The House in the Rain

He stared at the granola bar crumbs on his stomach. My stupid fat stomach, he thought, brushing the crumbs into that weird space no vacuum could reach. It was raining. He was parked. HE WAS PARKED. When the fuck had that happened? What would've happened if he'd still been driving in this dissociated state, he thought. He wondered if he would feel anything if his car had rolled over someone. 

His Camry was parked under a tree. 

"Free carwash," he said in a goofy voice, mimicking corporate speech. He made himself laugh a little. 

He did notice how the big drops of rain plopped harder if they fell from the tree rather than the sky. Hm, that's weird, he thought. Wow what an interesting thought, he thought sarcastically. You should tell that story sometime.

He remembered his younger days when he ran around playing soccer with his friends. Man, I used to just jump into soccer games without a care in the world. What have I become?

He noticed half a blunt remaining in a glass tube in his console. This will probably taste bad, he thought. He lit the tip with his BIC lighter. BIC the dick, he thought. Wow, so funny, he thought again. But this time he really did laugh. And the weed did taste bad.

He never could figure out how to light a blunt properly. One side always burned too fast, causing some... problem? Meh. It was just weed. Who cares.

He leaned his seat back and looked at the ceiling. He talked to Jesus until his neck got tired—mostly asking questions even Jesus couldn't help with—then leaned toward the window. There was a house there. What if someone's watching me? he thought. 

He liked how it was raining too hard to really see much. The smoke from the blunt also distorted his vision. He wasn't sure if the smoke he saw was from his blunt or that house's chimney. 

He sighed and opened the window to toss out the dead blunt. And now he could see smoke was coming from that chimney. He saw dim lighting in the house now too. Then the front porch light lit up.

He turned the key to start his car, and the engine screamed at him. Ah! the car was already started. Did I just flood the engine?

"I'm good, I'm good," he said, hands shaking, but adrenaline moved his muscles in the familiar pattern: Brake, Switch to Reverse, Gas.

But the wheels stayed in place, spraying mud.

"No no no no no." 

"Turn the wheel. Brake. Switch to Drive," he self-instructed. 

He made the mistake of looking at the house again. Had the front door always been open? He could've sworn he heard a child's scream.

"FUCK!" 

He turned his front wheels to the right, floored it, and felt the wheels find purchase on solid ground.

"Go go go go go go go."

He thought he heard a man's voice yelling in between a child's screams.

But by now his eyes were glued to the road. He quieted a voice telling him to find an address and call the police. 

Google Maps can come later, he thought. 

But minutes turned into half an hour. And half an hour into a public highway. And a public highway into a Whataburger drive-thru. 

"I'll have the number five with no lettuce or onions and a root beer," he said in a shaky voice.

"Anything else?"

He hesitated.

"No, that's all."

I don't deserve spicy ketchup, he thought. 

He forced a smile through chattering teeth as the server handed him his crumpled bag of food and drink. As always, the outside of the foam cup was sticky with root beer.

I deserve that, he thought.