Daniel Drove Downtown by James Henry Taylor Directly after swallowing the dregs of his ginger ale, Daniel half-rinsed the glass with not-quite-hot water, swung down the front panel of the dishwasher, dithered between three open spots on the upper rack before choosing where to place the glass, effortlessly flipped the washer shut, with four steps crossed and exited the kitchenette, thumped down the two half-flights of stairs to the door that gave access to the built-in garage, stood athwart the threshold while fingering the button that controlled the automatic door, pulled his last leg through the entryway and loudly shut the door behind him, repeated the action twice before the bolt slipped home, tested the handle a final time, turned about and arced an empty cigarette pack into a plastic bag that was already two-thirds filled with them, skirted round the trunk of his night-blue sedan, sidled past the spare trash can and the broken lawn mower, unlocked the driver's entrance, opened it roughly twenty degrees, squeezed through the barely adequate space, nestled himself into the seat, thunked the door closed, struggled the restraining belt across his chest and lap, slid his fingertips along it to remove a twist, rotated the key in the ignition lock, poked a knuckle at the power knob on the CD player, adjusted the volume upward then downward, grasped and released the parking brake, switched on the headlights, backed the car onto the concrete drive, thumbed a tab on the remote control that was clamped to the underside of the driver's visor, crawled in reverse as the garage door whined and rattled shut, waited to make sure it didn't open again (as in warmer weather it sometimes did), saw a rabbit in the yard that had paused in its munching to keep a close eye on this lumbering beast, cautiously backed over the concave lip between his private piece of pavement and the public street, shifted into "D" for "drive," followed the gently winding boulevard at a leisurely pace, was halting at the larger winding road that joined it in a T when he noticed a crushed headlight cover—which, without his knowledge, had fallen from his own car several days before—took care not to run over the cracked plastic pane as he spun the steering wheel clockwise, heading west, glanced up and saw pendent between some trees a perfect, setting Muslim moon, almost at once applied the brakes to avoid smashing a dashing cat, in three words insulted the feline's intelligence and accused it of Oedipal tendencies, again pursued the new roadway until he reached a stopping sign, looked quickly left then quickly right, glanced to his left again to be certain no car was cresting the blind rise on that side, scooted through the crossroads, travelled a block to another T-junction, kept the brake pedal depressed as he leaned forward for a better look at what appeared to be a blue-black crab waving its claws angrily in the air above its head, slipped the transmission control into "park," got out to inspect the misplaced crustacean, discovered it was actually a squashed bird whose wings, alternately raised and lowered by an erratic breeze, only pretended to threaten, returned to his vehicle, readjusted the lever on the steering column and made a right turn, halted almost immediately at yet another end-of-the-road intersection, directed the automobile leftward, waved unseen to a female acquaintance who was tethered to a black Lab bigger than she would ever be, checked the speedometer twice during the next three blocks, came to rest for the red signal at the principal road, took a right while the signal was still glowing red, quickly side-slipped into the turning lane, right-angled to his left only half a block later and onto the lane paralleling the railroad tracks, waited at a fourth stop marker while a car on the street perpendicular passed in front of his bumper, watched as one of the passengers ejected an empty beer bottle that sailed, landed, and split on the street, in three words insulted the thrower's intelligence and accused him of Oedipal tendencies, went dead straight until he encountered one more sign commanding him to halt, hesitated only a moment, made a rapid zag to the right and zig to the left, passed a block populated almost entirely by alcoholic beverage dispensaries, waited for a sheriff's cruiser cutting slowly across his path while taking care not to look directly at its occupant, drove another fifty yards or so, edged over to the curb, extinguished the lights, silenced the stereo, unlatched the seatbelt, fiddled it into its proper not-in-use position while pulling the handle that unsealed the door, flicked the toggle switch that simultaneously locked all four exits, placed a sneaker-shod foot on the still-warm asphalt, stood in a way that passed for erect, reached back for his nearly forgotten cigarettes, and chunked the door shut behind him. James Henry Taylor is the author of Honeysuckle and Other Stories. His fiction has appeared in earlier issues of Sweetgum Notes. He is a physics professor at the University of Central Missouri and lives in Warrensburg. Copyright © 2007. Do not reproduce without permission. Home Contents