The Follower
Michel Sauret
Alone in the car, Alex was accompanied by the revving sound of his engine. The road stretching before him was as wide as a grin, darting out for so long that it seemed as if his high beams would never reach the end of it. As his hands gripped the steering wheel, his eyes stared at the road just below the transient, black sky. The clock on the radio told him it was just past one o’clock in the morning, a time much later than anticipated.
Opposing traffic lanes were separated by dividing blocks that formed a wall as long as the road extended. He drove in the lane closest to it, keeping a distance that was too close for comfort. He could easily extend his arm and touch the wall with his fingers, scrubbing his fingertips across it if he really wanted to. The thought felt frightening, but he couldn’t resist keeping the car at that distance. It was unexplainable why he was driving so alarmingly close to it. The speeding wall attracted him as much as it frightened him. The two thoughts played tug-of-war with one another in his mind. The contradiction of these two thoughts therefore brought Alex’s ‘88 Explorer a foot and a half away from the destructive sandpaper. A foot and a half. 18 short inches in distance. Alex’s arm itself was longer than that. Eighteen inches, Alex thought with a perturbed fear creeping up his spine. Perhaps, he could drag more than just fingertips along it, after all. He could sand down an entire palm to a bloody contortion.
Suddenly, the memory of 8th grade flooded his mind like a sweep of tormenting water. It was just three years rewound back in time. Shop class had always been one of Alex’s favorite classes, and now its presence appeared before him again. The smell of wood chips and the faint burn of lumber in action infiltrated his nose. Choo-choo-trains holding gumballs needed to be sanded down to achieve a smooth surface and a shiny gleam. To speed up the process there were sand belt machines provided to the students. The machines dragged a strip of sandpaper downward, scraping the edge of a metal platform faster than a shooting bullet. The machines terrified most of the students and mesmerized the rest.
Alex had felt both at the time.
“Only sandpaper, that’s all,” Alex said to himself softly without even realizing he had spoken. A hypnotic tone stained his words, carrying a dreamy vapor as he spoke. The strip of sandpaper was not shooting downward anymore as he drove, but it ran backwards as fast as Alex driving could send it. Trying not to be distracted from the road, he turned his head quickly just enough to take a look at the wall. From the road, to the wall, and back, his eyes jumped as if they were bouncing on hot coals, barely paying attention to his driving. The window whined down noisily with the magic push of a button, and slowly he neared the large SUV closer to the wall. The cool summer air blew in through the window.
He imagined himself in shop class again, sitting at the sanding machine with the roof of the train in his hands. The piece of wood slipped away from his grip as he tried to smooth it, shooting his hands at the rotating sander. The gritted belt tore at his skin, and blood squirted everywhere in his imagination the same way it does in bad horror movies.
The window was completely open. Graciously, he rested his left elbow on the edge of it, and waved his hand closer to the racing wall. The steering wheel nudged to the left. The 18 inches shortened to around 15, forgetting to take in account the rear view mirror, which was closer yet.
His fingers expanded gently, letting cool air jet fast between his knuckles. Gradually, his fingertips approached their landing towards the top of the short wall. It reminded him of a crazed highjacker landing a plane without the knowledge of how. The descending hand was the plane, and his mind was the crazed highjacker. Four inches above the landing strip, his hand prepared for a turbulent ride.
Four inches descended to three. Three then down to two. Two inches became one. It was the shortest inch Alex had ever eye-measured. Just like the wheels on a plane, his fingers propped open leaving their tips millimeters away from destruction. One eye stared crazily at his hand as the other watched the road. Alex imagined the red of blood again, bringing him back to self-conscious reality. His vision flicked at the speedometer, and saw an arrow pointing at 95. More like 93, no need to exaggerate, he told himself in a gritty sense of correction. But realizing how fast he was going wasn’t what made Alex flinch the crazed hand back to safety.
Something else he saw provoked this.
