Turn Left

I was on my lunch break when I saw this clown on the side of the road. He wasn’t on the sidewalk. He looked shabby, like he needed a hand, so I pulled over. I figured I had time:

Last week Friday I finally got the boss to approve an hour long lunch (provided I start my days a half hour earlier), so I was feeling particularly empowered come Monday, the day of the incident. As a little treat to myself, I drove to the strip mall a couple miles from the office when usually I’d eat with the rest of Loan Servicing at the taco truck across the street.

I hardly eat fast food -- what my watch’s calorie counter doesn’t know won’t hurt it -- but Subway has always been a creature comfort of mine. I’ve been ordering the same thing, no alterations, since I was a kid. Still I let the Sandwich Artist manning the line ask me each question before telling them what I want. Sometimes I even pretend to think about whether or not I want it toasted, but really I never, ever do.

I ate half the sandwich in the store and wrapped the other in its branded paper to have for dinner in a few hours. Then, in my car on the way back, I saw him. Marching the white line between the shoulder and the road. His big red shoes were covered in dust.

I pulled over next to him, hazards flashing.

“Hey,” I said, lowering the passenger side window. “You need a lift?”

He looked skeptical as he approached. His eyes swept me up and down, quick, before meeting mine. Without a word, he got in.

Only after he closed the door and buckled up did he ask, “so, you’re the guy?”

I turned off my hazards and signaled to merge back into traffic.

I said, “I guess I am.”

I smiled. If the boss were there, he would have seen me putting my knowledge to real, practical use, and would have been proud. Just this morning in our weekly department huddle, he was waxing poetic on this subject: the power of Yes.

“So,” I started, “Where to, Mr…” and when I glanced over, this clown was holding onto the remains of my sandwich with one large, hairy-knuckled hand.

“Where to?” I asked, firmer, eyes back on the road.

“Hey, what is it? This was for me, right?” He talked with his mouth full. Spittle with chunks of wheat bread came flying out. “They told me there’d be lunch.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, then: “yeah, I mean, yes.” Was I doing this right? I gripped the steering wheel harder.

--I want you to think about... the boss was saying, I want you to imagine one whole day where you said yes. To everything.

“Turn right,” my passenger instructed. I turned right.

--How many opportunities, the boss was saying, do you think you miss out on every day, just by saying ‘no’? And I don’t just mean to the salesmen --

--Or the salad bar, someone from Doc Review chimed, to some laughter.

The boss smiled his executive smile, the one where he shows enough teeth to say he’s a sport, but not enough to risk the laugh lines.

--Okay, okay, he said. But really. His smile faded back to a thin line. How many times a day do you say no to yourself?

 “Another right at the stop sign.” The clown in my passenger seat was picking at a molar with his pinky finger. He propped a big red shoe up on the dash.

I found myself tracing back the route I’d used to get to the Subway.

“Alright,” he said, shoe already back down. He had a thin film of sweat on his forehead.

“Stopstopstop. Here.”

“Here?” We pulled up on the side of the street hugging the far end of the bank parking lot.

Whatever nerves I had about the situation quickly vanished with the comfort that I could actually be back a couple minutes early from lunch.

Inside the flat building, behind its long row of square windows, just a few hours ago, the boss looked carefully over the tops of each of our heads in turn, the way they teach in corporate-funded seminars.

--If I said yes to myself, my desk mate ventured, I wouldn’t have shown up to work today.

More people laughed than at Doc Review guy. I was sure both were still replaying the moment. I knew I would be.

The boss with his measured chuckle, hands clasped firmly behind his back.

--Then make sure you start this exercise on a Saturday, huh, Sheila?

The clown took a pair of white gloves from a baggy, polka-dotted pocket and pulled them on.

“You got a bag?” he asked, already opening the door.

“A -- um -- I’m sorry? Hey, what --”

I always do my best to be understanding of people who come from different types of backgrounds. Everybody’s got a story, a cross, or an albatross, that’s what I always say.

But this guy was digging through my back seat, chucking out the contents of my gym bag out on the floor, muttering under his breath. And that’s when I thought, for the first time -- is this guy okay? Am I safe right now?

It didn’t take long before he was halfway across the parking lot with my bag hanging limp off one shoulder. I was surprised he could move so fast, pant legs billowing in the wind, those ridiculous shoes slap slap slapping the pavement with each long step.

“Hey,” I said again, ready to reason. But when he looked back at me, it was with some animal look, a cross between fear and fury. Before I knew it, he’d charged me backwards and into a tree.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, like someone might be listening, “are you doing?”

I couldn’t fight the feeling that unbeknownst to me, we had been speaking different languages this entire time. That in the span of only a few minutes, we’d tied ourselves in some intricate linguistic knot that was now too tight to undo.

“That’s my bag,” I said, pointing, like he didn’t know.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he said, “just get back in the fucking car.”

So I did.

I closed the car door softly behind me, cracked my window, then cut the engine. I drew a few deep breaths and racked my brain trying to figure out what the hell I’d missed.

When I opened my eyes, I saw two things: first, at a distance, the faces of my coworkers all pressed against the windows; my boss, even, his hair house of whack, phone held to his ear with a look of panic.

Then, up close, an open-shut door, a whirlwind of colors and patterns. My passenger was back, my gym back sitting full to burst, again in the backseat.

“What are you waiting for?” He yelled and slapped my center console. “Go!”

I fumbled with my keys, finally getting them in the ignition on the third try.

“Christ, the car isn’t even running?”

“Look,” I said, “There’s been a mistake. I’m not --”

But he wasn’t listening. The clown’s face had gone red, sweat running from his brow to his chin. “Fuck this amateur shit,” he said. “Just go already.”

I checked my mirrors, 3 pairs of eyes looking back in turn. I pressed my foot firmly on the gas.

The clown was talking at me from the passenger seat, something fast and loud and probably deprecating, but the sound only rattled around my head, never sinking in. All I could think of was the look on all the faces in the windows, my coworkers, their fear and wonder.

All I could think of was the boss, the words I could see but not hear, the powerlessness of his askew tie and mussed up hair.

It filled me with a sensation I couldn’t quite name, something new and urgent. Like just then, something came loose in my chest and my heart was beating twice as fast as it ever had.

“...skin of my fucking teeth,” the clown was saying, “every time. Why?”

He pulled a cigarette out of some pocket, lit, then took a big pull. Without acknowledging him, I lowered both our windows all the way. A heavy cloud of smoke gathered, just a moment, under my nose on its way out. I never considered it before, but I didn’t mind the smell.

“There,” he barked. One sausage-finger, again ungloved, pointed to a stop sign a half mile away. In the distance behind us, sirens made their shrill calls.

“Theretherethere,” he said. “Turn right.”

I was cool and calm. No sweat. I slowed down and came to a perfect stop.

What was more, I knew this area like the back of my hand. Better than this clown, for sure. I knew where we were, and I knew where we needed to go.

“Right!” he shouted, so loud my ears rang.

I turned left.

Scout Roux is a Wisconsin writer of short fiction and poetry. Their work has been featured in Lunch Ticket, Passengers Journal, Wild Roof Journal, and is forthcoming in Barstow & Grand. They are currently a fiction editor with Nightingale & Sparrow magazine.