Ed Coonce

Annie

 

 

          There was Annie, caught between some kind of Hell and escape to an unlikely Heaven. She was stranded halfway to St. Louis and her sister’s house, where she knew she would find respite, however brief.

 

          She hadn’t mentioned to Ellie that she was coming, but these were desperate days. Fed up with her boss, fed up with her abusive boyfriend, fed up with her life, she deserted her job one Friday morning, went home, packed her bags, and walked to the bus terminal.

 

          “Should have worn my tennies,” she told herself later. “Oh, well.”

 

          Somewhere out in the dry desert, that bus broke down, steam pouring from under the hood. While waiting for a replacement vehicle, Annie, tired and fed up, grabbed her suitcase and left, walking down a blacktop highway with no end in sight.

 

          “Don’t do it,” the driver told her. She left.

 

          That long black ribbon of road was, ironically, Annie thought, just like her life...featureless, tough, and with no way to see what may lie over the horizon.

 

          Struggling in her work shoes, the heels twisted this way and that in the cracked and gravelly asphalt. The luggage got heavier with each mile.

 

          About an hour on, she stopped for a bit and sat down on her suitcase, stretching her legs. The sun had crossed its zenith and hung bright overhead.

 

          An armadillo ambled across the road and stopped near her, breaking her reverie. She was a bit surprised, but she knew, being educated in such things, that this fascinating creature was relatively harmless.

 

          “Where you goin’, little guy? she asked. To her surprise, the armadillo answered.

 

          “Just had to come and check out what looked to me like the most sad, pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

          Shocked, Annie could not speak, just sat with her hand over her mouth.

 

          “Oh, I know,” said the armadillo, “I’m not known for my intelligience or intuition, just my scaly, protective exterior, am I right?”

 

          Annie relaxed and decided to go with it. “What’s your name?”

 

          “Call me Keith,” said the armadillo, “My mom named me after Keith Richards. She thought he was the best looking of the Stones.”

 

          “Nice to meet you Keith, where do you live?”

 

          Before Keith could answer, a car came speeding down the road, then coasted to a stop. It was a sporty silver-blue ‘55 Porsche Spyder, top down, a young man in aviators behind the wheel.

 

          “Hello Keith,” the driver said, and pointed to Annie. “Who’s this?”

 

          “Annie, my name’s Annie,” she said. “This is so weird, I...I...”

 

          “Oh, I get that all the time,” said the young man.

 

          “Annie, this is my friend Jimmy,” said Keith.

 

          “Pleased to meet you, Jimmy. Have we met before?” His face seemed so familiar to her. What’s your last name?”

 

          “Dean,” he answered.

 

          Annie nearly fainted, then found her voice. “Would you mind giving me a lift?”

 

          “No problem,” answered Jimmy. “Where you headed?”

 

          “I don’t know, maybe St. Louis.”

 

          “Fine, I could use a little company,” said James Dean. He smiled at her and reached for her suitcase. Unaccustomed to such politeness, she held on to the handle and helped him stow it in the tiny trunk.

 

          Keith spoke. “You guys have a great trip,” then rolled himself into a ball. He poked his head out and spoke once more.

 

          “Time, it is a-changing,” he pronounced.

 

          “It was great meeting you,” said Annie, then got into the car. “Next time I’m through, I’ll look you up,” she said, knowing how unlikely that moment, and even this moment was.

 

          James Dean started the Spyder and headed down the deserted highway, picking up speed. He looked over at Annie. “I’m really a good driver,” he said.

                   

          The speedometer needle crept up, seventy, eighty, ninety. At the horizon, the afternoon sun glinted from an approaching vehicle. Annie closed her eyes.

 

 

Ed Coonce is an Encinitas, CA writer, actor, artist and creative director. He hosts East Hell Writers , Antisocial Writers and Creative Misfits, and Phantom Poets. His served as creative director for Theatre Arts West. He is wrapping up a nearly three year full length musical project in which he is set designer, actor, singer and dancer. The musical will have its premier later this year. He is a past honorable mention in the Oceanside International Film Festival and will soon begin filming a new movie about time travel. He is married and has one grandchild. His roots are in the Midwest, he grew up in Indianapolis, attended Indiana University and San Diego State University, and has a BA in Anthropology. He is a Marine Vietnam veteran and is working on his combat memoirs.