A Hold On The Wheel

A Hold On The Wheel

Sisel Gelman

It started off with a mint-colored Cadillac.

As much as I would’ve liked to say I knew it was a 1956 model, I couldn’t. I was a car enthusiast, but I wasn’t as well versed in older cars as I would’ve liked to be.

This particular Cadillac caught my eye when it stopped at my toll booth because it had been restored to its original glory. It was beautiful. The fresh wax shone like the sun and the engine purred softly. It knew it was loved by its owner.

Who wouldn’t have remembered that car or the man sitting in it?

The man inside was in his late twenties, with a defined, straight nose; well-groomed, wavy brown hair; a set of perfect, pearly white teeth framed behind a wide smile. Although he had sunglasses on, and I couldn’t see his eyes, I could tell he knew I wanted his car and I wanted to be him— everybody did. Even forty years ago, when I was his age, I didn’t look like that or drove such a car.

He gave me six dollars and blew a big bubble with the gum in his mouth. It popped loudly. “Keep the change,” he said with that memorable smile of his.

I dreamed of Mr. Mint’s Cadillac that night.…

I didn’t think of Mr. Mint for a full week after our first encounter. I went to work every morning as usual, sat at my toll booth in the heat, and at the end of my shift, had lunch with Rory at the side of the road. Looking back, Mr. Mint did spark in my subconscious a sort of hyper-awareness about my age and my empty bank account... but I wasn’t thinking of him. Instead, I found myself comparing my saggy skin to Rory’s smooth, dark complexion, or Rory’s visible strength to my weakening bones. Rory, my co-worker, had recently been fired as a warehouse loader when the company he worked for downsized. His broad shoulders were being wasted at the toll booth.

It wasn’t until next Sunday that Mr. Mint rolled around again, but this time, in a red Maserati Grand Turismo. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but I knew it was him. He looked relaxed with his hand resting on the wheel and his lips turned up at the edges.

“Sir, you have excellent taste in cars,” I said as I counted his change. “Both this one and the Caddy are beauts.”

He furrowed his brow. His smile lost its curve. “What Cadillac?”I blinked. “The one you… The mint-colored…”Mr. Mint didn’t react. Not a single muscle moved in his face.“I’m sorry, I must’ve confused you with—”

“Someone else?”

“Someone else,” I repeated. We both stared at each other as I nodded in embarrassment, and after a pause, a burst of laughter broke from his mouth.

“Keep the change,” he said and drove off with a smile.

Despite this conversation, I knew what I knew. It was him in both cars.

I kept my eyes open for Mr. Mint the next day. The highway had five booths, and I usually worked at the one on the far right. It was hard to glance at the cars outside of my lane, but I made the effort and I managed. Sometime around eleven in the morning, I scanned the highway, and I saw Mr. Mint lined up at the next toll booth in a blue BMW M3.

It was him, all right.Then two days passed without a trace of Mr. Mint.

On Thursday, right after my shift ended, I was waiting by the side of the highway for Rory’s replacement to take over when Mr. Mint sped past me in a yellow Chevrolet Camaro. I was stretching when I saw him pull out of the farthest booth.

I stood in shock with my cracked lips parted until Rory walked over with a brown paper bag in his hand.

“Rory, have you noticed a man who drives through here every day in a different car?” I asked. I couldn’t take my eyes off the road. It felt as if Mr. Mint could appear at any moment.

“A different car? Nah, that’s crazy,” he sat down at our usual picnic table. Everyone else always chose to sit at the other table.

“I swear it’s him,” I sat across from Rory. “Today he used the farthest booth from mine. Something’s fishy. I think he’s avoiding me.”

“How do you know it’s him?”“I never forget a face. It’s him.”

“I don’t know,” Rory took a bite out of his sandwich, “Why would anyone change cars every day?”

I shrugged. I really didn’t know.

I took the bus back to my one-person apartment, slugged up the three flights of stairs to the door, and stared out the window the entire evening. I wasn’t hungry enough for dinner; I was curious. Why would a man change cars every day and then pretend he didn’t? I went to bed in my underwear and stared at the creaking ceiling fan for hours.

Where did all the cars come from? Where was he going?

The next morning was my day off. I had a cup of instant noodles for breakfast and then sat again by the broken window. The cool breeze kept me from melting into the summer heat, and it helped keep my imagination alive.

The phone rang every hour or so. The bank wanted to get a hold of me again. I knew it was them because no one else ever called—I didn’t have any friends, I didn’t know my neighbors, and my daughter hated me.

