Double Feature at the Skyline Drive-in by Brian J. Smith

A Sense of nostalgia washed over George Canter as he sat behind the wheel of his sky-blue Toyota Matrix. On the screen, Iron Man and Thor were hitting each other. Other patrons rushed to and from the concession stand, rousing the pebbles under their feet; a few sat in lawn chairs outside their cars with a blanket draped over their laps—or themselves. Children laughed while most of them begged from or cried for Mommy. The smokers were easily identified by the bright orange tips of their cigarettes.

            There were a lot of memories here.

            Some good, some bad.

            Things had been much simple back then.

            The last time he was here, he and Michelle were on their second date. He’d gotten paid for fixing Mrs. Baird’s roof and talked long and hard about taking her. The double feature that night had been some cartoon called Ice Age and an action movie he couldn’t remember the title of. That night, she wore a strapless white dress with cute little open-toed sandals. He’d gone all out, too, buying popcorn, drinks, ice cream— whatever she wanted she got.

            They’d leaned over the middle console, holding hands and each other, their hearts beating together as one, their breaths warm on the nape of their necks. Her neck length blonde hair was soft against his cheeks and smelled of strawberries. Everything about her, the way she smelled, the way she smiled, made him the luckiest man in the world. If he didn’t have anything to give her, he would ask God for just her and her alone. If love was a drug, he’d have to check into rehab.

            Sitting here now, all by his lonesome, he wished she were sitting next to him, laughing, smiling, smelling of strawberries and holding her in his arms. A wrinkled brown paper sack sat on the floorboard of the passenger seat. To his left, a thirty-something couple stood beside a red Volkswagen Bug, pointing and yelling at each other. On his right, a teenage couple sat in a burnt orange pickup truck, smoking a cigarette.

            Again, that feeling of nostalgia returned. Michelle had been sick this time and having been cooped up in the house for so long he’d began to get paranoid. The walls began to close in around him, so Michelle’s mother came by and insisted he needed some fresh air. Michelle promised she’d brain him with a rolling pin if he didn’t get out for a few hours. The movie seemed like it could go on for forever. He’d got here at around six-thirty and the movie didn’t start until ten 'til eight.

            He reached over the middle console, toward the passenger floorboard and picked up the brown-paper sack. He took a sip from the crinkled, brown long-neck and felt a cool bitter taste slide down his throat. His eyes drifted back to the young couple sitting beside him. They were laughing and coughing until their faces blushed to a beet red. The dark-haired boy behind the wheel wore a red and gray collegiate jacket and the redhead sitting beside him in the black and gray cheerleader’s uniform chuckled, pinching the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger. Clouds of smoke drifted lazily through the front cab, catching the light from the movie screen.

            Upon further inspection, George realized it wasn’t a cigarette at all. The last time he touched a joint was when he attended Woodstock Ninety-Nine ("Not like the one I went to," his mother had said when she heard he was going) and that nerdy-looking cop caught him holding it. He hadn’t smoked any of it, but it didn’t matter. It actually belonged to one of Michelle’s friends, but he wasn’t quick to snitch. He paid his dues and when he got out Michelle returned the favor, indeed—behind the old McPherson farm, in the back seat of her dark blue Chevy Cavalier.

            How could someone be allowed to do that in a public place like this? The smartest thing they could’ve done was roll the windows down to blow the smoke out. Teenagers these days, he thought. There are some that give a shit, and some who don’t even wake up in time not to.

            Shaking his head in disgust, he reached down again for the paper sack and took another sip. No different than the last sip. That was a good one, he thought. Maybe he could sell that to a soft drink or liquor company. He could see it now, plastered across billboards and televisions all over the country.

            DIET COKE: No Different Than The Last Sip.

            He’d make some good money off that one.

            A cloud of dust swirled across the opposite end of the lot, catching George’s attention. The young couple beside the Volkswagen was still arguing, and from the way it looked they were getting more serious by the minute. She jabbed her finger in his face and called him a bastard. He was kicking gravel and calling her a slut. He and Michelle may have had their ups and downs but their downs were never this serious. He never resorted to name-calling, but he did say things he would apologize for later on.

            He took another sip from the sack when a harsh white light poured across the front seat. Startled, he dropped the sack, pouring brown liquid onto his lap. The teenagers in the pickup coughed and quickly stubbed out their joint before hiding it. He put the Matrix in drive, flipped on the headlights and kicked the accelerator. When the headlights painted the twisted terrified look on the rent-a-cop’s face, he kicked the brake and came to a slow stop.

            Just then, the movie stopped in mid reel.

            The teenagers looked on from inside the pickup, their eyes and faces lit up with awe. The young woman standing beside the Volkswagen cupped her hand over her mouth and reached for him with her free hand. Everything froze in mid reaction as if the world had stopped. He did tried to turn the wheel and swerve to keep from hitting him, but the  truck and the steering wheel would budge.

            Something tapped on the window, startling him again. A tall blonde man in a dark

suit stood outside the Matrix, his long fingered hands laying like an X across his lap. Hands trembling, George thumbed the button along the door. The door hummed as the window was lowered. A gentle blast of cool air wrapped around his face. The blonde man had a broad-shouldered stature and narrow but bright blue eyes.

            “Hello, George.”

            “Uh,” George said, his heart pounding. “Do I know you?”

            “I’m Frank Anders Thomas Erickson.” The blonde replied, “And we all know what’s going to happen next, don’t we?”

            George thought about it for a minute. He knew exactly what was going to happen next. He also knew the man’s name wasn’t Frank Anders Thomas Erickson.

            “They always said ‘Fate’s a bitch’.”

            “Nobody’s perfect, George.” Fate replied. “And from the look on that cop’s face, neither are you.”

            “I didn’t mean to do it,” George said, beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks. “I was just trying to get out of the house for awhile like Michelle’s mother told me to. I was just watching a movie, that’s all. I hadn’t had a drink in two weeks and I just…I just wanted to watch a movie and have a drink. Is that too much to ask?”

            “When you hit a cop to keep from getting the penalty you deserve, yes.” Fate said. “But you know there’s nothing you can do but repeat this whole scenario over and over again until the end of time. You’ve already been given lethal injection, and yet you’re still blaming your mother and your wife. Don’t give me that shit. I’ll let you go this time but if you hit that brake again, I’ll hand you over to the other guy’s ass myself and let him deal with you.”

            When Fate snapped his fingers, George was parked in the same spot. To his left, the young couple began to argue. On his right, the two teenagers sat in the pickup truck, laughing until their faces turned beet red. He saw the crinkled brown bag sitting on the floorboard of the passenger seat and licked his dry lips. He took the bag in his hand and drank. The liquid felt cool sliding down his throat and warmed his insides—no different than the last sip.

            Staring at the screen, he took another sip, watching the show go on and on and on and on…

           

                       

Author Bio:
 Brian J. Smith has been featured in E-Mails of the Dead, Book Of Cannibals 2: The Hunger,  Pill Hill Press’ 365 Days of Flesh Fiction, Metahuman Press’ The Dead Walk Again and And The Nightmare Begins...Vol.1: The Horror Zine and such magazines as Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine and New Voices In Fiction and such e-zines as The Horror Zine, Postcard Shorts, Thrillers Killers and Chillers, The Carnage Conservatory, The New Flesh and The Flash Fiction Offensive. He currently resides in Chauncey, Ohio with his mother, his brother and seven dogs. His e-book “Dark Avenues” is available for download for Kindle.