Written by Debra Elramey
Drive down Old Black Creek Road under a gray sky mottled
with rain clouds, pass a defunct warehouse and the infamous Midtown
Lounge by the railroad tracks where shootings are common as fast food chains.
Be grateful there’s no endless passing train in this shady edge
of town to hold you up and disrupt your shortcut.
Pick up speed along the deserted stretch of road bordered by deep woods
en route to the Thanksgiving Day feast at your mom’s house.
Don’t be shocked when a presence jumps out of nowhere:
a white shirt flapping in the bitter wind flung over a girl standing by the roadside,
frantic arms waving to flag you down. Follow your instinct and step on it;
this could be your imagination working overtime.
But when you glance in the rearview mirror the girl in white
is chasing your jeep, screaming like a banshee. When conscience kicks in,
back up toward the apparition appearing more real by the minute.
Before you come to a complete stop you’ll find her sitting next to you
in the passenger seat, feel her panic, hear her cry, “Quick, get me out of here,
he tried to rape me! Hurry before he sees me in your car, move it!”
Glance over and see her shaking like a squirrel, gasping for breath.
Stark naked except for a man’s white shirt she’s managed to slip into before
escaping. She’ll claim she was cleaning his house when he set out to rape her.
You may be thinking, yeah right. More like a hooker.
Reach over and touch her shoulder, a mild consoling gesture.
She’ll beg you to speed up and get her out of these woods before he sees her,
plead, “Take me home.” Being the Good Samaritan that you are you’ll acquiesce
and follow her lead. And end up in the worst part of town you’ve ever seen.
A godforsaken street in the heart of the slums.
Surrounded by thugs that make your neighborhood gang look
like the Angel Choir at St. Tim’s. Disheveled clothes hanging loose,
bloodshot eyes glaring, heads leaning in toward the windshield, sizing you up.
Deciding how to deal with this sudden stranger, potential narc bent on a bust.
This you know: they’d just as soon drive a blade through your chest
as look at you. Somehow you summon the boldness to crack the window
and command someone go inside and get the woman a coat.
Upon retrieval she covers herself, climbs out. And it can’t be fast enough.
Step on the gas and flee the scene with the speed of a thief.
When you reach a dead end turn around and pass the gang again,
find them still standing in front of the house, gawking. When you reach
the highway, floor it and never look back except to peer through the rearview
mirror and see how far you’ve come.
Text © Debra Elramey
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