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Fiction by
Meg Pokrass
the running jukebox by Denise Scicluna
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The Forever Drive
She knows. I’d just be sitting at their damn parties being stared at like a spoiled appetizer by dad’s business partner, Dan Scotty—axe eyed by his third wife, swelling up like Jiffy-Pop. If I wasn’t gone. On the forever drive to Black Rock Desert from Orange, we crack each other up, say stuff like, “Say it however you say it”. That type of thing, Turbo laughs so hard he nearly has to pull off the road. Dad had a party three months and two weeks ago (one hundred and four days ago). Dan Scotty bumped into me in the kitchen, said “whoopsy daisy,” brushed my nipple with his forefinger. Then traced a moon around it, real slow. “You have to stop now,” I said to him. “Your dad’s a whore like you,” he whispered sour cream chip breath and gin, tracing the other moon nipple, like a piece that fell. That was the first night I let it continue outside by the pool. That’s the movie my brain locks down on. When the van growls, it cracks me up again. I say to Turbo, “tadpole hill,” taking his right hand and placing it on my stomach. “Moo, moo,” he says. Opening the window to vomit, I feel the rush of desert air. Tonight at Burning Man, I’ll cover myself with electroluminescent fake fur so nobody can trip over us. |
 I wrote the story during a long car ride to visit family, my husband drove and I wrote. I’ve always been intrigued by the various ways people cope with abuse—many of my stories and poems circle that subject. I like to come to the subject indirectly. As usual, this piece began in seemingly disjointed images, like a puzzle. |