Juvenescence

From zero to fifty in a Pintara took less than four seconds. To reach a hundred took another ten. Red Bull wouldn’t be offering a sponsorship, but the embarrassingly slow mechanical muscle he flexed still compensated for his own.

Two driveways behind him were the collection of his friends’ cars. A Clio, red and buffed. A WRX, pock-marked by hail. A Holden, empty of character beyond the alphabetised folder of pirated CDs. And a Volkswagen Golf, vacuumed beyond circumspection, with a faux leather clad steering wheel. Each was a source of pride amongst the various others surrounding them.

The party was fading. When the music was muted for a drunken speech by the host, the magic had started to dwindle. Tonight he had promised to not find himself sunk in a beanbag or folded over a kitchen chair. In a few more hours bodies would begin draping themselves over various pieces of furniture and throughout the many rooms. The host, the guy who’s house it was, even had some old church pews out back that were already full of empty cans, spilt contents, and unconscious footballers. In equal parts.

When he reached the top of the first rise he felt the dizzying dip of the road on the other side. He had reached that point of consumption when his vision took a few moments to catch up to where it was directed. As he gripped the steering wheel it was something he knew he shouldn’t be doing. At the same time however, there was a smile creeping across his lips knowing he was getting away with it. The only jury he had to face right now was that bus load of characters swelling his own mind. Their voices reduced in collective resignation of the journey home.

It only took eight minutes to get home. The WRX had done it in under six. The Clio in four twenty-five. It’s driver was the party host tonight, a guy who hosted with vigour. His speeches were always eloquent, but the audience was divided, the more cumbersome half not the most attuned to such vocabulary. The call for shots would echo a number of times during his few minutes of announcements. There would be slurs uttered that would raise a laugh which would begin to overwhelm. By this point the host was well rehearsed at recognising the heckle. In his pink suit with lime-green lining, a psychedelic Willy Wonka by any measure, he would have remaining a few quick-witted syllables and the music would be back on. The mood would have shifted as was custom, the halfway point apparent.

The streets were empty beyond the bubble of noise down here. His Pintara had been easy to manoeuvre out of the crush of vehicles parked on the empty lot across from the party. With the way runoff channeled across it there would be more than a few bogged tonight. Their owners would no doubt be later sleeping off the evening inside. But his Pintara he had parked, as was customary, right by the edge of the bitumen were it dipped off ungraciously into the thickened grass. There were four depressions in the ground where the Pintara’s wheels had always come to rest. His friend’s house was one regularly visited. That was where the parties always were.

Tonight had been different. It was the end of June. Half the crowd were returned from uni, back from the cities for the semester break. He had been anticipating this party for months now. Six months in fact. Six months spent slaving for a pitiful wage because there was nothing better he was motivated to seek. Six months driving a vehicle that huffed and puffed with a range of issues he kept having to throw money at. On more than one occasion he had driven with the party host riding shotgun and the alternator dying under the bonnet. A battery so trashed that it would not charge, blinkers blink, headlights shine, or engine start. Even the little digital clock on the dashboard was dimmed to a ghost. The pair of jumper leads under the seat were regularly needed to charge it, but most of the time he had to clutch start the engine. At night his friend would dangle out the passenger window shining the light of his phone onto the road ahead, vain hopes of catching the reflectors along the edges in what was otherwise a ridiculous attempt at safety. But these were country roads. Rarely was there a policeman. The only thing they really had to worry about was another kid driving without headlights for the dumb joy of it. Something that had become a bit of a trend this year. The cause of multiple incidents too.

But six months had passed in such a way. Six months waiting to hear the stories that others brought back. Six months those left behind had spent stealing plastic trays from fast food restaurants, putting them under the back wheels so their cars feigned skiing down the main street. Six months he had recklessly rolled around the surrounding areas to parties, to bush doofs, to beaches and bays, carting car loads of acquaintances in their attempt to fill something they did not know was empty. Six months he had waited, because waiting was easier.