I didn’t pay much attention to the phone. By the end of the day, I had a list of theories. Content with myself, I splashed my face with cold water, laid down over the covers, and slept soundly all night long.

…

As the weeks went by, I became an expert on Mr. Mint’s behavior. I tracked the times he crossed the toll booth; I wrote down which booth he used; I remembered his cars.

Rory grew concerned with every passing day.“Let it go, man,” he said. “Just forget it. Don’t go crazy.”

I trained myself to count money so fast that, with only a glance, I knew how much was in my hand. This way, I maximized the time I could scan the road for Mr. Mint between customers.

I couldn’t get enough. Every new visit from Mr. Mint brought new information, and I had to abandon some theories through a process of elimination:

-Mr. Mint could have had a doppelgänger, but that was an unlikely theory. Out of chance, they would have coincided at the toll booth by now, and I had never seen two Mr. Mints at the same time.

-Mr. Mint could have been some sort of specialty driver for people who wanted to know what it felt like to sit in the back of those fancy cars. Nevertheless, he always drove alone.

-Mr. Mint could have had a job somewhere on that barren highway, but the issue with this one was that he didn’t seem to have a schedule or pattern. Mr. Mint crossed the toll booth whenever Mr. Mint felt it was time to cross into the desert…

-Mr. Mint…-Mr. Mint…-Mr.—

One day, Mr. Mint drove through my toll booth in a cream-colored Mercedes S Class Sedan. It had been happening more often now that he had forgotten about me. Maybe he thought I was a different person. Maybe he thought I had forgotten him. I didn’t even try to start a conversation;

I did not want to reveal myself again after time had cloaked my intentions so well. Instead, I did my best to record inside my head everything I could about the way Mr. Mint was dressed and what the inside of his car looked like.

I saw nothing out of the ordinary.

When he drove off, I peeked my head out of the booth and saw a muted red smudge on the trunk of the car by the right brake light. It wasn’t too big, but it might have been about the size of my hand.

The next car in line honked their horn. The supervisor probably noticed I was distracted, but I didn’t mind. I was busy doing more important work.

I didn’t wait for Rory at our picnic table at the end of my shift. I took the first bus home and ran up the stairs to my apartment. Was this smudge the missing link to the mystery?

I couldn’t lie down or sit by the window all night. I paced back and forth on the creaky floorboards for hours. After the third hour, my downstairs neighbors used a broomstick to loudly jab at their ceiling to get me to stop. I jumped up and down loudly in revenge. By the fifth hour, another neighbor knocked on my door. She had pink sponge hair-rollers wrapped into her hair and told me her husband was furious at all my pacing.

I realized then that I didn’t know her name, what apartment she lived in, or how long she had been my neighbor.

I took a step back and slammed the door in her face as payback for disrupting my line of thought.

Her husband knocked a minute later with a gun in his hand.“How dare you do that to my wife?” he yelled.

“Good morning,” I edged him on. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

His jaw dropped. The man began a screaming match with his gun pointed at my unkempt gray hair. It woke up the entire building.

“What’s going on?” the superintendent ran up the stairs.

“He won’t shut up!” my neighbor yelled. All the other people living in the building were there, peeking out of their doors or perched on the top stairs. Some stared in silence, while some encouraged the other man with whistles and claps.

I couldn’t stay and yell for too long in the hall—I was on the brink of solving the mystery!

“Crazy bastard, I should’ve kicked you out a long time ago!” the superintendent belted.

I spit in his face and stormed out.

“I don’t need you! I don’t need this apartment!” I said. I ran down the stairs two steps at a time. I needed answers. I could walk around the neighborhood and think until morning.

When the sun came out, I was sitting at a public bench by a mental hospital, but most importantly, I had cracked the mystery: Mr. Mint was clearly a hitman of some sort. He was dumping the bodies in the desert… or at least, he was the one transporting those bodies into the desert for someone else. He hid in plain sight. That was his secret! The flashy cars were an inside joke with his ego; it was a brilliant display of his ability to remain unknown even in those eye-catching cars.

I went back to work at the toll booth without taking a nap.

I remained sharp the entire morning. The adrenaline helped. I kept my gaze on the road, even when there were cars lined up at my booth. I counted the money by how it felt in my hand to avoid glancing away from the road even for a second. I knew I gave the wrong change to my customers over and over again.

I saw him everywhere.Every car was Mr. Mint’s Cadillac; every man was Mr. Mint.

I knew they weren’t in my heart, but my eyes kept building these beautiful mirages of Mr. Mint driving into my toll booth.

