The car ahead of Franck was stopped. To the right, the parking lane was blocked. The back of his SUV was just barely on the tracks, but enough for him to picture himself getting smashed into and dragged a block or two before the train could stop. The railroad crossing gates were down now. In the mirror, people in the cars behind him looked like they were laughing at him.
The only way that was at all clear was to the side – the tracks themselves. Perfect — if he were only a train.
Well, why not?
Franck revved up his engine, veered to the right and drove onto the railroad tracks. His SUV bounced up and down ferociously as he bellowed out a fierce yell, like a war whoop, turned up the CD full blast and sang along.
This was living! He bounced down the tracks like a madman. Brightly colored trees on both sides applauded him.
He started getting a headache and for a fleeting moment wondered if an adult could get shaken-baby syndrome. He started looking for a way out. His tires slapped into the side of the rails and bounced him back. The rails were too high to cross.
Up ahead loomed another intersection. He’d get off there and onto the street.
At this moment many things happened at once. The train was gaining on him. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to turn off onto the next street and risk being chased by a cop or have his license number taken by some good citizen.
As he bumped his way closer to the intersection, he was relieved to feel the wooden platform lift his tires to the level of the tracks and smooth out his ride. More cars were lined up here too, waiting patiently for the train. He was going too fast to make the turn. It flashed through his mind to stop, back up, and turn onto the street, but he didn't want to stop. Backing up wasn't his style, and it would take precious time.
He had scarcely slowed down, but everything felt slow-motion because his mind was on overdrive. A car-width space between the railroad gate and the tracks came to his attention and in the next instant his car squeezed through it onto the embankment by the railroad, leaving the street behind. He dodged one tree and then careened along between the railroad tracks and a neat row of tall pine trees. Riding the dirt and grass and woodchips was a luxury after his wild ride on the violent tracks.
Franck sped alongside the railroad, wind whistling in his ears, and let out another ecstatic whoop. He had steered to freedom, leaving all the lined-up cars to idle in swirls of their own filthy exhaust.
He couldn't wait to tell Bob about this escapade. Bob probably wouldn't believe this one. Of course, it was hard to tell if he believed much of anything Franck said. OK, there were a few exaggerations here and there in Franck's tales, but a good story does good things for a good listener. A stretch here and there makes everything come alive, thought Franck. But he was really living this one – no need to exaggerate a thing!
He turned up the Taj Mahal CD even more and pictured Bob trying to maintain his inscrutable front as he heard the new Franck tale.
He grabbed his hat from the passenger seat and jammed it on. In the rear view mirror, he hastily checked his looks. He looked bold and striking and ruddy. He squeezed the steering wheel with his knee and took hold of the hat with both hands for a moment to pull it on better.
A deafening blast of a train horn shook loose the steering wheel from his knee and he veered towards a tree. Franck grabbed the wheel and swerved down the slope onto a grassy meadow away from the train as it roared up from behind him and passed on down the tracks.
He slowed down to catch his breath. The music seemed very loud. He turned it down a bit and took his bearings. Two horses stood in the field near an obstacle course, staring at him, and a third was walking toward a grassy mound straight ahead.
On a whim, Franck sped up, driving straight at the walking horse. It wheeled around with wild eyes and trotted back to the other two horses, tossing its head. Franck cackled and let out another whoop of joy.
Further on down the road, baby, you’ll a-come to me… he sang out loud with the CD.
The right side of his SUV caught the edge of the grassy mound and pulled him sharply to the right.
Franck stopped the car and looked back at the mound. Part of it had collapsed.
"Sinkhole!" Franck muttered. He gave a low whistle. "Lucky I got past it. Lucky I got past everything! I am on a roll. Where are the slot machines? Bring them on! I am luck-y to-day!" he laughed.
He drove on across the field and spotted a large house beyond a sizable garden. Suddenly embarrassed, Franck quickly steered over to the edge of the field by the trees, and moved more cautiously downhill. He hoped he could sneak past the house onto the street out front.
A tall garage or barn stood on his left. As he drove past it, the welcome grip of pavement returned under his tires. A fake wishing well on the right made him smile with the thought of pitching in a penny. Up ahead was a horseshoe driveway.
A large black car blocked his path.
Alternative routes involved plowing through the flower garden or knocking over a trellis. This was the end of the road.
A man in a black suit appeared round the hedges by the house, and headed toward his car.
Franck turned off the car and took a deep breath. Drawing upon his college acting experience, which had consisted of two plays he and his friends had worked on very seriously, he calmed himself by lifting his eyes to take in the stately trees lining the street up ahead. He sat up straight and let his dignity flow into him.
He stepped out of the car to face the man, ready for a performance. The man was in his 30s, nearly bald, stocky, wearing shades. He looked like a secret service agent. Maybe the house belonged to a VIP.
"This your house?" asked the man.
Franck considered. "Yeah, that's right. What can I do for you?"
"I’m here from Port Haven Savings, just want to look around, make sure everything’s all right, ask a few questions, pretty standard stuff," said the man in black.
"You're a banker?" Franck almost sneered but kept his composure. No one saw me drive in, he thought. I'm golden. "What can I do for you?" he repeated.
"That's right, I’m from your bank. Glad you're here, Mr. McIver," said the bank man. "Come on in."
McIver? How bizarre. That was his roommate’s last name. Franck followed as the man edged between the black car and the hedges, around the horseshoe drive to the front door of the house. The flower beds were filled with weeds, and the hedges grew halfway over the sidewalk. The two men walked into the dark, spacious entry hall.
This is too rich, thought Franck. I get a banker to play with after all. I'll give him his money's worth.
Note: We’ll continue with Chapter 2 after we share an essay. I look forward to hearing whether you’d like to continue with this story (can be interspersed with others). And is it about right to read half a chapter each week, or better to have the whole chapter? The full book is also available in paperback or Kindle.
Thanks Kathy. I'll try a whole chapter and see how that works for people! Alternating with essay and sometimes other pieces.
This is turning out to be something different from the rage drama it first seemed to be.
Thankfully so.
Your title does suggest otherwise.
This is taking an interesting twist. I’ll enjoy seeing how it plays out.
A full chapter would be fine in my opinion.
Thanks
Kathy S