Based on the short story by Elizabeth Tallent
Two voices. A man, JACK, early thirties, and a woman, Jo D, eighteen. SOUND -- the road can barely be heard over a Rosanne Cash song on what is clearly a car radio. Jo D quietly attempts to sing along.
It's her, alright. She keeps the headlights on in the daytime. You know, of all the irritating things about my wife, that's got to be the worst.
The floor of the passenger's side of the cab is filled Jo D, wearing the height of teenage hick fashion, tight jeans and a too small tank top. Her hair and legs are both long and beautiful. One of her hands clutches a leatherette diary.
In the driver's side, Jack's frayed cowboy boots, complete with mud, rest on the pedals. His jeans are well worn, but comfy, with a half full bottle of cheap tequila wedged in his crotch, and a well maintained work shirt is tucked in. Jack's face is slightly shadowed and he smokes a Marlboro. Although a little faded around the corners himself, Jack still looks as if he stepped out of an ad for the cigarettes he smokes.
Jack's right hand rests on Jo D's head. Neither seem to have much respect for seatbelt laws. Out the window the bare Wyoming landscape zooms by under the cloudless day.
Why does she do it?
She thinks its safer. Why does she need to be safer? She's doing exactly fifty-five.Jack's right hand leaves Jo D's head, and combs through the curly hair on the top of his.
She actually believes those stupid `patrolled by aircraft' signs. Doesn't matter that you can look up and see that the sky's empty.
She's going to see your lips move, Jack. She'll know you're talking to someone.
No, she'll just think I'm singing along with the radio.A burgundy Cadillac, with its lights on, rushes at about 130 miles per hour towards the truck. We cannot see inside the other car. Jack deigns to lift the last three fingers of his left hand as the cars pass each other. The Cadillac HORN honks twice at the same time.
(quieter)
Do you think she's getting famous because of who her daddy is or for herself?
There are about a hundred pop-tops down here, you know. Some little kid could cut a bare foot down on them, Jack.
No little kids get into this truck except for you.
How come you let it get so dirty?
How come! You even sound like a kid. You can get back into the seat now. She's not going to see you now.
How do you know?The tail lights of the Cadillac can be seen slowly receding down the perfectly straight highway in the rear view mirror. There is not an aircraft to be seen.
I just know.Jo D has finished extracting herself from the floor area of the truck and is sitting on her legs, playing with a thin brass key . The leatherette covered volume, with a lock that matches the key, sits at her side.
Like I know I'm going to get meatloaf for dinner. Like I know what you'll be writing in that diary tonight.Jo D is looking straight at Jack's eyes.
What'll I be writing?
Tonight, you'll write `I love Jack. This diary is my birthday present from him. I can't imaging loving anybody more than I love Jack.'
I can't.
In a year you'll write `I wonder what I ever really saw in Jack. I wonder why I spent so many days just riding around in his pickup. It's true he taught me something about sex, and there wasn't ever much else to do around Cheyenne.'
(a touch shocked)
Jack!
In two years you'll write `I wonder what that old guy's name was: the one with the curly hair and the filthy dirty pickup, and all that time on his hands.'
I won't write that.Jack looks away from the road for the first time.
Oh?Jo D returns Jack's look with fervor.
Tonight I'll write `I love Jack. This diary is my birthday present from him. I can't imaging loving anybody more than I love Jack.'
No you can't. You can't imagine it.
In a year I'll write `Jack should be home any minute now. The table's set -- grandma's linen and her old silver, even some of the yellow candles left over from the wedding -- but I don't know if I can wait until after the meal to make love to him.'Jo D reaches over and lays her hand high on Jack's thigh, gently fondling.
In two years I'll write `Jack should be home by now. Little Jack is hungry for supper. He said his first word besides "mama" and "papa" today. He said "kaka." 'Jack chuckles, while Jo D grabs at the bottle between his legs. She brings it to her mouth and gently suckles it.
SOUNDS -- The song, and the two voices can still be heard, but they sound different, as if they are being broadcast through a radio. However, road noise can still be heard, as if we changed vehicles.
That' nice.
So which one do you like?
I like yours. But I believe mine.
It doesn't matter. I believe mine.
Not in your heart of hearts, you don't.
The WIFE is in her late twenties, driving very carefully, with her hands at 10 and 2. She is wearing tight jeans herself and a slightly faded flower print blouse only two or three years out of fashion. She is also wearing her seatbelt.
Lying in the back seat is a handsome middle aged MAN, with dark skin and darker hair dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit. He peeks out the back window before sitting back upright. On his lap is a portable radio receiver of some sort, clearly the source of the other pair's voices.
You're wrong.
I'm not wrong.
Turn it off. I've heard enough.The Man turns off the radio, cutting out the poorly reproduced music, and quieting the road noise considerably.
So. Do you want me to...?A very long moment of silence. The Cadillac glides down the highway at a smooth fifty-four miles an hour, all systems go, according to the digital dash.
The Wife has a far away look in her eyes.
A hint of a tear.
She then quickly covers her eyes with her dark Ray-Bans.
Do it.
Robin Scher <robin@uberware.net>