"Dumber Than Dirt"

Published in Blue Murder, Issue #13, June 2000
Published in Blood & Donuts Anthology, Twilight Tales Inc., May 2001

Excerpt

Derek's father used to call him dumber than dirt. His mother said he wasn't the sharpest knife in the dishwasher. Both of them said he had more luck than brains. Like the time he accidentally shoved the gearshift in reverse and backed the car into a wall. No one got hurt, but eight-year-old Derek felt his sore bottom for days. He felt something else too. He'd only gripped the wheel for a few seconds, but the thrust of the engine was so powerful, his sense of control so profound that Derek was hooked on cars.

As he grew up, his passion deepened. He didn't care much about the engineering. Or the technology. But the cold sleek lines of a classic design, the supple leather of a bucket seat, the hum of a perfectly tuned engine triggered an urgent need in him—a need that could only be met by flooring it every chance he got. He spent his high-school years happily scouting, admiring, and borrowing the objects of his desire, sometimes without the owner's permission. But Derek never thought too much about the consequences of his actions, and when his friends went off to college, Derek went off to East Moline for two to five. He swore afterwards he'd never be seduced by a V-8's siren song again.

That summer he got a job at Lindsey's, a pub on Chicago's north side. Lindsey's sported lots of polished oak, soft lights, and a dartboard in the back. They served tiny steaks with blue cheese on top, and the place was always crowded. Chuck Lindsey was a sixties liberal who thought everyone deserved a second chance. He hired Derek to wash dishes and sweep floors. Derek found a room a few blocks away and walked to work. In Lakeview most folks did, and the dearth of cars helped Derek avoid temptation. He cheerfully joined the throngs of pedestrians hoofing it down the street, another skinny young man with long hair and a slightly sleepy expression.

All content © Libby Fischer Hellmann.