Interstate
By Joe Brofcak
Jack, a young man in his 20s, is tired and strung-out, dressed in dirty clothes that may have once been fashionable. He is speeding down a Midwestern interstate in the middle of the night. He speaks into a miniature tape recorder, and describes his journey.
JACK:
I'm at over 80 miles per hour and I lose my shit. Too many thoughts rattling around in my brain. Too many miles of cold gray asphalt and interstate nothingness. I haven't slept in days, as usual, and all I can think about is that call I got at 6 a.m. 'Jack you better get out here.' I slammed the phone down and hit the road. The rest is a blur. It's too much to bear, the thought of my step-father's impending death. God, I'm tired.
(Jack takes out a small vial of white powder and using the scoop attached to the cap snorts a dose up each nostril.)
Now, I'm racing over eighty, wisps of weathered country streaking by, my mind going even faster. I'm somewhere on I-70. Could be Missouri. Who the hell knows? It all looks the same on the interstates. All I see is grey. Grey trees and hills, with the wet grey road interrupted by the occasional grey city. It seems like I've been driving through this shit for years. (Beat.) I don't know why I'm doing this, driving across the country to hopefully make it in time to see Phil. I'm not supposed to care about my step-dad. Truth is, Phil was way more of a father than my real dad ever was.
(The sound of the car accelerating.)
Whoa. Hitting ninety. I'll back it off a little. Seventy is the speed limit here in Whatever state. I'm used to sixty five, living in New York. The extra bit of leash is appreciated, pigs. (Beat.) It's always been this way. Whenever I'm stressed, and about to blow, I hit the road. Leave my troubles behind, keep moving, stay speeding so fast my life can't catch me. For as long as possible...
