by Jack Whitacre

100X

Lost. I ask for directions at a memory recovery center, a wing of some palatial villa in the hills of Lexington. Licking all the germs in world would make one invincible or kill them, I think, pressing the intercom button.

Static. Intermediate silences. “Go to X. If you’ve passed Y you’ve gone too far.”

Departing the surreal, I leap into darkness. Newfound agility. Click of Cole Haan. Street light embers. Leaping over barriers, symbolically, with grace.

Beyond bushes, car parked discretely. I use a hard key, enter noiselessly. Keeping the running lights off. I peel out.

X mode.

As if the whip was not from this world, I take gravity as my shepherd. Conserving energy. The hill throws me into a stream of traffic. Flying in darkness. Coasting through space.

Brakes test the driver. Tight spaces, inclines, banks.

Transformed. Seeing what was there all along. The automatic a manual in waiting. Nuetral. Each stop an ellipse.

Destination found. Sustenance. Sleep. Headiness abandoned, doubt replaced with firmness of being.

But what’s it like? Meditating at the crux of a particle accelerator. Computing. Bathing in binaries. Bending to see the dew on the crowns of tangled grass, like Hafez.

Apple maps. 15 over. We cruise. Friend as co-pilot. Destination South Station. China Town.

Along the way, joined by a conspicuously inconspicuous state trooper. Hovering like a parental-hivemind sand wasp testing each driver for skittishness.

“What do I do?”

“Ignore them.”

The cop pulls past, cruising to his or her next inquiry.

The moment? The Zakim Bridge. Like two obelisks connected by silk rods of reinforced steel.

I push into the space in front of an industrial rig. Momentus suspension...

Missing a yellow light, the high subsides. Passenger arrives. I depart for Maine. Home. Two hour trip.

1-95, 1-93, 295. The shifting numbers, double backs over bridges, I imagine a system of architecture where bridges move, towed to areas of most need, like magical staircases.

Driving home.

Then, I spot her...

The Yellow Camaro.

A high-octane sleigh.

Moving through traffic together. Cognizant. Even.We cross the Portsmouth Bridge. Towards the toll booth, she pays cash. Untraceable. I mirror.

We ‘whip’, like highway patrol duos speeding up and slowing down the traffic at will.

The kinetic action of a whip, the quick, the crack back of the wrist.

We speed up traffic, make a gap, wait, then open the gates. Pure acceleration. Through crowd into open waters.

Gliding.

I cruise solo. On the way to some metropolis. Emptying my wallet, keeping only the essential. Official and unofficial identification. On the ready.

Meditated to the Xth degree. Ready to be pulled. My response? “I’m learning. If the good guys are gonna keep up with the bad guys, we have to learn to break the rules.”

Pumping the bass to 6+, volume to the limits, I resolve to keep it more than 100. 100X, X unknown.

B.I.G. “Juicy” in full force. RPM an eternal chorus. 100. I fly by. Loud, fast, and seen.

Cruising off the shoulder coming down from the high. I pull towards familiar roads. Stopping a mile from home. I take flight. Time trial mentality. Pass one car as if it had happened before. Taught by the experience of what has yet to come.

The last turn... some destined to drift. E-brake pulled into a gentle half moon. Black crescent smouldering. The calligraphy of hot tires.

Again.

Again.

Into loose sand and gravel. I park without recoil.

A man rambles into the drive. Bearded, angry at the speed, for endangering his children. I listen. He leaves.

Time passes, I go to his door. Apologize. Explain. That he is lucky to have two healthy sons. That it will never happen again.

He listens. Accepts this. We shake hands. Special Force force when his eyes meet mine.

I depart, arriving home.

Not quite the same...

09/21/14

100X