Motorcycle Man

I hate sitting next to my little brother in the back seat of the car.  He annoys me nonstop; poking me, staring at me, shoving me, making faces at me.  My parents think I’m overreacting.  They’re wrong.  They don’t see everything he does. 

Plus, it’s hot back here.  The air conditioning doesn’t make it this far back.  All it’s doing is blowing the cigarette smoke from Mom’s cigarette into my face.  I don’t want to go on this trip anyway.  What do I care about some old battlefield?  I’d rather stay home and go to the pool with my friends.  At least then, I wouldn’t be so hot.

The front seat seems much more interesting.  My parents are talking about the hostages in Iran.  “Why won’t they let them go?,” I ask my Mom.  “Because they’re angry at our government.” she says, blowing smoke towards the tiny crack in her window.  “Oh.” I can’t think of a good follow up question so I decide to just stare out the window. 

“Look at this idiot.” my Dad says.  Out of nowhere, a guy on a motorcycle goes flying by my window like a metallic blur.  “He’s going to kill himself if he keeps driving like that.” says Mom.  “He isn’t wearing a helmet.” I say, trying to add to the commentary about Motorcycle Man. 

My stupid brother puts his spit covered finger in my left ear and starts laughing like a rabid hyena.  “Quit it!” I yell.  “Gross!” Mom and Dad don’t even turn around.  They’re busy talking about the government again.  We pass by a water tower and I bet my brother, “I could climb to the top faster than you could.”  “Could not!” he replies.  “Yes, I could, I’m taller than you so I can climb faster.”

We start to slow down and then we stop.  “Why’re you stopping?” I ask my Dad.  “I think there’s been an accident up here.” my Dad says.  My brother and I shove our bodies against the door on my side to try and see what’s going on.  There are chunks of black and silver metal all over the road. 

As we slowly move forward, I can see red stuff splattered on the pavement.  “That’s blood!” my brother yells.  My heart starts racing.  There’s pieces of what used to be a motorcycle laying in the middle of the road.  “Oh my God, it’s that guy on the motorcycle.” says my Mom.  Then I see him.  “Don’t look kids!” she says.  But of course, we’re looking.  Nothing could make me not look at this point. 

The air smells like burning.  Motorcycle Man is chest down on the road.  His black leather jacket is ripped to shreds and his head is covered in blood.  His legs don’t look right.  They’re twisted like a pretzel.  As we get right next to him, I see that his eyes are open.  “Mom, is he dead?” I ask.  “I don’t know honey, I don’t know. Don’t look.” she says.                                       

We start to speed up.  My parents aren’t talking anymore.  My brother isn’t annoying me anymore.  My Mom lights another cigarette.  “I can’t breathe when you smoke in the car.” I say quietly.  She throws her cigarette out the window.  “I’m sorry, honey.” she says.