A wood-trimmed, white PT Cruiser stopped at my booth. The man, who was in his early forties and had a receding hairline, asked me how much the toll cost.

“Five-twenty,” I scanned the road.“How much?” he asked again.“Five dollars and twenty cents, sir.”

He nodded and pulled out his wallet. I sighed as my skin ticked in anticipation. I narrowed my sight over the road to see better in the sun.

I gasped.

In the distance, Mr. Mint’s black Audi A8 approached fast. I licked my lips in excitement. I knew it was him. I couldn’t be wrong. The customer handed me his sticky money. Mr. Mint knew I was watching. He could feel my gaze laid on the hood of his precious car.

I gave back the man’s change. The man took it and counted it.

Mr. Mint knew I knew… he knew I knew he knew. It was clear this was true because Mr. Mint chose to line up at the toll booth second farthest from me. He was trying to avoid me.

It was proof of his guilt.I jumped out of the booth with my arms flailing in the air, “Wait!”

The man in the ‘PT Loser’ finished putting his change away and didn’t see me step out on the highway. He pressed down on the gas pedal and sped past me. I felt the car’s speed as a breeze on my face and sleeves.

“Stop! Stop! I know what you did!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I ran across the line of booths and cars like a frog—two steps front, pause, sprint, pause again, three steps more. I never took my eyes off my criminal, “Don’t let him get—”

A beige Toyota Sienna zoomed towards me and then pressed down on the brakes. I felt their bumper graze my thigh. The blonde woman’s mouth formed an ‘O’ as big as her wide eyes on the other side of the glass.

I let out a howl and slammed my hands hard on the car, “Watch it! Don’t let him get away! Don’t—” I limped towards my prey, “Don’t let him-” I pointed at the black Audi and tried hobbling faster, “He’s a criminal!”

Mr. Mint pulled up to the front of the line.“Wait! Wait!” I clutched at the pain in my leg.

I was only a toll booth away when I felt a pair of strong arms wrap around me and picked me up. I tried scratching my way out of their grasp. I shook my head and kicked.

“Stop it, Jacob. Let it go,” Rory said. He pulled at me and began to retrace my steps back to my booth. I breathed heavily. I saw Mr. Mint hand over his money.

The booth operator counted it, and then let him go.Mr. Mint rolled up his window and drove away.But—Right before he left, Mr. Mint glanced in my direction and winked.I swear he did.Mr. Mint smiled at me, at our shared secret, and then drove away.I couldn’t breathe. I let my limbs go limp, “Did you see that, Rory?”“Let it go.”“Did you see that?” I yelled.“See what?”

“He winked at me! I saw it. I saw the wink,” I started crying, “He’s guilty! I know he’s guilty!”

“Shhhh, let it go. Just let it go,” Rory cooed at me as if I were a baby. I kept crying. I let myself melt into his warm embrace as tears ran down my cheeks. My leg throbbed. The vibration from my trailing ankle made the pain worse.

I lost consciousness before we made it to my booth.

The supervisor called an ambulance and they rushed me to the hospital. I was admitted into surgery right away. Later that day I woke up to the ‘good’ news that a mystery donor had paid for my surgery and would pay for all my hospital bills in full.

It had to be Mr. Mint, who else?

The pain in my leg turned out to be an incomplete fracture of the femur in the middle third of my thigh. The surgeon said he was surprised by the amount of internal bleeding I had endured.

I also got a call from my supervisor saying I had lost my job. He found my ‘paranoid’ behavior unprofessional. I was let go without a single co-worker disagreeing that I was unfit to work.

Not even Rory.I eventually forgave him for it.

It took me four months until I could walk again. I stayed at the hospital for the duration of my rehabilitation process. Mr. Mint paid for it all. Every day I asked the hospital for my donor’s name, and they’d respond by saying that the donor had specifically requested to remain anonymous. There was nothing I could do to find more information about him.

The first day I felt well enough to walk on my own, I asked to be discharged from the hospital. I wobbled back to my old booth and sat on the side of the highway—that was the only place I knew I’d find Mr. Mint.

The supervisor immediately tried to get me off the road and keep away from the toll booths, but he couldn’t because roads were public property.

Finding Mr. Mint was my truth, and these toll booths were his calling.

So I sat and waited. I did the same thing the next day, and the next, and the next. I never went back to the apartment. I lived off of dumpster diving, dimes, and Rory’s spare leftovers. I knew I had to be there the next time Mr. Mint drove through in his shiny parade of cars.

I knew the truth. I saw that wink.I waited an entire lifetime for him, but Mr. Mint never came back.