What made him stop himself from being unable to eat French fries for the rest of his life was the thought of being followed. This was just a paranoid idea that he was usually able to dismiss, but tonight the starless sky had begun to takes its toll on his mind in ways that it never had before. He eased his Explorer at a safer distance and pulled on the button, closing the window.
The headlights following him had oval shapes. Or at least they appeared to be. Was he really being followed? He wasn’t sure. Just a few minutes earlier he had seen the exact same headlights behind him. Was it minutes, or seconds? Alex’s mind asked without really knowing the answer. Now he did not even know what the oval headlights could mean. They could probably mean a cop.
A cop!
Alex jumped up at the thought. It could very easily be. Tonight was somewhere near the end of the month. The 27th. The 28th, maybe. It was hard to keep track of time during summer. The end of the month could mean trouble for a kid who drove past curfew without a senior license. As if conscious of the situation’s significance, he raised an eyebrow at the thought. The idea that a cop might be following behind disturbed him. More cops than usual roamed around at the end of the month, scrambling through the night to make their quota like dads buying presents on Christmas Eve.
The wall had ended a few seconds ago, but Alex did not even notice it strip by. His thoughts were fixated franticly at the headlights behind him. So far that’s all he could make out of the car, just the headlights. Approaching a red light to turn left, he began to slow down to a stop. He did this carefully, making his mind go nuts with details.
Slow down precisely now at a decreasing speed.
Don’t hit the brake pedal too hard.
Make sure you put on your turn signal.
Don’t look suspicious or like a drug dealer.
Don’t---
How in the hell does a drug dealer driving exactly look like? Nervously, he laughed, picturing one in his head.
The red light beamed on for what seemed like forever. The car behind him approached closer. It was close enough now to make out the outline of a head. The driver’s head then came slightly more into focus. A street light grazed down to shine the side of his follower’s face. In front of him, the traffic light was the same color red as the blood he imagined a few seconds earlier. Had it been seconds?
Alex’s eyes flicked at the rear view mirror, and then back at the light. Curiously, he didn’t know which he was more interested in. The red light seemed impossibly long, but the stranger was almost close enough to count the hairs on his head. There weren’t many. He was partially bald and had an apology of a pudgy face. Alex stopped flicking his eyes, and instead he just stared at the driver behind him. With his right hand he turned a knob, lowering the volume to the music. All he could hear now was the insisting ticking of his turn signal.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
That noise wasn’t going to stop until the light turned green.
By now the driver’s face behind him was as easy to see as Alex’s own hand on the steering wheel. The person seemed to be wearing a uniform, or at least a suit and tie, with shirt and all. But that could just be Alex’s eyes playing tricks on him. He’d like to believe that, too. In a panicky way he continued to stare at the driver.
The man pulled out some sort of block and rested it on his steering wheel. Alex couldn’t see it clearly, but noticed that he... Was he writing on it? He was. The follower’s eyes kept on looking at where Alex’s license plate would be. Could he be taking my license plate number? he thought to himself frantically. No, the suggestion was just too crazy and paranoid. Why would he be taking his plate number if he hadn’t done anything wrong? He rambled between thoughts, clotting his mind with chaos.
The man then put the block and pen away and took a warm chug from his mug. Looking at the follower more closely, Alex noticed his eyes jump up. They were looking directly at Alex with curiosity. Glaring at him with concern, the man squinted his eyes to tiny slits. It was impossible for the traffic light to be still red after the long time Alex had been studying his follower, but it still was. It was as red as before. Alex felt that he was being observed as much as he had been doing the observing. No, not felt... he knew.
When is that damn light going to turn gree--- Before he could finish his thought, his question was answered. A green arrow pointed to the left, giving him permission to push the gas lightly with his foot, and turn the wheel.
His tires tended to screech naggingly any time he took a turn too sharp or a curve too fast. In a paranoid alert, he waited for the screech, and his heartbeat paused. He held his breath up until he was going straight again. Then he knew it wasn’t going to come.
