Lights and buildings and other cars fly past the windows as I try to remember which direction I need to go in order to get to the hospital. Wind batters what’s left of my hair-do into a rat’s nest and pushes tears out of my eyes and past my temples, into my hairline. My sense of direction has abandoned me. Not that there was much sense there in the first place, but at least I used to know north from south. Now I could be heading in any one of the cardinal directions and wouldn’t have a clue which one it was.
Flashing red and blue lights in my mirrors cause my heart to leap up into my throat. Instead of stopping for the man in blue, I accidentally press on the gas.
“Eeeeep!” As the car surges forward and I realize my mistake, I jerk my foot over to the brake. All I need to do is add running from the cops to my list of bad ideas for the night; then I’ll definitely be a shoo-in for Asshole of the Year. I press down hard on the rectangular pedal beneath my foot.
The car squeals to a near-stop. Mick’s body flies forward until his seatbelt catches him and locks him in place.
“Holy, fuck that hurt,” he groans out.
I’m about to apologize, but when I catch a glimpse of the grill of the cop car almost upon us, I panic and hit the gas once more. I can only imagine what Mick would do if I got his car rear-ended. We fly forward again, leaving the cop car behind in our dust and smoke.
Mick’s back hits the seat and he yells. “What the hell are you doing?” He pants a few times before continuing. “Oh, fuck, that hurts. I think I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. You’re killing me. You and Colin are in this together, aren’t you? You totally planned this.”
“No, you’re not gonna die!” I scream, one eyeball on him and one on the rearview mirror. The blue and red lights are getting closer. “Holy shit, he’s going to ram us.”
“Who’s going to ram us? The cop? Don’t be ridiculous!” He throws his right hand on the door and the left onto the dashboard, bracing himself. “Ooohhhh, Gooood, I’m dyinnnnggg…”
The hood of the cop car is leaping forward, right at our back end. Panic makes me go faster.
“Pull over!” a voice says loudly. The cop is yelling at me through a loudspeaker and the entire surrounding neighborhoods can hear him.
“What should I do?!” I scream. I spy a corner up ahead that I think I can take and lose him.
“Stop the car!” Mick yells. “Pull over for crissakes!! What do you think you are? A fucking bank robber?”
“But what if he hits us!” I scream. “You’ll die!” I’m really not sure where any of this is coming from. Apparently I’ve fallen into a Bruce Willis movie. Die … something. Die Because You’re An Idiot. Is that one out yet?
“Just pull over,” he begs. “I’ll do anything you want. Just pull over.” His head lolls over to the side and that’s what does it; that’s what makes me snap out of my action-movie fog and realize that this uniformed man in the flashy-light car who I’m afraid might smash into us might actually be able to help the beautiful boy who’s dying next to me.
I pull over and stop with a squealing of tires and a lot of burned rubber. Throwing open the door, I struggle with my seatbelt. I accidentally try to get out without making sure I’m out of the restraint first, and the belt yanks me back inside. My legs fly up and I flash everyone on the left side of the street as the leg of my shorts gapes open.
“Stay in your vehicle!” the voice commands over the speaker.
“Fuck that!” I yell, wrestling with the seatbelt. “Emergency!” I throw the belt out of the way finally and stand up outside the car, waving my hands in the air like I just don’t care. “Emergency! I need an ambulance! Emergency!” I run on tiptoes towards the cop car, my shoes making me sound like a herd of clydesdales in a Budweiser commercial.
“Get back in your vehicle, ma’am!” comes the voice, sounding angry now.
I wave his words off, still running. “Shut up! Stop yelling at me! Emergency! My friend is dying! Help me!”
As soon as I pass the headlights of the cop car, I realize my mistake. Now I can see the man at his car.
“Stop right there! Do not move!” The police officer has his arms propped up on the top of his open door and his big, black deadly gun is pointed right at my chest.
I want to stop. I really do. But I can’t help the fact that my nervous system has a short circuit in it somewhere and that this minor electrical problem combined with really high heels and an uneven paving job on the street equals uncontrolled forward movement.