Literary Work Johnson had his face tucked under small leaves, hardly able to keep a mouse from getting scorched. “I’m just taking a break.” Moya slid into the passenger seat and stretched his hand towards him. “Get in.” From then on, free rides into the city kept him from leaving before the roosters caught wind of the day. Moya drove like a shark, weaving in and out of lanes no matter the line, dotted or solid. He didn’t even need a steering wheel to make other drivers curse and fear. One morning Johnson jumped up onto the passenger seat and noticed a wrench fitted to the column. His wide-eyed gaze turned upwards. “What?” The young boy didn’t know whether to fasten the seatbelt or keep one hand on the door in case he’d need to open it and jump. “Where’s the steering wheel?” Moya’s smile was a bird in a hurricane. “I don’t need it. Somebody gave me a cow for it.” He pushed his seat back to give him room to move the tool, then started the engine as though he’d driven with a wrench for his entire career. Johnson learned to let his head fall with gravity, like the rest of the passengers, gathering their thoughts for the day or drifting back to the sleep they’d left before the light. But his discipline wouldn’t hold for very long. Once he was awake, he couldn’t go back to sleep, and his thoughts were simple and undisturbed. He’d play a game with himself, trying to keep his head as stiff as concrete, then wiggle his eyes to corners where’d he’d watch the other faces for signs of life. Old, young, middle-aged men and women hung their mouths over their knees, and if it weren’t for their chests moving up and down, most of them would’ve passed for bones in a field. He wondered how long it would be until he might become one of them. But for now, he found amusement watching their bodies move with Moya’s erratic driving, invisible shoving that couldn’t shatter their somber states. After a giggle or two, his highway sights became his feet and cigarette butts that had missed the open window. The offramp into the suburbs was a line reeling his vision to the surface. He watched avenues of trees magically appear between bright red-roofs and walls that stretched like snakeskin. Who are these people, and what do they do? He thought to himself. His favorite house ran up into the clouds. He had to duck under the passenger window to catch its entire height, which he never got bored of doing. “One day, I’m going to own that house.” Moya’s laugh was a chimney that needed cleaning, swollen and stumbling air from his lungs. “If you ever own a house like that, I might become our next president.” Though the older man was mostly a blister to the boy, when the time came for dropping Johnson at the red light, he offered the cool of a hundred trees.
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NEW READER MAGAZINE
“Make sure you turn with the sun. They won’t be able to see your sign if their eyes are fighting the light. If somebody gives you problems, tell them I’m your father. If that white man asks you to leave, disappear for a while, then come right back.” This day, like the others, Moya put his emergency lights on and stopped traffic so Johnson could jump out in the place he’d stay until nightfall. A group of men, leaning against a wall, snickered from afar with threats of “paying rent or else.” Moya, unafraid of a pack of lions, spun a U-turn. He drove his taxi as close to their feet without pinning them against the wall. “You leave that boy alone today. Touch him, and you’re dead.” If their bloated bellies weren’t skin-tight holes of fear, they might’ve thrown fists at him. Instead, they nodded their heads until his backlights turned bright. Then their toes wiggled like worms on a hook, relishing the taste of artificial freedom. The morning rush was a winter’s chance of crops. Men and women on their way to work, taking their kids to school, stayed preoccupied with brushing hair, fitting ties, and final touches to powered faces. He learned from the others that getting too close to the windows made them feel scared, but eye-contact was vital. He didn’t need to suck his stomach in or make his face gaunt like a ghost. None of them did. But the boys that had been doing it for a while carried tricks like a deck of cards. At first, he wondered whether a smile or a blank stare might serve him better. They all argued about this daily. Some believed that sadness was the hand that provoked generosity. Others thought that a grin brought connection. Johnson tried both, but any time young children returned his gaze, he couldn’t help but put his teeth on full display. By lunch, the day was a furnace, and all his profits he could hold in two fingers. He needed at least a fistful to buy paraffin and beans for the night. The shade near the forbidden wall was free, but in it, the leftovers of men who were either late or too lazy. Against the voice of Moya in his head, he found a resting spot. “You’re Charlie’s kid, aren’t you?” A cigarette-mouthed man caught his attention as Johnson’s bottom touched his heels. The young boy turned to look at him while the man threw his dry mouth off the bridge. “Yes. But he’s gone.” The older man’s eyes went small as he drew the smoke into his lungs. Then he coughed, and smoke came from his mouth with invisible nails scratching his throat on the way out. A small cloud of it made Johnson hold his breath. “Do you know what happened to your dad?” Johnson opened his mouth, and the smoke made him teary. “I don’t know. My mom said he just disappeared.” Watching the young boy struggle, the older man waved his hands back and forth, fanning the vapor out of sight. “I knew your father. He used to sit with me against this wall waiting for work.” Johnson’s eyes went sharp, fixed on the man. “Do you know what happened to him?”
