Member-only story
an Art of Dying fragment
He can be cocky, he can, my little boy. King-of-the-road cocky this time, and headed for sudden end-of-life on this icy highway.
I’m in the backseat of his dad’s new Volvo 164, staying out of sight, keeping mum. I’m not invited, just thought I’d keep an eye. And good thing I did, think and keep.
Humans say that cats have nine lives. That’s not necessarily true at all. I’ve known cats with hardly a one, then again, I once knew a lynx who spent a baker’s dozen of them with several to spare. Still alive, I believe, the old cat.
He’s heading south in this beautiful and new-car-smelling Volvo, is my little boy. He’s driving far too fast. He is reckless and stupid. And now he decides to overtake a car going quite fast enough for these driving conditions, thank you. Why? Why? Why? Oh, really, there’s no telling why. At twenty-five and on top of life’s crest, surfing, breezing in a brand-new car, even if on ice, do you need reasons? You want to overtake a car so you overtake a car, simple as that. And simple as that he sets out to do just that.
I’m about to say something to him (like, slow down, please — for this is a bit reckless, even dangerous, I feel) when his rear wheels hits ice and lose traction and the car starts swerving. Saying something now, surprising him, would just aggravate the situation.
