Every story really ends in the middle, and Bixby knew his would be no different. Except for his new running shoes and white athletic socks, he was completely nude, as he sat in the driver’s seat of his mother’s Ford, which he’d “borrowed” that morning without her knowledge or consent.
Bixby felt a kind of sensual liberation as he drove down Interstate 10, now, toward the ocean, where, once he had arrived, he planned to remove his shoes and socks and go body surfing, au naturel, at Malibu. Despite setting the air conditioning to “maximum,” Bixby found the car’s mock-leather seats were beginning to make him feel uncomfortable—like his better parts had been shrink-wrapped and stuffed into a desert microwave. Oh, how he wished he had at least brought a towel to sit on.
Just then, despite his preoccupation with his discomfort, Bixby noticed that he’d become trapped in the right-hand lane, behind a massive car-hauler that was stacked to the rafters with shining, brand new Mercedes, which dangerously undulated each time the vehicle ran over a bump in the highway. It’s a miracle, Bixby thought, one of these swaying sedans doesn’t slip its mooring, and kill some innocent, unsuspecting driver.
Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in: The Baltimore Review, Off the Coast, Third Wednesday, The Potomac, San Pedro River Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, Barely South Review, Right Hand Pointing, Sleet, Boston Literary Magazine, Monkeybicycle, Camroc Press Review, Short, Fast, and Deadly, and other publications. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: http://bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com. His chapbook of miniature fiction, Coyotes Circle the Party Store, can be read at https://sites.google.com/site/bradroserhpchapbook. Audio recordings of a selection of Brad’s published poetry can be heard here: https://soundcloud.com/bradrose1.