Doors of Love

By DesDownUnder

Copyright © 2008 By DesDownUnder. All Rights Reserved.

Prequel Short: Driving Me Crazy

Ah, the phone. I pick up, but before I can say anything, I hear a voice.

“Hello, Bryce? Hello?”

“Oh hi, where are you?” I ask.

“Bryce, there’s been an accident; a car smash….”

He’s stopped talking, waiting for my reply. I look at the phone. I want to scream at him. My parents would have yelled into the phone at each other if one of them had smashed the car. I stop myself just in time. What could I say? What should I do? How am I supposed to react?

Strangely, none of these seem to matter, so I ask the only decent questions which come to mind.

“Eran, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“No, I am okay, but the car is ruined. I am so upset.”

This just gets better and better. I have dinner nearly cooked and he smashes his car. The car I helped him buy, so he could get to work without me having to drive him and pick him up. Now it is ruined. Smashed. I want to ask how the hell he did it, but I don’t.

“Is anyone hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

 “What about the other car?”

I can hear him breathing, so I know he is there, processing my question.

“Which other car?” he asks.

I speak slowly with a determined patience, “The one in the accident you had.”

“They’re okay,” He says, “Their car looks fine. It is a nice light green one.”

He’s admiring the colour of their car?

“But they didn’t hit anything,” he added.

“What about your car? Is it blocking the road?’

“No, it ended up on the side of the road, but it’s facing the wrong way.”

How the hell did he do that? He must have gone into a spin.

“I stopped on the wrong side of the road.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he replies.

I’m not convinced.

“I’m a bit shaky,” he tells me.

He’s not okay, not okay at all. My stomach feels a little queasy.

“Where are you?”

“I’m sitting on the side of the road.”

I don’t like the sound of this. He might be going into shock.

“Which road are you on?” I need to go to him.

Silence.

“Eran? Are you there?”

Oh, what if he has fainted? I don’t know where he is or if anyone is looking after him. I should never have allowed him to get a car. I mean, it wasn’t all that much trouble to drive him to work and pick him up. But he wanted it so badly. His first car, and I was able help him get it. His big brown eyes were so excited. I’ll never forget the kiss he gave me at the car yard. I bet the salesman doesn’t either. I stop smiling to myself.

“Eran? Where are you?” I yell into the phone.

“I’m right here. No need to shout. I had to go to the corner to see what the street name is.”

Thank heavens he’s okay. I wouldn’t know what to do without him. I won’t even think about that.

“Are you on the cell phone?”

“Yes, of course I am. How do you think I am talking to you?” He asks me in a tone that makes me feel like I am missing the point.

“Then why didn’t you take the phone with you when you went to get the street name?” I reply.

“I couldn’t, the battery is flat so I left it plugged in to the recharger in the car, while I walked to the street sign.”

“Well? Where are you? What is the street called?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” How does he not know, he just went to read the street sign?

“The sign post is faded; something S then a Q and it’s followed by Res something Drive.”

I think for a moment and then I know where he is.

“You’re on South Quay Reserve Drive? Why are you over there? That’s not on the way home?”

I can hear him sniffle. Damn, now he is crying. What is he doing by the river?

“Just wait there. I’m coming to get you.”

“You are?” he asks me with a joyous note in his voice that displaces all our other concerns.

“Of course I am. Do you think I would leave you stranded?”

“I am so sorry,” he says.

“Don’t worry, just stay there, and stay on the phone.”

Now I’m worried. Something is not right. I turn off the stove, grab my keys and shut the front door. My car starts, but I have to wait before I can drive onto the road, to allow a TV channel outside broadcast van to speed past. I hook the phone into its cradle on the dashboard. When I look up, I see an ambulance flying down the road with all its lights blazing and its sirens screaming. Oh no, they are headed to the area where Eran is. I yell at the phone.

“Eran, are you are okay? It’ll take a few minutes for me to get there. I’m in my car and should be there soon. Just sit down and wait for me.”

“I can drive home.”

“I thought you said the car was wrecked.” I almost stopped, but I have to keep going, I need to get to him.

“No, no, not my car, it’s the police car that is ruined.”

“Police car? What police car?”

“The one that was chasing the other car.”

This is infuriating. It’s like talking to a blow-up doll.

“What other car?”

“I told you about it, the nice green one.”

