Fugue in D Minor, part 2: Jen and some Confusion

Part One   
[Part Two]
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight

     There's a pocket on the door that held a map of southwest North America, which is interesting only for the reason that it is unmarked, save for a circle around Lazero Cardenas, Mexico. I don't think that's where I am right now, but I couldn't say for sure.

      The car's (my car? Michael's car?) a black Saab, old but full of riddles.

     There is a stand on the passenger's side of the car that has several different segments that turn several different ways, mounted on the dashboard. It looks like it was intended for a computer or TV.

      There's a collection of junk (my junk? ) on the floor on the passenger's side that I haven't gotten around to looking through just yet, mostly due to shock.

      I began to rummage around in the passenger's footwell, hoping to drag my fingertips, like a divining rod, over an epiphany, or at least a clue.

     There was no chorus of angels, unfortunately, but my blindly groping hand did close on a hunk of plastic inside the bag, which turned out to be an old Nokia cell phone missing the column with keys 1, 4, and 7, as well as half of the screen and most of its battery power. I tossed it onto the passenger seat, intending to take a look at it later. 

3: 22.

      I had settled back into my seat just as a jaunty tune erupted from my right, almost causing me to hit the sign that patiently reminded me of the speed limit, which I was exceeding by a good fifteen to twenty miles an hour.

      “OHHH WHEN THE SAAAINTS....COME MARCH-”

      I snatched it up and reflexively mashed the green “Answer” button, if only to stop the symphony of awful. I held it tentatively to my ear.

       “Hello?”

      A woman's voice came over the line.

      “Hey, Ana, it's Jen.”

      I (who) grimaced. This is not what I had hoped for, but more or less exactly what I had expected.

     “Um, hey, I'm not Ana...”

      “Well, is she available?”

      “I don't think so...sorry.”

      She ignored my ignorance and continued in her strident, businesslike tone. “Well, could you tell her that Jen is waiting for her at the airport?”

      I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

      “Um....I can't, actually. I just found this phone. I-”

      She cut me off with such startling force that I veered into the wrong lane. All I heard was “WAIT, YOU-” and then some indignant honking from outside. I dropped the phone in order to steer out of the way of oncoming traffic. I picked it again and interrupted what appeared to be a tirade. “Could you repeat that?” She lost her already thin facade of tolerance. “WHERE DID YOU FIND IT?”

     “Uhhh....” I tried desperately to think of where I could have picked it up, but all I know is road.

     “She never takes it out of her car. How did you end up with it?” This conversation was not going well.

     “What kind of car does she have?”

      “A black Saab.”

      I sighed. “....well, fuck.”

      I hung up just before a I was consumed by a retaliatory volcano of expletives. I tossed the phone into the passenger's footwell, but didn't hear the solid clunk I expected. I leaned over to take a closer look. The phone had landed on a backpack or messenger bag or something, next to some shoes, a cord for something, and two hairbands. As I reached down for the (my?) miscellaneous objects, I caught a glance of my watch, which said 3:25.

After the one sided shouting match with Jen, the odd thumping in the back of the car that I had presumed to be some loose bolts or something became much more ominous. I signaled right even though I couldn't see any cars anymore, hoping that I had imagined all of this, and would wake up...somewhere. Anywhere.

      As I reached down to shut off the car, I noticed there was no key in the ignition. Hotwired?

     I looked curiously below the steering wheel and found an exposed nest of wires, several of which were clipped and electrical-taped together. I really hope I didn't steal this car. Or kidnap the thud sound in the trunk.

      Despite my better judgment, I decided to turn off the car, pulling questionable connections apart one by one. The car's engine died on the second pair of wires.

      I pulled the parking brake, put the shifter in neutral, and stepped out of the car, all the while trying to override the mild panic bubbling up in my throat.

     The damp, dirty gravel ground under my shoes with a slick wet crunch. It had been raining on and off for a couple hours now, and it looked as if the clouds were on the tail end of their lunch break.

     I shivered.