Tailgaters
Michael Dal Hornsby
(contemporary fiction - 09/24-1470 words)
When my so-called partner crawled in he was nervous and I almost told him to get out and find his own leads. But when I saw how he handled that digital thirty five it was obvious he was a pro, making his jitters a little weird. Perhaps he’d heard about that nut who'd abducted some other paparazzi and dropped them off god knows where instead of some promised gig.
Or not, no one got hurt so it wasn’t news, but word definitely gets around in small circles like ours. In any case, this city has always been full of crazies. Maybe that’s not the best way to put it because only some of them are.
Times like these call for trying to put yourself in other’s shoes as much as possible—as a thought experiment if nothing nobler—even if you have no intention of changing your plans.
My sister always said stuff like that, and it feels good to carry the thought on in her stead. She passed suddenly, recently, in an accident for reasons so absurd she would have laughed and said something about living in an idiot society. She never said stuff like that in a condescending way, at least not usually, and always included herself with the rest of us idiots.
Anyway, I need to change the subject—it’s too soon—but as a side note, I’m pretty sure my sister would have hated this guy. Or anyone else who acted like my car was a violation of their outfit’s dignity. I love my little car. I put work into it.
While he was messing with his camera I strained for a peek at his swinging credentials and he got more uptight than he already was. Before I could try to guess his deal he looked me dead on, his eyes zipping around like they were tracking quick insects unable to escape the gravity of my face. I gave him a little nod and smiled.
I’m glad I didn’t kick him out.
“What was your name again?”
“Jack.”
“Adeline. Nice to meet you”
“Hm.”
Jack had that thing, that “I’m looking through you” insecure social climb-y crap. My older sister Chun had no time for people like that, and it stressed her out to have that personality type thrust upon her over and over when she became successful. If Jack had met my sister, say at some fancy West Hills party, I bet he would have been smiles and backslaps, throwing back his head to bray at anything Chun said that was even marginally amusing. But around me, his arrogance filled the air with a smugness I could have probably smelled were it not for his cologne, which just happened to be the same extra stinky one Chun’s late girlfriend used to wear. The odor made me nuts and I wanted to backhand him the moment he sighed.
“Which was it? Prince Harry or Kardashian?”
“The second one?”
“Which one?”
“Guess.”
“Kendall?”
“Think big.”
“Oh.”
This incredible news rolled over him like a wave and he straightened in his chair, unconsciously preening at the thought of getting paid to annoy such a famous person, pushing on his gelled hair, straightening out his tacky shorts.
“How long have you been doing this Jack?”
He made a show of pretending he forgot I was there and pulled out his phone.
“Long time.”
I wanted to pry but was distracted by the maniac behind me, or more precisely the giant bumper that suddenly filled my rear window. Luckily, I can do something about things like this. I took a practiced swipe on the oversized smartphone always perched in front of me and the menu I designed popped up. When I looked at the short list of options Jack decided to get judgey.
“What app is that? Whoever thought those colors worked should be shot.”
I’m pretty proud of my palate and would have been hurt if I gave anything close to a crap what that guy thought about anything. But I did care about how dangerously close that stupid pickup was. I kind of wanted to skip to step four but decided to let the sequence play out.
The dashboard binged when I pressed number one and when Jack read the screen his voice dripped with queeny sarcasm.
“Are you mad at me? Please back off? What is all this?”
“It’s above the back window.”
“I don’t see anything.”
I had no doubt. The truck backed off for a second but came back like punishment for daring to boss it. Maybe it was my political stickers, not that it mattered. What mattered was the fact he was so close I could make out the chrome bust of the horned beast this dumb truck is named after. I swear this brand is marketed with a hidden noise that perks the ears of every douchebag with penile dysmorphic disorder in a one-mile radius.
That’s the kind of joke I would say to my sister, trying to be funny without trying like she did.
The dashboard binged when I pressed number two.
“You’re pissing him off!”
The dashboard binged when I pressed number three.
“Did you really call the cops?”
I did not and Mister Ramsey only backed off a smidge; it was getting scary.
“You’re making this worse! We’ll crash!”
“Hand me the bag.”
“What?”
“On the floor.”
“You mean the gross trash next to my shoe?”
“Give it.”
I was surprised that he did and the dashboard binged when I pressed number four.
“I’m going to hit you with a burrito? Are you serious?”
When I held the big foil tube out the window the truck finally passed, and when he pulled alongside to scream or whatever I pressed my brakes and he shot ahead.
Gone.
“Holy shit! Did you make this?”
“My sister Chun used to work as a special effects artist in Burbank.”
“Chun. Why does that name sound familiar?”
TMI.
“I assume it’s because there are millions of people named Chun? Not that you would have noticed.”
“I know a lot of Asians.”
That did the trick and we drove in silence until the neighborhood started to change.
“Hey, where is this anyway?”
“Check your notes. We’re catching her at a pop-up.”
“That’s not in here.”
“It's there. In whatever email they sent you.”
“Yeah. I’m saying it’s not here.”
"Trying to remember. Something with crystals, blue crystals? There wasn’t a single name on that list without an address in uh, Malibu though.”
He put down his phone.
“What’s the deal with all these bums? You ever think about that? Do they just stand around and look at cars all day?”
“Is this your first time in South L. A.?”
“No, but it is in this part. I mean, I would feel sorry for them if they weren’t just gross. Who could live like that? It's disgusting.”
“That’s why they wanted the club here. Don’t worry. It’s safe for party people pretending they’re edgy.”
“Did she call us on herself?”
“Sure did.”
He started messing with his camera as the neighborhood got progressively grimmer, and I didn’t pull over until the only word describing our surroundings was ‘apocalyptic.’
“We’re here.”
“Here? Okay. Where?”
“Don’t worry. We’re fine. That building there.”
“Tents?”
“Someone is on their way down. It’s supposed to look amazing up in there. Maybe we can catch Charlie XCX.”
“Seriously? Wow, oh wait, when Nikki Browser died on the way to her what, third wedding? Wasn’t that new one called Chun?”
“No idea.”
I get out and nod at a man who comes staggering over and he nods back. I hit the roof a couple of times to get Jack out.
“Let’s go. I want to get inside.”
Jack launched himself out and when he closed the door I got in and drove away.
When I was a half block up I stopped to check him in the rear view. He was just standing there, holding his gear like squeezing it would somehow teleport him to a better place. He has no idea how to see people like they’re people and was ridiculously terrified.
I say ridiculous because instead of just standing there peeing and judging everyone he could have walked along and ordered an Uber or whatever at his leisure, easy peasy. I would know. Chun and I grew up here.
When Jack saw me I waved and left. Bye dude, no fun in your shoes. But really, what do you expect when you spend your days stalking people, digging through their garbage, and then making them crash their cars for a moment of privacy?
Like he said, he’s been doing this a long time.
© Michael Dal Hornsby 2024. No permission for use by LLM or other AI learning systems.