My Name is Russell Fink by Snyder Michael

Author:Snyder, Michael [Snyder, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2009-05-19T05:00:00+00:00

I don’t claim to share any of Sonny’s clairvoyant tendencies. But several blocks from Dan’s house I have the sensation I’m being followed. My first clue is the incessant honking. Then my ears pick up on the sound of the BMW’s congested muffler and my rearview is a blue streak of swerving metal. It’s not clear from her reflection if Alyssa is overjoyed about something or homicidal.

I pull to the curb outside Dan’s house, unbuckle my seatbelt, and kill the engine. The noisy Beemer careens around the block and rockets toward me. Something tells me to stay put — a wise move since Alyssa misses clipping my side view mirror by mere inches. She executes a sloppy three-point turn and parks twenty feet behind me, but makes no move to get out. Since she routinely inflates the importance of holidays and special occasions, I suspect she’s here for my birthday. My mind conjures images of ripping the bow off a smashed iPod or a pair of shredded jeans. Or maybe she’s whipped up a batch of Ex-Lax brownies.

I hear her engine whine. Her muffler sputters its way through a series of impotent backfires. I check the rearview in time to see the chassis buckle and hear the tires squeal. I grip the wheel and clench my eyes, waiting . . .

The impact whips me around like a crash test dummy. My broken front bumper thumps off the seat behind me. Alyssa backs up. I watch her miniature version in my rearview. She’s squinting through her windshield, no doubt inspecting her work. I hear the bucking Beemer whinny again. I scramble to get my seatbelt back on and brace myself for the next blow.

The impact is more vicious the second time. And it feels like our cars have locked horns. It takes Alyssa three tries to dislodge her bumper from the mess she’s made of my rear end. I get out to inspect the damage as she speeds off, her hood bobbing up and down like a demented ventriloquist’s dummy. The back bumper is splayed at a ninety-degree angle, hanging on by a threadbare layer of fiberglass. It jiggles in my hand like a giant loose tooth. I’m considering the creative use of duct tape when my cell phone chirps to life on my belt, signaling a new text message:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BUTTHEAD!

I hear a creaking sound, followed by a soft pop, and I feel the full weight of the rear bumper in my hands. I toss it in the back seat with the front bumper and wipe my hands on my pants.

Dan is doing yoga, emitting strange whimpers and groans, when I stalk through the living room. Part of me wants to report my ex-fiancée to the cops. But Officer Peebles would probably answer, find a way to take Alyssa’s side, and then I’d end up spending the night in the drunk tank. I’m afraid I’ve become his white whale. Another part of me churns out rationalizations, that maybe this is Alyssa’s deranged way of accepting the terms of our breakup.

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