It was raining and chilly.
He pulled the tinny rental car off the highway into a rest stop for a break and a stretch, checking his suit hanging in the back window and thinking about the gun case in the trunk. Reflexively he picked up the gaudy throwaway phone on the passenger seat and looked at the screen. There was, of course, nothing.
He'd lost his company phone. He'd had to stop in the middle of nowhere at a truck stop and buy a cheap prepaid unit. It pissed him off. The loss of control, the loss of what he considered his privacy and private numbers unnerved and angered him.
The rest stop was deserted. He got out and walked to the trunk, dug through his bags, and pulled out the black, chunky automatic pistol in it's holster and clipped it onto his belt. He looked through his wallet and checked his permit, then closed the trunk and looked around. He stood under a mercury light and regarded an empty parking lot.
The gun made him feel powerful, and he stood straight up, turning in a full circle, then walked away from the tin can car and toward the state building. He wandered randomly, almost dancing in the parking lot, then crossing the blacktop and approaching the low brick structure. He swept his coat aside in a self-conscious dramatic way and put his hand on the black pistol, and entered, almost pretending something important could happen. He opened the entry door and made a show of going in, knowing no-one was watching, then making a show of relaxing and shuffling through the building, taking his time, looking at the vending machines and tourist brochures.
He strolled into the bathroom, then decided to put on a show. He backed out, tiptoeing, then grabbed the gun and stormed into the bathroom, like a cop, the cop he'd never be. There was a reflection in the hardened mirrors over the sinks, and he pointed the gun at his own image, smirking, feeling powerful and dramatic.
Then he holstered the gun and took a piss. After that, he wandered the building, half-assedly patrolling, watching, turning corners and furtively searching the interior.
When he felt bored he went outside and looked at the boxes of free papers. In a fit of cynicism he picked out the 'adult services' paper out of a nondescript metal cube. When he got back to the tin can of a rental he opened up the paper and made a half-hearted attempt to get it up. He went so far as to pluck his cock out his pants and look over the salacious pictures of trashy women, reproduced in bad black and white pixelation. Then he got angry and threw the paper out the window, at the same time slamming the car into gear and racing out of the lot.
The gun was still clipped to his belt.
About an hour later, in a rainy dusk, ugly lights glowed in the mist, and he saw what had to be the semblance of suburban civilization. He pulled off again, thinking of getting a hotel. Directly off the exit ramp he passed a dirty-looking, low building, a half burned out sign announcing 'Low Weekly Rates' and "Color TV.' On another savage whim he whipped around through the lanes, did a U-turn, and drove into the lot.
He got a room from an nondescript man behind bullet-resistant glass. They didn't lie: it was cheap. He didn't bother moving the car, instead walking to the room through a puddle-strewn parking lot, sticking the key in and glancing at the interior. It was crummy, dirty, and dark, and it smelled like bleach and Lysol. He slammed the door and walked back to the car.
On the road, he passed a series of signs announcing a large hospital center in the area; likely the employer of the place and the reason for all the lame glitz. He continued on, passing dumb chain things, some he recognized, some more regional and unfamiliar. He got stopped at a light, and on the right side was a workout center with large glass windows. He could see women on treadmills, and lazily, he studied a few of them, watching youthful bodies, taut and tight. The light changed and he moved on.
He went to casting around for somewhere to go, maybe walk around, maybe sit and look out over the dreary 'burb-scape. The places he went in his many travels were all the same: shiny, contrived signs, newish, nearly identical cars, blacktop and cultivated shrubbery.
He had a sudden urge to just turn around and floor it on the manicured, four lane 'business loop' in another nondescript corner of America and head for the hills and open country, away from the strip malls and chain restaurants, the extended-stay hotels and corrupt business-dinner steak joints. There had to be a wildness on the other side of all the artifice. He pushed down on the gas pedal, speeding up, then sighed deeply and stopped at a suspended light array.
