’re tired, a little lonely, and thinking about what you have to do tonight. You needed someone to give you a message, and I was the only one around.” What’s most notable to me is how reasonable it all sounds. “So what’s the message?” I ask. If my diminutive conversation partner is right and I’m really just projecting, then I already know the answer. This will be the acid test. “Don’t fall in love,” the little fuzzball retorts. Bingo, we have a winner. Still, I can’t help baiting him. “Ever, or just tonight?” “Tonight,” he answers. “With her.” “Wasn’t planning on it,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but feeling overwhelmingly chalant. “That’s good,” he says, trotting to the side of the road. “Drive carefully.” I turn off the hazards and resume my previous pace southward. Don’t fall in love. Didn’t the Tubes tell me the same thing back in 1983? Yeah, she’s a beauty, all right. Or so I imagine, since I haven’t even met her yet.