Stick Shift

The telephone. I pick it up on the first ring, when I might have let it go and have the machine pick up. This suggests I'm not that badly off, really. I still am looking for something to pull me out of depression. When you stop looking, that's when you're in trouble.

I say hello - and he calls my name, question mark at the end of the last letter bigger than the whole word. I recognize the voice, of course, strained though it sounds - Robbie? what is he doing calling me? I don't want to talk to him - do I? It's like the last time, just when I had gotten over a man, he called me, drunk, depressed, desperate - awoke my feelings all over again - and I'm sure he just woke with a hangover.

He's in trouble, he tells me, needs to talk to me. I think I should ask him if all his friends were busy, because I'm obviously low on his list of people to just call up - but that seems cruel. Flashers going off in my head, that this is what I was waiting for. I have to see him. Where is he? Bathurst and St. Clair. I hear traffic noise in the background, a wailing siren.

Toronto. I'm in Detroit.

I think, calculate - tell him I'll meet him at Yonge and St. Clair, where we met once before, in four hours. Be there - and he says he will and I hang up first, and picture him slumped in a telephone booth, receiver falling from his hand. What ever possessed him to call a secret ex-lover in another city instead of a friend close by? Didn't matter now, I was on my way. And I think it was just what I needed.

Hitchhike down to the highway, two rides, the second going massively out of his way for me. I didn't talk much, just impressed on them the urgency of what I had to do and looked at my watch a great deal. It was later that midnight, no public transit buses running, and him in Toronto, and me in Detroit, rushing crazily to his aid. I don't plan when I'm going to be spontaneous, I thought, and smiled.

There's snow on the ground, but none in the air. It's too warm for that, although to someone ripped from bed, it's still chilly-to-the-bone. There's a vague mist hanging over everything which gets more intrusive as I head to the river.

I see it from Stuart's perspective as much as mine, this next part. I can see him in the white Acura - nice car for such a young man - everyone’s grandparents seem to have one too. He's driving medium fast, enjoying the night - and then, there I am. Unmistakable. The big, black, flappy coat, the canvas bag, the bright scarf - it registers in a second, about the same time I am trying to think, to remember what if anything I brought with me. He slows, pulls the car over in front of me. We're on the overpass, not even on the ramp yet. I can't believe my luck, not recognizing who it is yet - still, I guess that maybe this driver isn't even heading for the highway, or maybe in the wrong direction.

Then I see it's Stuart; he flicks the autolock, and buzzes down the window. He asks where I'm headed. Toronto, I tell him, not bothering to add that I'm in a hurry. Him, I'm likely to see again. There's no problem sharing secrets with strangers. With friends, or acquaintances, it's better to sleep with them, see if you still get along, then start opening up. I can't believe I said that. What a horrible thing to think.

He says he's going to Toronto too, and I don't ask what he's doing either, crossing the border in the middle of the night. There will be no mystery in it - not that mine is really mysterious either but I can't see the harm in creating atmosphere for myself - and I am in a cloudy, floating mood that I don't want to ruin. I hop in, tuck my coat around me while he sends the window back up, and we're off.

Where are you going in Toronto? he asks. Just north of downtown, I tell him. Odd time of night for it, he says. I say nothing, I don't even think I nod. It's enough that I'm on the way.

We pass over the border without a second glance. We’re both Canadians, after all, just coming home for a visit. Stuart says he’s planning on staying just a couple of days to visit friends, and I nod, including myself in his plans for the benefit of the customs man.

It's another fog-patch night on the 401, almost no other cars on the road, almost no one passing. I feel more and more like we've stepped off the edge of the world. Here am I, insane knight errant on my way to do good deeds in the far off metropolis to the north - but unlike those tin-plated chivalrists of medieval England, I don't believe in dragons. It's as if I know there's something wrong with the fact that everyone else does - but I can't put my fingers on what's real and what's not.

So - I'm here in a car with Stuart, improbable coincidence at best, heading to the side of a man I thought, maybe hoped, I would never see again, at his request more or less. That was bordering on impossibility.

It was either that, or I'm still madly in love with him, and that's something I'd never forgive myself for.

An hour passes, and I say nothing. Stuart fiddles with the radio at one point, trying to find a clear station playing something interesting. It's too loud in non-reality adjusted ears, but I say nothing. I can tell he's looking up at me, splitting his focus between the radio, me, and the road, maybe hoping I will look for music while he concentrates on keeping us between the lines. When I don't look back for long enough, he switches the radio off and continues to drive through the fog.

