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FictionDidn't The Hip have a song about this? (first complete draft - expect revisions) I'm well known for choosing lousy boyfriends but as I lay there looking up at the closed trunk lid I thought "Jim is definitely the worst." * * * * When I met him I thought he was great. He had nicely trimmed brown hair, a well-groomed goatee, manicured fingernails and a trim figure. He even had a nicely modulated voice to match. I couldn't wait to take him home to my family. I was sure the spell had been broken, my necklace of losers had seen its last gem My family like him, they invited him to supper, listened attentively to his stories, swooned appreciatively when he produced a delicious dessert on the spot from some ingredients Mom had lying around. "Keep this one," my sister mumbled through a mouthful of Coconut Surprise "he's a catch." When Jim leapt up to do the dishes after dinner - shooing everyone else out of the kitchen - he even won my mom over. When we left the house that night I was going to suggest we drive to Vegas and get married in a wildly romantic impulsive ceremony. Luckily, my fear of sounding like a fool won out over my foolish heart or things could have turned out a lot worse. * * * * My shoulder and hip were really starting to get to me. I felt like I had been sleeping on a couple of tennis balls. I saw a picture of a hip joint once, a little groove in your hip bone where the little ball on the top of your thigh bone rests. I was pretty sure my hip ball and my shoulder ball were more prominent now. And my neck? It felt like there was a bent piece of metal in there. You know how when you have a thin piece of metal you can bend it and it makes a bwang sound? Yeah, well my neck didn't come out of the bend, I was longing for the bwang so I would feel some relief. And speaking of relief, I had the worst conundrum of humankind. I had to pee and I was thirsty. Both needs were bugging me with the kind of intensity you normally feel when you are in bed with someone else and it's three a.m. and you are between your partner and the wall. The only thing worse about my present predicaments was that every time the car hit a bump it jarred my bladder. A shared bed doesn't have the same tendency to hit a bump or if it does, at least you are distracted from your full bladder - that is presuming your partner is any good. I guess I'm lucky I'm not claustrophobic or things would have been worse. As it was, I was struggling with pain, thirst and trying not pee when Jim decided to take things up a notch. Apparently, AC/DC is an excellent chauffeuring -your-girlfriend-in-your-trunk soundtrack. Now, I've listened to a fair bit of AC/DC in my time and I don't mind it at all when I'm sitting on a couch with a Coors Light in my hand. But when you're trapped in a trunk barreling down a bumpy highway, Hell's Bells doesn't really help matters. I'm not really sure what Jim's motivation was. It seemed like one minute we were laughing about his dismal music selection and wrestling in the back seat of the Neon and the next I found myself in the trunk of the car thinking that Jim's kink extended much further than I had originally thought. I guess that would have been the first stage - denial. I quickly moved into the second stage, pretending it was a joke, calling out to Jim, laughing "Oh, very funny. Now, head back here and let me out." That was followed of course, by anger. I started kicking the sides of the car and pounding at the trunk lid with my fists. I soon discovered that I was merely wearing myself out. So that left me with acceptance. I didn't make it to that stage. I started plotting. **** I'm not really accustomed to actual plotting. I've spent many a drunken night with my girlfriends spinning elaborate revenge fantasies when some man has done one of us wrong but those experiences seemed of little use to me as I bounced around the trunk. Who in this day and age gets to develop a good plot anyway? Mystery writers, sure, but they have all the time in the world to plan and I didn't know how much time I had. A man who would throw his girlfriend in the trunk of his car and go for a drive while howling along to AC/DC could not be relied upon to be predictable and stop for something to eat or even to pee. Now see that would be the advantage of being kidnapped by a woman, or at least by any of the women I know, because you know, sooner or later she's going to have to stop and pee. And while she's all crouched down in the woods trying not to piss on the back of her jeans you can gain the upper hand. Not only were most men I knew urine camels, able to hold it for unseemly amounts of time, but the bastards could pee standing up so their only vulnerability would be if they minded looking ridiculous as they chased you with their bits and pieces hanging out of their fly. Anyway, so my plot could not involve overtaking him as he peed, of course, that would