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Fiction Short Story

by Bill Larson

Cruise Control

“If that guy were any closer, I’d be towing him. Why doesn’t he back off? Can’t he see that I can’t get over? I’ll tell you, it doesn’t matter how fast you go, some jerk has to go faster. Well, I’m staying in the passing lane. If he doesn’t like it, that’s tough.”

“Jim, why do you get so upset? You know how it is out here on I-75. It’s like a big racetrack. What’s so bad about getting over and following the trucks? We’re not in any hurry. It wouldn’t hurt to go the speed limit.”

“You know I always set the cruise at seventy-eight miles per hour, Kimberly. It’s the perfect speed—just enough to make good time and not quite enough to get stopped by the Highway Patrol. I’m not getting over and let this guy intimidate me. If he wants to go around me, he’s free to do it. That’s his problem.”

“All I’m trying to say is, why do you let it bother you so much? Why can’t you just relax and forget about it? What is it the kids say? Just chill?”

“I am chilled! I’m just not going to get over. Look at that guy. He’s so close to me I can’t see the front end of his van. Well, you know what? He can go chase himself. I’m in this lane, and I’m going fast enough. Why doesn’t he just go around me? What’s his problem?”

“Jim, you have a problem. You always have to be right. There’s no bending with you. You just keep plodding on regardless of anybody or anything else. You’re not getting over, so to hell with my feelings. I’m scared that you might get us into an accident, but you’re not getting over, so to hell with that. Who’s going to take care of the kids if something happens to us? But you’re not getting over, so to hell with that. Don’t you care about anything but yourself and your stubborn ego?”

“Look, I’m just going up the road. I’m not the one who’s causing the problem. I can’t help it if this guy wants to pretend that he owns the interstate. All he has to do is go around me. If he can’t grasp that concept, too bad.”

“Then you don’t care that I’ve got to put up with this all the way to Gainesville? It’s okay with you that I have a tension headache because of this when all you’d have to do is pull over into the next lane and let him go? What are you trying to prove? Would it matter if I told you that I would think you the better man if you pulled out of the way? Does what I think even deserve your consideration?”

“Don’t give me that crap, Kimberly. You know I’m right. I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m just trying to drive up to Gainesville so we can see your mother. It isn’t my fault that the roads are cluttered with idiots. Don’t lay that guilt on me.”

“So that’s it! You’re mad at me because you have to give up your precious Sunday pro football games to take me up to Gainesville to see my mother. Good Lord, Jim, you watch football every Sunday, every Monday and even on Sunday night. Would it hurt you to just once think of me…of what I might enjoy doing? I don’t ask much, and when I do make one small request, you act like this. Well, you can just turn around if this is how it’s going to be.”

“Now, that would be smart. I’m not going to waste all this gas when we’re already halfway there. I don’t understand why you want to make me the bad guy. I didn’t say anything about not wanting to take you to see your mother. Why must you always twist things so that it’s my fault? Is it my fault that some guy gets right on my tail and acts like driving on the interstate is just a game? I don’t get to do much, you know. I don’t go hunting or fishing with the guys. I don’t go out and play poker every Friday like Hank does. Don’t you appreciate that? My only vice seems to be that I like to watch pro football on television. Is that so bad?”

“Just forget it, Jim. You don’t get it, and my head hurts too bad to argue any longer. Just keep on doing everything your way. To hell with what I think.”
 
“I’ve had it with this guy. Watch this. I’m just going to touch my brake. When my brake lights come on, that’ll get his attention. That’ll teach him to tailgate.”

Jim hit his brake a glancing blow, just enough to light his brake lights. In his rear view mirror, he could see the van swerve off the pavement to the left and out of his line of vision. He checked his side view mirror. The van flipped end over end in the median, ejecting the occupant before it settled on its top in a cloud of debris. The body landed in the southbound lanes of the interstate. Jim turned his eyes away as an eighteen-wheeler hit its brakes and jack-knifed.

“Jim, what’s that horrible sound?”

Jim pulled onto the shoulder and jammed on the brakes as much as he dared. By the time he had stopped, tears obscured his vision. He turned and threw his arms around Kimberly and as his head lay on her dampened shoulder, he choked out between sobs, “What have I done, Kimberly. Why didn’t I listen to you?”


About the Author
Bill Larson does his writing on the southwest coast of Florida. When he's not writing, Bill sells real estate. He has been published in Palm Beach County Magazine in 1988 and in a local magazine, Images, on two occasions in 1992. After a self-imposed sabbatical, he began writing seriously again and had two pieces published in an online magazine in 2003 and another online in 2004. He makes his home with his wife, Janice and son, Jeffrey, in Cape Haze, Florida.