My autonomy comes and goes around Eddie Michaels, but this moment is an important reminder of the range and variation within these morsels of free will. Sometimes I’m completely frozen in place, other times I’m simply instructed to “drive” or “follow,” vague commands with room for interpretation.
There’s variation here, and variation leads to mistakes.
Now all I have to do is find the right moment.
Sick
Are you angry?” Eddie asks from the passenger seat, finally addressing the quiet fury simmering within me. “You seem angry.”
I might’ve considered being deceptive with my answer, keeping my cards close to the chest, but Eddie’s uncanny persuasion doesn’t allow this grace.
“Yes,” I blurt, compelled to speak the truth.
“Why?”
“Because you’re a murderous sociopath,” I remind him.
“Tell us how you really feel!” He laughs.
“I feel like I want to escape.”
Eddie nods. “Yep, it’s about that time. You don’t want to escape. You’re not upset by the death you’ve seen tonight.”
And just like that, I feel so much better. I stop thinking about all the horrific violence, dwelling instead on thecurious scent of popcorn that seems to permeate everything.
Eddie is careful to roll out a constant parade of instructions, diligently reupping his commands for me not to run away, and keeping my mood stabilized. As an influencer, I can appreciate his commitment to a posting schedule, the walking corpse doling out a few simple words every twenty minutes or so.
Consistency is key, after all.
“Just two more stops,” Eddie informs me. “Then it’s over and done with.”
I nod.
“Do you believe me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s absolutely no reason for you to keep me alive,” I state. “I don’t even know why you’ve got me driving this truck. It makes no sense.”
Eddie sits with this as he stares out the window. Palm Springs sweeps past us on either side, luxurious upturned spotlights illuminating giant fronds and succulents. Every once in a while we pass a cheeky neon sign, an ode to the city’s unflinching dedication to ’60s camp.
“A lot of people are motivated by hate and violence and greed,” Eddie finally says, his head still turned away as he watches the shifting landscape. “I can understand calling those people monsters. Theyaremonsters.”
Eddie removes his sunglasses, taking a moment to itch the massive gaping hole where his right eye used to be. He puts his sunglasses back on.
“That’s not me,” he continues. “I just want to entertain. Is that so bad?”
As absurd as it might seem, I find myself instantly relating to this simple reflection. I know the feeling—the pull of the spotlight—but if there’s one thing I’ve realized over the course of this evening, it’s whatactuallymatters when you’re knocking on death’s door. Since things went sideways, I haven’t worried about losing followers, but I’ve certainly worried about losing Marlo.
“There’s more to life than entertaining,” I say.
Eddie grins. “Gonna have to disagree with you there, sport. Food, water, shelter: that’s how we survive. Art is thewhy.”
If someone said this yesterday, I would’ve agreed with every fiber of my being. Hell, I probably would’ve taken a selfie and posted this little morsel of wisdom as the caption.
It’s a reasonable argument, but he’s leaving something out. Art makes life worth living, but it’s not the apex of humanity that Eddie seems to think it is. There’s another force out there pushing me onward, another racehorse steadily creeping up from behind.