Making the turn, he looked at the side view mirror to figure out what kind of car was behind him. It looked like a newer Ford. Maybe a Crown Victoria. Under cover cop cars were often Crown Victorias, but under cover cop cars were almost always white, and this one seemed to be of a dark blue color, or black, even. It was hard to tell in the darkness of night.
They drove down hill, and their cars accelerated increasingly without having to press on the gas. Alex tapped on the brakes, slowing himself down to match the speed limit. He could not chance any stupid mistakes. Cops smelled fear, and could even determine if you were going a fragment of a mile per hour above speed limit. Yes, and they can hear your thoughts, too, he thought.
Little by little, Alex began to loose more of his sanity.
As he made his way down the hill, the intersection far in front of him was red, once again as before. There, he saw another cop drive by. This time it was a real cop car, with lights and everything. They’re everywhere! he thought to himself feeling a little neurotic.
Instantly, he looked back at his rear view mirror. He was still there. The pudgy-faced man driving a possible Crown Victoria was tailgating him closer than a brown-noser’s face to his boss’s ass.
I’m coming for you, the follower’s eyes seemed to be saying. I’m gonna getch-ya! And although there really wasn’t any expression on the pudgy man’s face, Alex knew he was smiling. The man was smiling sneakily at the thought that he was going to get him. Alex turned the volume to the music up again. The maniac thoughts were becoming too much for him to listen to. System of a Down blared incoherently through the speakers. It was no use; it did not stop a single crazy thought.
At the intersection he looked both ways, then turned right on red. Was that a No turn on red? he asked in a panicky, rhetorical question. The follower followed, but no sirens whaled to indicate he was being pulled over.
Alex looked in the rear view mirror to see the man still there, still behind him, not giving up. How long had this chase been going on for? It’s only a coincidence, Alex. Only a fucking coincidence, he tried to tell himself, taking a stab at reassurance. But he wasn’t going to let himself be reassured, not until the pudgy man would be gone.
Alex took another turn at an intersection. It was green this time. Behind him the man took the same turn, tailgating as before. “What do you want from me?” Alex screamed at the reflection through the mirror. This time his full attention was directed to the driver behind him, not keeping a single thought on what was ahead.
They were once again driving down a hill, but this time not as steep as the one before. Go away. Go away. Go away! he repeated continuously with anger in his thoughts. His eyes were fixated on the follower. The ‘88 Explorer gradually sped up, approaching forty on a 25 zone. Without paying attention, he rested his foot on the gas. Seconds later he blared through 22 miles above the speed limit.
“Get the hell away from me!”
As Alex hit 50 the man lagged slightly behind. Speeding up seemed to be working. All he had to do was run away from him. He laughed hysterically through a slightly deranged smirk. The smirk widened, realizing that this would work. At 52 miles per hour the follower was fading away into the darkness. Alex laughed even louder, but suddenly his laughter broke off, disrupted by a hopping shadow gliding in front of his car.
It had been almost a minute that Alex hadn’t been watching the road. A slim doe pounced onward, crossing his car’s wrath. Alex’s face exploded with fear, flicking on like a light bulb in less than a second. Tugging hard, he cut the wheel to the right, and planted the brakes to the ground. For a moment, the large vehicle stood on the edge of the two left tires, verging the possibility of tipping over. Dirt flung outward from underneath. The tires did screech this time. They screeched like pissed off eagles hungry for pray. A large tree trunk appeared instantly in front of his path. The impact blasted a crashing scream so loud that it awoke nature from its slumber. The deer hopped on forward untouched, without looking back.
With the Explorer crashed on the side of the road, the follower drove by. The man’s head turned just enough to see what had happened, but he did not stop for a full viewing. He kept on driving. The driver was no more than just an old wrinkled man, and the car wasn’t a Crown Victoria at all.
It wasn’t even a Ford
