Pat Jameson
DISTRACTED
That afternoon was the afternoon I followed the starlings across town and accosted a distracted driver, but before that, me and the other irregulars were at Joe’s explaining to a new recruit how you could tell whether you were irregular or not. The kid’s name was Eddie. He was a nice guy, a veteran, a fucking hero or something in the machine gun nest. Not long ago he’d suffered a wound, won a Purple Heart, but now he was down here in the gutters filled with daytime whiskey and beer, and we felt it was best to bring him quickly up to speed.
“Listen—” I waved my beer around. “Listen—have you ever been at the grocery store or mall and someone walks by, just a normal Joe talking on his phone, good haircut, nice teeth, and he says something about shoe shopping or meeting up for brunch and you feel like shouting—‘Jesus! Oh, What the hell was that, you’re just so goddamn typical?’”
“Oh sure.” Eddie nodded. “All the time. Sometimes I look at people and they’re like lizard men. Or lizard women, heh heh. Sometimes I see things that aren’t even there.”
“Good good. Audiovisual disruptions. That’s the first sign of being irregular. That’s how you know something is amiss. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah…. But hey—what about these animals, man?”
“What?”
“The fucking animals. Am I seeing this right? Or are they, uh, disruptions too?”
“Oh,” I said. “Those.”
He was talking about the mounted heads on the walls: antelope and lions and water buffalo. Once, the pride of the savannah. Now, murdered and hung up for spectacle. The owner of Joe’s, Joe, was a big-time game hunter. He had the largest collection of safari trophies in the contiguous United States. Or at least this corner of Pennsylvania.
“Forget the animals,” I said. “They’re dead. It’s the living you have to worry about.”
“Right…”
Besides Eddie, the other two in my cadre were the twins, Paul and Rock. They were machine workers—hulking, real savants in the gym. Each day they worked out at six a.m., showered, and drank wine coolers until sundown. Never any beer. Because of the calories, I think. Like me they believed in the irregular lifestyle, the idea that there was a world beneath our own only visible through a haze of alcohol and bad decisions.
We all did a round and then another. Everything was going great. Until I asked Eddie about the war.
“The war?”
“Yeah, the goddamn war. I’ve always wondered.”
“Well, I did good things and bad things and things I was proud of but most of all—”
“Yeah?”
“It was….” He paused. “Fucked.”
Fucked. What else was there to say? We raised our glasses. To Eddie, hear hear! Then, the thing happened like it always does, time sped up and became blurry, malformed. I was suddenly outside and the sun had swiveled from one point of the sky to the other. Fumbling with my car keys, my feet carried themselves down the pavement. My friends yelled at me to come back and quit being a fucking dumbass. “Don’t go anywhere!” I shouted. “I’ll rally the men!”
I hit the fob, jumped behind the wheel, and screeched out, thudding over the curb. I looked in my mirror. No sirens. No detached bumper or body parts strewn in my wake. Life was good.
◊
Once I left Joe’s, I just drove—east and west and north and south. Across railroad tracks and down long country roads. Past trailer parks and race tracks and churches, so many churches. I drove until I felt as if I was in communion with the universe and that if I was patient, something stupendous might happen. At a stoplight near the airport, would you believe me? It did. The sky became suddenly unglued. Black shapes swooping and chasing one another. A flock of tiny birds. Chirping. Calling. Yes, these were my starlings.
The starlings settled for a bit, pausing long enough for me to follow them down the highway and into the lot behind the old mall. Breaking formation, they lit on the B in the abandoned Best Buy sign. There were maybe fifty or a hundred of them. A veritable army of beaks and eyes, fluttering wings. They stared at me and I stared back, awaiting further instruction. In my pocket I had a beer I’d nicked earlier while the bartender was in the john. I cracked it and took a deep swallow. It tasted wonderful.
Squawk! Squawk! Squawk! The starlings were now bowing and bobbing in unison. They seemed to be gesturing towards something, which was when I saw the BMW streaking across the parking lot. Its owner, a vague man shape, was slumped sideways in the seat. The starlings went apeshit. They flew upwards, broke apart, and reformed as an arrow pointing in the BMW’s direction. I understood then. Wherever this driver was headed, I was going too.
◊
Around downtown, I caught the BMW. He was really speeding then, swerving back and forth across the yellow lines. I beeped my horn. Once, twice. Then began to flash the high beams. Click clack click clack. He must have gotten the message, because the car slowed, easing onto the shoulder. I drove up behind him, highlights still pulsing. I wasn’t sure what to do next—the starlings hadn’t specified—so I hopped out and strode up along the driver’s side window, beer held out of sight and at hip level.
The driver was a young guy. Good-looking with a vicious, black widow’s peak. I figured I’d assess his irregularity and then proceed from there.
He rolled down his window. “Yes?”
“Sir, I’m an undercover police officer. I’m going to need you to explain why you were driving so erratically.”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you been drinking? Is that what’s going on?”
“Drinking?”
“How much have you had to drink, motherfucker! Don’t lie to me!”
He looked stricken. “Well, none! I haven’t had any. I’m lost.”
“Lost?”
“Yeah! I made a wrong turn back there somewhere… I was following directions on my phone.”
He held up his device as evidence. In its glow, I noticed for the first time how smooth his skin was. Moisturized, manicured. Like a sandbelt had run the length of him. And his watch! It flashed, glittering like a satellite. I won’t even get into the thickness of his hair… but the point is this—everything about this person screamed danger. He was my mortal enemy. The most regular man in the world. With a single call, he could end me.
“Well, hey, I’m sorry mister. My mistake. Let’s call it a warning.”
He peered at me, taking notice of the stains on my shirt, the smell of beer wafting between my teeth. “Right… Listen, can I see your badge?”
Badge. The way he said it. I had the sudden fear that he might lean forward and bury his teeth in my eye socket. “I, uh, left it in the car. I’ll go get it. Two seconds.”
“Sure,” he said, grinning. “Take your time.”
I forced myself to walk away. Once clear, I threw open the door. Revved the engine. Peeled out, burning rubber and smoke. When I passed the BMW, the driver had his face pressed up against the glass, leering. His features were mask-like, haunting. I’ll never forget them. It was the sight of Armageddon. The end of days. The things that come for us all.
◊
It was almost dark when I pulled up to my house. Inside, the lights glowed brilliantly, casting sparkling shadows across the street. All around me were perfectly mowed lawns. Immaculate homes. Little boxes straining to contain the life of the world. Up above was a universe, boundless and galactic. Not for the first time, I felt like an ant crawling through the lens of the Hubble Telescope.
I walked up to the front door, opened it, and stepped inside. Four faces turned to greet mine. My wife and our little babies. “Daddy!” They flocked towards me, slavering like a zombie horde. I lay down and let the children clamber across my lumpy and bloated corpse. My wife stood over us, wine stem clutched between her beautiful and judgmental fingers.
“Where were you?”
“Work.”
“Have you been drinking?”
I didn’t answer. I grabbed the nearest kid and barrel rolled onto the carpet. They were on me then. Sudden movement activated their killer instincts. One grabbed my ear. Another stepped on my crotch. Little irregulars in the making. How could I not be proud? My wife sighed and sat on the couch. It was a night like any other. The house was full of screams and laughter. The cat vomited in the corner. I could have died from love. There are worse ways to go.
Pat Jameson is a writer based in Roanoke, VA. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, X-R-A-Y, BULL, Maudlin House, Apocalypse Confidential, and Hex, among others. His story “Death Drive” was a finalist for the 2022 SmokeLong Quarterly Flash Fiction Award. He is a first reader for Reckon Review.
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