Carpool

Carpool By R.W. Clinger Luke Masterson enjoys the same morning routine five days a week, Monday through Friday: his alarm clock sounds at six o’clock in the morning; he presses the snooze button twice; he downs two tall glasses of water and goes for a two-mile run; showers; dresses for his busy workday at Melner Publishing (white dress shirt, khaki-colored chinos, the latest leather heels from Italy in two shades of brown); grabs two Red Dragon apples for a late morning or late afternoon snack. Off he goes. On his way. His day is just heating up. Summertime. August in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, near its three rivers. It drips with s*x, heat, and handsomeness. He wants to think the day beautiful and stunning, a radiant lady in a dazzling cocktail dress with a vintage clutch, but he can’t. He despises summertime (and he’s not fond of well-dressed ladies) and heat and humidity and the sun. Always has. Always will. The temperature sits at eighty. It’s predicted to climb to one hundred today, or even higher. Hotter than hell. Horror movie hot. He’ll sizzle and burn to death like a warlock or a vampire by three this afternoon. No joke. Luke takes the elevator into the basement. His Nissan Leaf, an all-electric car purchased ten months before, is parked in spot B-7 in the parking garage beneath the apartment building, next to the Monongahela River. He unplugs it from the front, climbs in, and starts the engine and air conditioner. A full charge puts a smile on his face. He can’t remember the last time he’s paid for gas but loves the extra money in his pocket. He backs out of the parking spot. The console speaks to him in her Angelina Jolie voice, “You have one new message, Mr. Masterson.” He presses a button next to volume. Angelina says, “Meeting this morning with Mike Tangsten. Eleven A.M. at The Royal.” Tangsten’s a new writer at Melner Publishing. Creates horror novels. Melner will publish three of his novels in the next eighteen months: The Meadow, The Worshippers, and Midnight Asylum. Working titles pending, of course. Luke’s job is to do a dog and pony show for Tangsten: wine and dine him at expensive city restaurants, show off the city, and let Tangsten experience its exciting ins and outs, both dirty and appealing. He loves his job. Been doing it for seven years now. He does everything at Melner: pony shows, sometimes editing, flies to New York City for book conventions, and helps design book covers. He has a degree from the Art Institute of Monongahela in graphic arts and a minor degree in digital design, both of which are useful for his elastic position at Melner. Honestly, he doesn’t know what his job title is, but he doesn’t care. When Bob Brishner, the owner of the small publishing company, provides him with a task, he gets is done, no argument. This is in Luke’s nature. A listener. A jumper. A man who produces. It’s carpool time. His carpool. Something he’s been in charge of for the last few years. And it’s his turn to drive this week. Luke pulls out of the garage and heads west, closing in on the city. As usual, morning traffic is a b***h, even in August when the kids are off school and families are on vacation. One of the city’s four hundred bridges under roadwork can cause a backup for the remaining three hundred ninety-nine. He leaves his neighborhood of Russell and ends up on East Carson Street, which turns into Debner Avenue. The neighborhood of South Sulton near the Hot Metal Bridge welcomes him. South Sulton has the reputation of having nightlife: young men and women gather at bars to play darts, drink heavily, and feed the neighborhood restaurants with their hard-earned money. Most residents of the city call the area eclectic, liberal, and young. A party place not for the mild and far-right. Right on time: 8:30. Luke’s carpool buddy for the last five years, Perrin Lerue, lives on Blasé Street in a one-bedroom studio apartment. Luke parks in the front of a gay stripper bar called Willie’s and waits patiently for Perrin. One minute passes. No sign of Perrin. No problem. He’ll wait it out. Perrin is never late. Always on time. Always standing on the curb, waiting for him in every imaginable form of weather: blistering heat, high winds, the residue of an east coast hurricane, or a blizzard. If Perrin’s sick, he sends Luke a text message that reads: Staying home today. No need to stop and pick me up. Or something similar, conveying the point that he won’t be going to work. Luke checks his text messages on his cellphone. One is new from his sister, Valerie. She sends him a picture of a baby panda hanging from a bamboo tree. Cute. Nothing important. Smiling material. But there’s nothing from Perrin. No announcement that he won’t be going to work today. Two minutes pass. No sign of Perrin. Luke beeps the Leaf’s girlie-sounding horn. He looks up and through the windshield, hoping to see movement in one of Perrin’s apartment’s windows. Nothing. Only a sunshiny glare of white, yellow, and silver mixed. Three minutes pass. “Hey, buddy,” Luke says, becoming irritated. “Come on, Perrin. We’re on a tight schedule here. We both start at nine.” Four minutes pass. More irritated, he turns off the Leaf and climbs out. He enters the building to the right of the queer bar and climbs the four flights of iron and cement stairs. By the time he reaches the fourth floor, he’s soaked with sweat, overheated. He’s not puffing, though, fit. Luke works out three times a week at MuscleButts Gym on Layland Street after work. Thank God the squats and cycling have finally paid off. A gray steel door welcomes him on the fourth floor. He knocks once. Nothing. He knocks twice. Nothing. “Perrin, are you in there?” he yells through the Superman-strength metal. Nothing. Luke digs out his set of keys on a Pennywise character keychain: one key for his apartment, one key for the Leaf, one key to his sister’s house, and one key to Perrin’s studio apartment. He slips Perrin’s key into the lock, turns it right, and listens to the lock click open. He’s in.