As the Pintara accelerated down the slope the estate’s homes glowed with their various sensor lights over manicured lawns. Moths darted left and right as they always did, smears on a windscreen, tonight or tomorrow. The night was dark. There were amber streetlights spread perhaps every one hundred metres through this estate. Under each one was a pool of light, a puddle that seemed an unnecessary island in what was a rural landscape. Between them hung an urban void. The depths of farmland and forest outside these streets drowned out the little light pollution there was. By now the sound from the party was well behind him with only the ire of his engine revving between gear changes. In the last few weeks the exhaust manifold had started glowing red hot by the end of this eight minute journey. Eight minutes of heat that left it sizzling and popping for an hour afterwards. He didn’t know what the problem was. Nor did he really care. Until it stopped working he would persevere with the silent spectacle of it.

There was a bottle of kerosene rolling around the floor in the back. It banged against one side, cushioned by a blanket and pillow on the other. The rear seat was still folded down from where he had slept last weekend, and the smell of the kerosene remained as pungent as it had then. Despite how overwhelming it was he had hoped to make use of the space again tonight. In a different capacity. How though was an entirely different story. A thing of fantasy.

The five of them had started the party earlier today. He along with those who owned the Clio, the WRX, the Holden and the Golf. Barely past lunch it had begun. Everybody else had drifted in over the late afternoon. Many as the night wore on too and news was shared. He had the list of sent texts of his own time-stamped across most of the day, so much hinging on their responses. But then she had arrived unannounced, coincidently as he stole another moment to digitally tempt her. A spectre in the night he had only known by strings of letters since being granted her phone number back on the cusp of the new year. He knew to expect her at some point, but not the way she latched to his lips as she came up the driveway. A glorious few moments later he felt her arms release from their place behind his neck and a gentle peck signal the end of this embrace. His own hands had been too stunned to do what they longed for.

The moment had passed too quickly. Six months of wonder and hope at what this feeling would be like. As he had followed her back in it was completely lost to him. Insufficient time to commit it to memory. She entered the crowd as if alone and was swept up in old embraces that left him in their wake, drifting behind, awaiting, as always.

The next few hours had been unremarkable. He had remained constantly aware of where she was. At first he had watched her empty and then gradually destroy the styrofoam cup in her hand with fidgeting fingers in need of something to do. Her obvious nerves had then quickly calmed. He had meanwhile engaged in conversations, attempted new friendships, sullied old, eyes always fixed on her and what her expression said of the interactions she found herself in. Her smile pervaded. Her desire evident. It was not pleasant.

The party host was too swept up in the moment to burden with this problem. WRX was too drunk. Holden too prejudiced. Golf too naive. Alone he overthought their interaction, too much time trying to pour meaning upon it. Three sets of lips later he gave up monitoring her.

At the end of the road the estate opened up onto a wide country lane. Unnecessarily wide for the infrequent traffic. The tyre marks at the intersection revealing how four minutes and twenty-five seconds had become the recent record. He oversteered the corner but recovered well. A short and proud shout giving way to a satisfied sigh as the car set off home again.

Two bends later, he saw the headlights start to fade. The battery was running low. This produced more of a giggle than it should have. As he rose over a small hill he barely noticed the white mask staring back at him in the centre of the road. Not until it was upon him.

The thing about predators is that they work best alone. The other thing about them is that by being alone they go unnoticed. A solo act, so very lonely.

The owl’s eyes filled with his headlights as they opened what seemed exponentially. One moment there. The next gone. A very minor thud the only audible signal of its presence.

He slammed the brakes, the single word ‘No’ repeating on his tongue. He dared not reverse. For what he might find, of course, but also in case the bird was still there. A second crunch would be reprehensible.

Never before had he hit something. Animal, vegetable, nor mineral. The act of doing so swelled a space in his mind that had never before been so agitated and he was suddenly as sober as he had ever been. These masked owls were often seen atop fence posts and low branches on the road side. A belt of ground ripe for prey crossing its breadth. Everybody knew them around here, their white mask so familiar. A mask he too sometimes imagined wearing. Alone.

He left the car, tentatively walking back to where it had happened. The darkness was once again a void and no white puff of feathers or face appeared within it. He pulled out his phone and shone its light. He swivelled left and right, vision now clear, his numbed cheeks so sensitive to the cool night air. Back and forth, but no body. No feather. No nothing.

In the centre of the road, a shoddy Pintara wheezing, battery draining, metal glowing hot beside the engine, and he breathing rapidly at the absence of the talisman now extinguished.

His unerring steps into manhood had been littered with choice. In a small town the irony was in how easy it was to be overwhelmed by such restrained limits. How easy it was to endure within them.

The bird, if it was, was no more. In its absence, the gift of forethought.