When we turn onto the 403 to head toward Hamilton, I realize what's going on. Tension, horrible tension, is building in my gut. I can't really think any more, except about certain things that I can't even afford to give words to. My hands are the most obvious signals - I should have checked them before. Their tendons are flared, lines of white. I should always check the hands. I am lucky; they are wonderful things, all sinewy and definition, and very expressive emotionally, knowing what's wrong often long before I do. And they tell me now that I am tense to breaking, and very scared.

The 403 is deader even than the previous highway, a back-road in the dense mists. Several areas seem almost concession-rural, lots of exits leading nowhere, like there are farmhouses just out of sight in the night. The fog is thicker now even, a solid white curtain hanging inches off the front headlights. And it is shortly after we make the switch to this smaller highway, when I have performed self-diagnosis to my satisfaction, that I, still staring straight ahead, say suddenly, "Get off the road, now."

He, surprised, obeys almost immediately - an exit has opened up to the right of the car. He drives, slows, turns onto a lane-way and pulls over to a shoulder. The car is surrounded by fog and dense bushes and trees. Nothing is visible outside of the car. He turns the key to stop the engine, and then the headlights, leaving the dash-lights on, looks at me, reaches his hand to touch my arm. Has he ever touched me before, for any reason? No, I don't think so. Acquaintances, as I said, friends at best. Tension.

It's simple, my reflexes tightened to perfection, to take his face in my hands, lock my lips to his. My tongue finds its way into his mouth, and he is putting pressure into the kiss at the same time as he is trying to pull away. I pour my tension over us - he doesn't know how to kiss properly, tries to do quick little smacks and closes his mouth between. I elect to teach him - he is still pulling away from me but my hands are locked around his neck. His hands are on my arms, pushing but weak. I force my face to his and kiss him, long and deep. No going back now, not for me - so no letting up. None.

I am on top of him quickly, gratefully over the gearshift and onto his lap, straddling his legs, kneeling on the seat. His seat-belt is still on. I use it against him, to help me out. More kissing, one hand of mine in the back of his hair firmly. I am free to fondle him with the other, and do so, gently, my fingers up and down his arms, which are bare below the sleeves of his t-shirt. They are covered with soft hair - I feel his muscles tensing and relaxing, and try to discover from those little clues what is stimulating him, what he likes. He is holding me loosely, not committing to anything beyond the kisses. No talking, not from either of us. Neither of us breaks the mood enveloping us as firmly as the fog around the car.

Still kissing him, I reach down with one hand, loop it around his back to take some of the pressure off the seat, then use the other to release the tilt backwards. We go down very smoothly, choreographed precision. His hands are moving now, over my back. I lead one to my thigh, hoist the skirt enough to let him feel the stockings. It's funny, another coincidence. I don't wear garters very often at all, and he's maybe the only man who's ever asked if I was wearing nylons or real stockings. This was months before, and I was wearing tights that night, had filed the note in my mind that Stuart loved garters - not that I had ever considered - but that's a lie, too. I wore them once before when I knew I would see him, when I had no chance to make the little teasing comment I wanted to.

So - more clothes come off, his pants go down, his shorts go down, his hands roam inside my shirt - pulling up my skirt around my waist - I'm stripping off my underwear, helping him inside me - We fuck hard, very hard, I think: desperation? violence? Everything and everything. I come, spasming, quicker than him. I go limp for a moment, then slide down, bumping my head only a little on the steering wheel, bring him to orgasm inside my mouth. It's neatest - what a thing to say.

I lie for a moment, after he's come and I've cleaned him as well as I can with my tongue, my head on his thigh. He strokes my hair, I run my hands up and down his legs. Very nice-looking, very nice. My breathing slows eventually. I look at my watch in the lights from the dash - time has moved only imperceptibly. I slide back up, kiss him once more, a short, then a long one. It's what men forget to do. If you have the idea you may have taken advantage of someone, the least you can do is show a little tenderness before leaving or falling asleep. It's very little to do.

But then again, maybe that's just me being horrible again.

He smiles, frown lines in place on his brow. He doesn't know what happened. I smile kindly, shake my head. I owe you forever, I tell him, and I mean it. There are things no friend should have to do - but god knows I've done it for others, Robbie for example. Robbie. Think, think. God, Stuart. Thank you.

We dress, kissing once or twice more, then he turns the key to send us back out on the road. I reach for him, hug him, feel myself genuinely close to tears, but breathe and feel him against me and the feeling passes. He hugs me hard, releases me, puts the car's lights back on and takes us onto the 403 again. Toward Robbie, and toward danger.