I know I am rolling my eyes. “Why were the police chasing it?”

“I think it was because they were speeding and shooting at the police.”

“Shooting? With guns?”

“It looked like it. I could only see them in the rear view mirror.”

“Why didn’t you get out of their way?’

“I couldn’t. Whichever way I turned, they followed. The police tried to overtake them and that is when I swerved to avoid being hit by them. They nearly sideswiped the police car, which was forced to drive into the river to avoid hitting me. I told you, their car is ruined.”

“I thought you meant your car.”

“Oh no, mine is okay, it’s the police car that is in the river.”

“Are the policemen hurt? Did they get out of the car?”

“Oh, they’re fine. They’re busy organizing a crane to lift their car out of the river.”

“Eran, have they arrested you?”

“Arrest me? Why? What for? I didn’t do anything.”

Okay, I might just leave that alone for the moment.

“So the gunman in the car got away?”

“Not really.”

I wait. What does he mean, not really? Why does he have to drag everything out?

“There were two of them,” he tells me.

“So the police caught them?”

“Their car stalled and they ran off down the street.”

“So they got away?”

“No.”

I wonder why I am sitting here talking to him on the phone. He isn’t really telling me what happened or didn’t happen.

“What do you mean, no?”

“They ran into a bus.”

“So the police caught them on a bus?”

“No, they weren’t looking where they were going and ran into the side of a moving bus. One of them was knocked to the ground. His offsider had to drag him to safety.”

“Why?”

“He shot the bus.”

We are friends, boyfriends, it is true.

I can’t help wondering if we are right for each other.

Could I live with a guy who so casually said that someone had shot a bus?

“He shot the bus?” I realise the astonishment in my own voice as I repeat his words.

“Well, not really, the gun went off when he staggered backwards from having run into the side of the bus, and the stray bullet punctured one of its front tires. The driver lost control, and the bus went into a skid and caused it to roll over. If the other guy hadn’t dragged him out of the way, the bus would’ve fallen on him.”

“Was anyone on the bus hurt?”

“No, it was empty. No one catches the buses. You know that.”

Yeah, right. What was I thinking? “So the gunmen didn’t get away?”

“No, the police caught them and handcuffed them, just like in the movies.”

“What about the bus driver? Is he okay?”

“He seems to be fine. An ambulance just arrived and the paramedics are looking him over.”

I expected details, but I suppose I shall have to wait for the 6 o’clock news. I wish he would talk when he phones me. He used to phone me and just not say anything. Then I would ask something and he would tell me.

Then, more silence.

I thought I would get used to it, or he would suddenly learn to talk. Not that he can’t talk, he can, and he has a lovely, sexy voice.

Damn it. Now I am being followed by a fire engine with its siren going and its horn honking. Don’t they realize that I’m going as fast as I can?

“Bryce? Are we still connected?”

“Yes, I’m here, but I have a fire truck tailgating me,” I shout at the phone.

“That must be on its way here because of the bus,” he tells me.

“Let me guess, the bus caught fire?”

“No, don’t be silly.”

Silly, I am being silly?

“Why do you need a fire truck then?” I ask.

“Because there is oil and gas leaking from the bus all over the road.”

Fssst!

“Hello…Eran are you there?” The line has gone dead. I look out through the windscreen.

I can see the commotion at the end of the street. I can see the bus lying on its side in the distance. There is a TV broadcast van with a reporter talking to a policeman. And then I see my Eran driving his car towards me on the wrong side of the street. Quickly, I pull over and jump out of the car. Eran stops his car and gets out. He runs up to me and hugs me and we madly kiss each other as the fire truck roars past us, frantically sounding its horn. Why do they do that?

“Come on, love,” I tell him, “Let’s go home.” I am so happy to see him.

We quickly jump into our cars and drive back home after I back up and turn around.

It feels good to know Eran is safe.

I finish cooking our dinner and we settle down to watch TV while we eat.

Neither of us had realized the fire truck skidded on the oil slick on the road and crashed into the overturned bus, but we see it on the six o’clock news. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but the TV reporter’s hair is a mess. I tell Eran she needs a better makeup person, but he thinks she must have had to jump out of the way of the skidding fire truck.

“People should really drive more carefully,” says my Eran, but I just lean over and kiss him. He is so considerate. I really do love him, even if he does drive me crazy.