Short Story March: Day Two

American Made Big Block Chevrolet

Pavement under the wheels of the van, humming. Just humming, man. You can hear it from any part of the van.

None of the ones in the back ever know where we're going. We only know that we've been somewhere. The ones in front, they sure know the way. And the ones in the middle, man, they just don't devote any care to the notion of direction, or who's in front or who's in back, or anything. We just care to be in the middle, where it's easy to relax and talk quietly.

Sometimes, someone from the back joins us. And we welcome them, and often times they worry about their cohorts in the back of the van; they try and bring more up, and some follow, but most stay in back.

Sometimes, someone from the front will join us in the middle. We're wary of them, because in front they're in control of our fates, but we try to integrate them. They have a harder time adjusting than those from the back. It's very easier to move backward than it is to move forward, but it's easier on you to move forward than it is to move backward.

Sometimes, one of us will seize on the direction the van is headed, and demand to know why it's so. Inquiries will be made of the people in front, and usually this leads to a large group of us moving forward, to be replaced by people moving back. But those of us who stay in the middle know that it doesn't matter who's driving the van; we're always going in a direction we don't care to know.