“The woman was not DOA! They let her go inside!”

“Next time, X. Next time.”

Xavier shakes his head, stands up. “We’re off, hey?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get out of here then.”

Silently they roll. Abe puts them back on track, enters the program that will take the truck to MacArthur and the Del Mar Freeway, then up the Newport to Dyer. Everything seems empty, quiet. They track into the Fire and Rescue station, park the truck among a few dozen others, go inside, file reports, clock out, walk to their own cars in the employee lot. Abe approaches his car feeling the familiar drained emptiness. Every time he reaches for his own keys in this lot it’s the same. “Catch you later, X,” he calls at the dark figure across the lot.

“Doubtless. When we on again?”

“Saturday.”

“See you then.”

Xavier backs out, off to the depths of lower Santa Ana, and some life Abe can barely imagine: X has a wife, four kids, ten thousand in-laws and dependents … a life out of his grandfather’s generation, as full of melodrama as any video soap. And X, supporting the whole show, is right on the edge. He’s going to crack soon, Abe thinks. After all these years.

He gets back onto the Newport Freeway, great aorta of all the OC lives. River of red fireflies, bearing him on. He punches the program for South Coast Plaza south, sits back. Clicks in a CD, need something loud, fast, aggressive … Three Spoons and a Stupid Fork, yeah, powering out their classic album Get the Fuck Off My Beach.

What would your carbrain say if it could talk?

Would it say Jump In? Would it say Get Out and Walk?

(You are a carbrain

You’re firmly on track

You’re given your directions

And you don’t talk back)

You are a carbrain

And your car is going to crash!

On the cellular level

Everything’ll go smash!

(And you’ll be inside

You’ll be taken for a ride)