April Foolishness: Killin’ It

Simon and Germain sit in a dusty, rust-covered El Camino, pondering their fate. Simon perhaps more so than Germain, as he’s become the default driver in this scenario. Germain, in the passenger seat, continues to study his copy of the New York Times, scouring it for news of the Mafia hit.

“How can they not be reporting this?” he wonders aloud.

“How can you not have a driver’s license?” Simon replies.

“No New Yorker needs one. We’ve got the subway. And cabs.” He rustles the paper emphatically.

“And now I get to drive all 2,168 miles to El Paso in this beat-up jalopy because you don’t drive,” Simon harumphs.

“Take it easy, Slick,” Germain says. “I know how to drive. I’m just not licensed to drive. There’s a big difference.”

“Oh, great. So now, if you take the wheel, we’re committing an illegal act. That’s so much better.”

Germain folds up his paper carefully, and places it in the glove compartment. He turns to face Simon, who is seething as he maneuvers the vehicle across the George Washington Bridge.

“Simon, have you ever bothered to think that everything we do is illegal, in some way, shape or form?”

“How do you figure?”

“For starters, none of what we do is by the book, nor on the books. You tell people you’re a linguist. We play little games in a room with language, but what is our greater purpose? It’s sure as hell not translating dead white dudes from Latin so that modern-day white dudes can continue to bask in their whiteness. What is it we really do?”

“What do you mean? I am a linguist! Are you saying you’re not?”

Germain simply sits in silence as Simon continues to drive, zooming across the bridge towards New Jersey, as fast as the ancient pickup can go. He waits for Simon to grok exactly what he’s saying. He watches as Simon’s confused expression starts to turn to a frown, eyebrows turning downward into angry slashes.

“Now you’re getting it. Why do you think the agency set us up with this ancient El Camino and a whole buttload of gas money, instead of two first-class tickets to Texas?”

Simon jerks the wheel and the truck rises up on two wheels for a moment as he screeches across three lanes of traffic, cars and SUVs swerving wildly to avoid them, and pulls into a rest area. He throws the El Camino into park with such force that the shifter nearly breaks off in his hand, and turns to face his partner in crime.

“What the fuck are we doing, Germain?” he shouts.

“Exactly what you think we’re doing, Simon,” Germain responds in a strangely calm voice.

“Is that even your real name?”

Germain smiles. “It’s the only name you need to know, but you can call me Jerry if it makes you feel any better.”

Simon rubs his fists against his eyes, as if he can wish this all away. He takes a few deep breaths, to prevent himself from strangling Germain.

“The miles go a lot faster when you’re wound up,” Germain observers. “Might as well put that righteous indignation to good use.”

Simon sucks in air to yell something, thinks better of it, and puts the truck back into drive.

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