Venus In The Passenger Seat

David Mac

The cheap thrill of a simple cigarette. The long cooling drag. Ah. But I’m in my car now and heading down the motorway, highway, freeway, endless road of grey mystery at the edge of night, racing back before dawn.

But I’m in the backseat, sprawled like an insect with my limbs like tentacles. And Venus, she’s driving the car. Well, trying to. She got no arms.

‘ Venus, may I light you a cigarette?’ I ask her grey stone body.

She looks blank ahead.

Actually she’s in the passenger seat. That’s right; Venus in the passenger seat with her seatbelt on. The grey road twisting out ahead. Venus with me, and she stretches out. How she stretches out now.

Poor Venus girl, I think, she’s got no arms. I light her a cigarette.

The way is black. The arcs of our yellow headlights lead the way into infinite nothing. Winding roads go nowhere. ‘I know these roads, all of them,’ I tell her, but more of a whisper to the car.

The car that’s just going where it goes. ‘Just drive, honey.’

I lean over to see the white line feed its way into the centre of the bonnet. Feel the rumbling tyres pulling the earth past under us. Life flashes past like a blur. Orange street-light life. Steel barriers and railings. Motorway bridges with scrawling graffiti on.

WILL YOU MARRY ME, it reads.

Always a proposal. Always a marriage and never a murder. Never an oily car wreck, full of buckled metal and shattered glass, bumpers snapped and strewn across the land.

‘ Let’s just go.’

I howl from the window. The rain splashes under us. The wheels know all the ways best. Venus checks the rear-view, looking for sirens and blue lights. No one is driving the car, and I don’t care; I just lay in the back and flick ash in those little pull-out ashtrays that can only possibly hold two cigarettes.

The car is a monster of the road. It’s devouring time and speed, eating up the tarmac and all them poor cat eyes that blink and stare, glisten and glint.

Red triangles give warnings. Beware. But I don’t wanna know.

Traffic lights go blood, telling to stop.

‘ Go! Go! You can make it, Venus!’

Fast round a bend, feel the forces pull us, the back end out. The skid. The purring of the sweet sullen motor. The scrabbling of the tread and tyres for grip and dry surface. Alas.

Puddles soak the night-time strollers. They always shake their fists. I can’t hear them curse. My gaze is on the squeaking windscreen wipers, rubbing, repeating, telling wet wisdoms to me and my vehicle.

I watch the Magic Tree wave and swing just under the rear-view. I don’t understand it yet. It is green and I am jealous, or am I sick?

The speed-o-meter glows illuminate. Watch the needle rise and fall. Hear the revs, the revolutions. The exhaust is deep and guttural, visceral.

I look out behind and see the road stretch and snake away. ‘We’ve been there. I know.’ I know it all, because that is the past, and we’re ploughing into the black future.

Fat moon looks down low on us. ‘Watch out! Don’t hit the moon. Steer round it!’
Into the belly of towns and cities we head. The jagged buildings from a far, looming up to inspect us, the guests and hurtling mad visitors. Their lights are on like square yellow eyes, millions of them.

‘ Anyone home?’

Past rows of parked cars sleeping, dreaming with their owners in unison. See the gutter and all the debris of life, the puddles reflecting the lights of town. The wet pavements and rain running down dirty brown-brick walls.

Doorways like sad mouths offer the only shelter.

Bus stops wait for people to wait for buses who will take them on in life.
Taxis wait for custom. Watch the eager meter. Time’s a money!

‘ Drive faster, honey.’

Read more of this story in Ambit 193!

More fiction