involve me being able to get out of the trunk on my own and since he had removed that handy little 'escape from trunk' lever that all the new Neons had I couldn't really see that happening. The plan had to start whenever he opened the trunk. I had to assume he eventually planned to check on me, I couldn't imagine that the point of keeping me back here was to mummify me. What would be the fun in that? In fact, what the hell was the point of putting me back here anyway? It couldn't be rape, we were heading towards some pretty kinky consensual sex as it was. And if he was going to kill me he had had way better opportunities than this. Besides, it would have made sense for him to at least render me unconscious before tossing me back here, I'd be a lot less trouble that way. When it came down to it though, it didn't matter why I was entrunked, the reason wouldn't help me escape. So I figured I had two courses of action: let people know I was in the trunk (presuming anyone was around) or attack Jim when he checked on me (presuming he would eventually check on me). I remember reading, ages ago about these kidnapping vicitims who were stuck in car trunks. One of them pulled up the carpet inside, cut her wrist and let blood drip out onto the road until someone noticed. Now that just seemed foolish to me, I mean, who knows how long it would be before someone noticed? You might end up dead before the kidnapper was stopped or you might end up so weak from blood loss that if he checked on you you'd be unable to attack him and escape. The second victim managed to beat out both taillights and get the kidnapper pulled over by the cops. Once she heard the cop she started beating on the trunk lid until she was rescued. Now that sounded like a better plan to me but I wasn't sure where we were, and there was no point wasting my energy trying to beat out the taillights if we were on a deserted country road. And judging by the bumps we were pretty far from any highway. So that left me with planning to attack him once he checked on me. He didn't have the foresight to actually tie me up before throwing me in here, so at least I has all my limbs at my disposal, numb and bruised as they were. Sadly, at this point my most dangerous weapon appeared to be the torrent of urine I would release as soon as I got the chance. Alas, urine is not exactly anyone's weapon of choice , especially since a woman's ability to aim is compromised. And if we continued bumping down this road it would be a non-issue, my ultimate weapon would be reduced to an uncomfortable wet patch on my jeans. I figured a good kick with both feet would be my best choice. My chances of landing a good punch were slim but I should have enough force behind a kick to at least knock him over and give me time to climb out and really hang a beating on him, the bastard. I would probably just wing it from there. I'd have to try not to do too much damage though, I wanted him to be able to tell me why I'd been travelling for hours in a goddamn car trunk. If I survived this ordeal, I didn't want curiousity to kill me later. **** I spent the next hour trying not to pee, getting myself in the proper position for a good kick, and trying every mind control trick I'd ever seen on TV to get Jim to decide to check on me. I don't know if it was the mind games or a natural inclination of Jim's part but after about an hour and fifteen, I felt the car slow down and with a few final bumps, it stopped. I felt Jim ease out of his seat, the car door slam and I heard his footsteps on gravel as he came around the back of the car. He released the trunk lid, saying 'Honey…' He never got to finish the sentence. My size 8 Nikes caught him dead centre of his chest and he fell like a redwood. All the shifting I had done in the past hour had brought my numb limbs back to life and I pulled myself out of the trunk and gave Jim another couple of solid kicks. That's when I surprised myself. I found I didn't give a damn why he had put me in the trunk and driven me to the back of beyond. So I gave him another well-placed kick, this one to the head, and then heaved his unconscious body into the trunk and firmly closed the lid. After a quick crouch by the side of the road, I hopped into the driver's side, turned the car around and headed back from where we came. I reasoned that the first, smooth, part of the trip had been by highway and if I got back to the highway I'd be able to find my way home. I was right. **** Almost two hours later, I hopped out of the car in front of the Village Shopping Centre, wiped my prints off the car, strolled to the payphone, covered my hand with my shirtsleeve, and made an anonymous tip to Crime Stoppers about a man trapped in the trunk of a Neon in the parking lot. Then I walked around the front of the building, hopped on a bus and headed for home. The next time that my family liked my boyfriend, I was dumping him on the spot. © Christine C. Hennebury 2004 |
