Dwayne Hickens Is Sorry

by Charles C. Cole

Lisbon Falls was a small town, maybe eight blocks in each direction from the one traffic light. Only one fast-food franchise. Three cop cars, all used, purchased from other towns. Limited crime.

The light was yellow. He could have raced through, but Brody believed in law and order, hard work and success, live and let live.

The big man, a stranger who smelled of cigarettes and sweat, jumped into the passenger seat while Brody sat at the red light. The gun in his hand, pointed at Brody, suggested the stranger meant business.

“Please don’t kill me!” exclaimed Brody.

“Stay chill, and I won’t.”

“What do you want? Money? The car?”

“I don’t care about no money. I need to get out of town and I never learnt to drive.”

“It’s easy. I’ll show you—”

The light turned green. Brody hesitated.

“Don’t stop for nothin’!”

“You don’t need me,” Brody insisted.

“I knows what I need.”

“There’s nothing but woods outside of town. I don’t want to die there.”

“Obsessed much?” said the carjacker.

“I’ve never been this close to the business end of a gun before.”

“I got the business end: the trigger. You got the bullets.”

“I’m pulling over,” said Brody. “You’re going to shoot me anyhow.”

“So, I shoot you now instead of later.”

“Then who’s going to drive?”

“I guess nobody, because you’ll be dead!” snapped the stranger.

Brody kept driving, though he wasn’t happy about it. “Do you have a destination,” he groused, “or are we driving until we run out of fuel?”

“That’s an idea. How far can you go?”

“I’m on a quarter of a tank, so not far. Unless you let me get gas.”

“Then you run off,” scoffed the carjacker, “and I have to grab someone else because of you, maybe a mother with a little baby.”

“You’re an intimidating fella,” said Brody.

“What’s that mean?”

“You scare me.”

“That’s how things get done,” the stranger explained.

Old advice from a policeman friend: Introduce yourself. Be more than a convenient opportunity. “My name’s Brody. What’s yours?”

“None of your damn business.”

“I would like to know the name of the man who’s about to kill me,” said Brody.

“Brody’s gonna kill Brody if he don’t fall in line!” snapped the stranger. Brody started hyperventilating. “Fine. Call me Seventeen. That was my jersey in high school.”

Additional advice: Treat him with respect. “So, Seventeen, I bet you’ve got an interesting life story.”

“More interesting than you, that’s sure.”

A quick glimpse of a parked cop car down a side street. A few blocks left to town.

“I’m a writer, professionally. I could write your story,” offered Brody. “People would know about you.”

“Like what, ’xactly?”

“You’ve got kids?”

“Hell no! That’s just what I need!” said Seventeen with a cynical grunt.

“Me neither,” said Brody, “but kids carry on your name and your memories. Without them, people forget you. You were just one brief encounter in a long, busy life. But if I write your story, who you were and why you mattered, everyone will know you lived.”

“My story? Why the hell you do that?”

“To stay alive, to be honest,” said Brody. “To give you a reason to keep me around.”

Seventeen squinted suspiciously at the driver. “You famous or something? That be one helluva surprise.”

“No, sorry.”

Seventeen was disappointed. “But you’ve had stuff published?”

“Absolutely!” said Brody enthusiastically. “Hundreds of stuff.”

“And you write exactly as I tell it to you?”

“On my word, Seventeen. You would recognize the man on the pages like looking in a mirror.” But what if...? “Can you read? Please don’t be insulted.”

“Some. Mostly short words. Listen, I ain’t a bad person. I have money problems, s’all.”

They were leaving town behind. Traffic had already thinned out.

“Where were you born?” asked Brody, interviewing his subject.

“Who cares?”

“Any siblings?”

“This is about me, not them!” growled Seventeen.

“I’m trying to picture your life as a kid.”

“Do I look like a kid to you?” He did not.

“We want to humanize you, show readers you’re a survivor, an underdog, so they sympathize with you and won’t hate you or judge you when you’re forced by circumstances to do something... questionable.”

“Nobody’s ever forced me to do nothing! I’m my own man! I make my own destiny!” He was keenly watching Brody maneuver the car. “Driving don’t look so hard.”

“I told you. It’s mostly just steering and pressing down on the accelerator when you want to go faster.”

Seventeen looked over his shoulder at the quiet road and sighed. “Maybe I should drive now. Pull over. Go down that dirt road.”

“Why?” asked Brody. “Are you letting me go?”

“We’re just gonna do a quick errand first. Something that got to be done.”

Brody slowed. “If we go down there, Seventeen, you’ll probably have to change gears, put it in reverse, do a K-turn. That’s a little more complicated than what we’ve been doing so far.”

“Yeah?” asked Seventeen.

“This way, my way, pulling over here, you just stay in Drive the whole time, with one foot on the brake a little.”

“We didn’t talk about no brake!” snapped Seventeen, glancing back. “I don’t want people seeing things, getting excited, agitated.”

“What about the writing?” asked Brody.

Seventeen picked up a fast-food takeout bag on the floor and stared at it. “Can you write on this?”

“Sure. Why not? Not much, though.”

“Pull over here.”

Brody watched himself pull over and put the car in park, without feeling part of the decision.

“Write: ‘Dwayne Hickens says he’s sorry.’”

Brody did as he was asked, in all caps. “Is that your name?”

“Now get on your knees and close your eyes.”

“You don’t have to do this, Dwayne!”

“You’d’ve made a pretty good teacher. But, take it from me, the world ain’t gonna miss one nerdy dude in glasses. Now hold that bag tight with both hands, so they find our message. That’s it.”