The man with the slit-throat puts the gun back into his mouth and pushes it in deep. He pulls the trigger and his head explodes, flapping open with wet heat. The other two grimace from ringing ears, and they taste burn in their mouths.
THE DRIVER: [takes a few looks at the exploded head] His head looks like orange peels.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: Huh? [blinking to restrain watering eyes, hands over ears] My fucking ears are bleeding. I can’t hear you.
THE DRIVER: [eyes in rearview] I was just saying his head looks like orange peels — that’s how I would describe it.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: [examines exploded head] Yes, in one sense, but not in terms of the smell. I don’t like oranges — they’re too much work to peel. It’s not worth it [insistent] I hate when you have to do things to make other things happen. Like, for instance, as stated, peeling an orange.
THE DRIVER: [sniffs] Looks like he had an easy time.
They both laugh and the driver taps the steering wheel.
THE DRIVER: [to himself] I do really like oranges though.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: [not listening, still laughing lightly] Shit. You were always the funny one. How do you come up with that stuff? Seriously.
THE DRIVER: [adjusts himself in seat, excited] I don’t know man, it just comes to me. I swear. I swear it’s just out of nowhere. I remember this one time I was at the supermarket and I was walking down the aisle and I almost ran into this lady — so we kept sidestepping in the same direction. Want to know what I said? Do you want to know?
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: [wiping some blood off his face onto the car seat] You know I do, big-guy.
The driver pushes the body in the passenger seat, so the wound hangs out the window. The wound sprays the backseat through the open windows.
THE DRIVER: Well [eyes and eyebrows in the rearview] I said, “May I have this dance?” And I offered my hands like I really was going to dance with her [his eyebrows curl] She was all confused!
They both laugh. The driver removes blood from his ears using his smallest finger.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: Super funny. You are definitely the funniest person I know. Way funnier than the deer bones I keep underneath my bed. They don’t ever say anything funny. Not like you man.
THE DRIVER: [coughs into hand, then absently toned] Funny times a million bajillion [turns] Hey, did the stuff inside his head get on you at all?
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: A little bit yeah. Wait, what’s it called again?
THE DRIVER: [quickly] It’s called thoughts.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: [smallest finger shoveling blood from ear] No. I think it’s called blood. Blood. Does that sound right?
THE DRIVER: Not sure [rolls down window further] I forget words all the time. I understand myself through what words I still remember and which ones I can’t remember [pause] So none of his — blood — got on you then?
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: I feel like I should’ve had a poncho on, like I was at a Gallagher performance.
THE DRIVER: [excited] I remember Gallagher. Do you think he’s still alive? It’s hard to decide.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: For some reason I imagine that he is overdosing on the bathroom floor at a gas station. Or maybe he’s just in a gas station bathroom, combing the hair around his ears. And he isn’t smiling. He can never figure out how to style the hair around his ears. There is very little of the hair around his ears but he tries so hard to make it look nice.
THE DRIVER: [ignores] You never know. You can be anything you want when you grow up.
The man in the backseat puts his hand into the peeled head and then presses his hand over the driver’s face. The driver laughs. They pass a road sign with a message spraypainted over it that says: “Stay Home”
THE DRIVER: Thank you. Thank you for the handprint on my face. I guarantee you have improved the value of my body.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: [head in front of car, arms on each headrest] You know, this whole thing settles a bet I had with someone. We were arguing about what’s actually in your head. He bet me that inside a human head there are gummy bears and thumbtacks. He was pretty insistent. But now I know he was wrong. Now I know there is, blood. And no soul [claps] We’ve figured out a lot today. I always feel better going to sleep if I know I figured something out during the day [taps headrests] This is good.
THE DRIVER: [puts left forearm through open window] Well, look around do you see any gummy bears or thumbtacks?
The man in the backseat looks around. He checks his pockets and the floor and leans forward over the dead body and checks the glovebox. He takes out a small object.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: There’s a thumbtack in the glovebox but maybe that was there already? It seems hard to believe that he shot the insides of his head, like, into the glovebox. That would be too mysterious. I don’t think that can even happen. I’d be scared out of my mind.
THE DRIVER: Oh me too [pause] Hey can you sit back down and put your seatbelt on? I’m getting nervous. But yes, that thumbtack was in there already. I was tacking up some of my old gradeschool math exams the other day. My self-esteem has been low lately [eyes in rearview] I become randomly disappointed in myself and then I look at the grades on the math exams and the stickers with the smiling faces. It makes me feel better.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: [scared] Hold on, I forgot what my mom looks like again [sits back] I’m upset that my head is the only place that most of the world exists. I could just make up what she looks like but then she’ll be different every time. She’ll be a stranger every time. [rocking back and forth]
THE DRIVER: [reaches over to the passenger seat] It is mean of you to keep your mom locked up inside your head. You should let her out.
The driver grabs the bloody shotgun from between the dead person’s legs and offers it to the man in the backseat, smiles.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: Nice try, Mr. Joker.
They laugh.
THE DRIVER: [still laughing, smiling] You can’t blame me for trying [quickly not smiling] To be honest, I just didn’t want to have to give you a ride home.
They pull over and take the man with the exploded head out of the car and throw him into a ditch along the forest preserve. The driver kicks some leaves over the ripped head.
THE DRIVER: [pointing] Look, an ostrich.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: [blowing into cupped hands] You are the silliest person ever [looks up at forest] Wait, something is wrong. I am still very angry. Can’t stop feeling angry. Something is wrong [back and forth, looks from dead body to forest] I’m so angry.
They both look at the forest. The trees shake, building slow into volume, then stop in equally slow gradation. Wind.
THE DRIVER: [toneless] Something is wrong.
Neither says anything for a while.
THE MAN FROM THE BACKSEAT: Can we stop by the library on the way home? I have to drop off a book. I owe forty-five cents and I don’t want the women at the library to question my responsibility. I’ve been pretty good about establishing myself as a reliable person over there. I don’t want all that squandered so quickly. Don’t let forty-five cents separate me from seeming responsible to older women.
THE DRIVER: Alright.
They get back in the car. They drive. The handprint cools on the driver’s face and he rubs it off into little crumbs that he throws down by his feet, into the brush of the floormat. Taking a curve, the passing trees and the wind create a chopping sound through the window. They listen to the chopping sound and stare out the windshield. Paralyzed, staring blinkless.