The Road

Are we there yet? Probably not, said he. Probably never will be, to be quite honest. Trees are rushing by, the grass blurs, its hues drifting between green and yellow. The car’s warm from sunlight sinking in through the tinted windows, and body heat — breathe in, breathe out.There’s no clouds out today, at least not now.

Where are we going again? You’ll see when we get there, he said, smiling, turning his head back to make brief eye contact. You’ll see. It’ll be quite a sight. Nothing you’ve ever seen before. He nodded to himself in agreement. The road is absolutely straight; the ground’s absolutely flat. Just identical trees lining both sides of the road, and an infinity of grass spreading on forever, changing colors every once in a while.

It hasn’t been nighttime for a while, it seems. The sun goes from the right side of the car to the left, but it never seems to ever dip below the horizon. Maybe it’s because I’m always asleep when it’s nighttime. But I don’t ever remember sleeping, or closing my eyes. I’m looking outside at the trees; the radio’s off, so only the sound of the tires on the road is present. Occasionally, he’ll whistle little, happy tunes to himself, but almost always he’s driving intently, head motionless, not making a noise. He never stops for gas or food or water or rest. Don’t bother me, he said, about anything. I’m fine — trust me, he said, sternly.

One time, the moon was out too, right next to the sun. The moon’s out, I said. Oh, he said. The moon is a symbol of hope, he said. His voice was flat and emotionless, but I was barely paying attention anyway; the moon itself was much more important. It waxed and waned quickly — new moons every two or three hours, it seemed, though it was hard to keep track.

Are we there yet? Probably, he said. I don’t really know, to be honest. The road is all the same, with the same surroundings. The car still hasn’t run out of gas. The clouds are still gone. Come back, clouds. If time has been passing all the same, and the clock on the car is accurate, it’s been over 26 days that we’ve been going nonstop. It sounds tiring, but it really isn’t — if feels like it’s only been a couple hours, or a couple of years. Nothing feels quite right — but it doesn’t feel tiring.

Are we dreaming? I don’t think so, he said. This is pretty real. He’s right. I’m running my fingers down the dark, leather seats, and then the door handle, which is locked, and then the smooth, hot window. Yes, it feels real. Pinch, and it hurts. Wake up! Nothing happens. I think it is real, I said. You bet, he said. Bet what? Everything, he said. Every penny, every possession, every memory, every pleasure, every pain, every grain of existence, every —

Where is everyone else? They’re probably dead — or waiting, he said. Probably a bit of both. He keeps driving, eyes locked ahead. No other cars are in sight. No birds, no other animals. No time to stop, he whispers to himself. No time, no time, no time. The clock has stopped working. It’s been 1:32 for many minutes now. Right now, it’s now and forever. Will we be here forever? I asked. Perhaps, perhaps not, he said. We’ll never know; we’ll always know. Trees continued rolling by — the colors of the grass has even stopped changing. Stillness, staleness, the car keeps going, but we’re going nowhere. He still looks ahead and whistles tunes while he drives down this road.

Are we there yet? Of course, of course, we’re here, he said. We’ve always been here, in fact. Shall we stop? I nodded, intently, and he smiled from ear to ear. He turned around, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and turned violently to the left. We barreled into a tree, with just enough time for me to remember what my name was, before everything turned green, and then black.