Drive West

Norm was not dreaming. He was in complete control of his hands, his fingers. They flexed when he wanted them to. He closed and opened his eyes. They followed his commands. He was in the driver’s seat. It was his car. The familiar Honda he had driven for thousands of miles. 93,677, to be exact. He saw that on the odometer. Yet just past the steering wheel, tucked into the wiper, was a note. It was hard to miss. It’s bright magenta screaming something urgent, something terrible. Norm exited the car like an expletive exits people’s mouths on such occasions.
The note said, “Drive west for 100 miles.”

In snatching it, the note had ripped through the word “mile.” Black letters on bright magenta paper. The letters were the unmistakable monospaced Courier that a typewriter would make. There was that quality to the paper — the depressions caused by a typewriter’s keys striking the paper. The note felt personal, alive, ominous.

“Drive west.” What was west of him? The ocean? Huntington Beach could not be farther than 20 miles from the parking lot where he stood.

A hundred miles? The middle of the Pacific? What could possibly be there? Whose note was it anyway? A prank? A warning? Ransom? A clue? Norm had many questions. No answer flooded his mind, however.

Drive. How? By car? Boat? The verb made no sense: drive. Was its meaning other than the ordinary?

The note must have been placed on his windshield while he was eating inside Chick-Fil-A — a sandwich and waffle fries with their famous sauce. The car was within sight while he ate. In his peripheral vision, sure, but still within sight. He could’ve seen it through the corner of his eye if he wanted. Yet he couldn’t remember whether anybody in the parking lot was close enough to his car to have had the chance to place the note on his windshield. Perhaps it was meant for someone else? There was no car left of his or right of his. Not a car in front of him, nor behind him. His Honda was like a tiny island in a parking lot. If someone had approached it, surely he would have seen some movement around it.

He felt the violence with which it was typed. If not violence, perhaps typed with urgency in mind? Desperation even? Was this a rescue mission? So many questions! What should he do?

He looked around the parking lot once more. He took tentative steps toward the dumpster but backtracked when he saw two cars pulling through the drive-thru. The dumpster was across the queue, and he didn’t want to be seen going into the dumpster enclosure without wearing a uniform that would make him look like he was authorized to be there. Nor did he want to cause a scene. Or, be on the camera that must be pointed at the parking lot.

Should he call the cops? What will they ask him? Is he expecting danger? Could he think of some acquaintance who would want him in the middle of the ocean off the Los Angeles coast? Why? He was an accountant — a tax guy — for a tech company. The closest he had come to an ocean was his paragliding trip in Tijuana, Mexico, a few years ago. Sure, the guide was friendly. But guides usually are. He didn’t even talk to the guide more than the usual pleasantries one utters during such occasions. He may have cracked a forced joke or two with the guide even. What possible motive could this random, unknown guide have? If it even was this guide who had written the note. No, the cops will be of no use.

Should he simply ignore the note? What happens if he does? Hope for the best? But what’s the plan if the worst happens? What’s the worst thing that could happen, even? Norm had no skeletons in his closet. His was a boring, normal life. Yet here he was, holding this curious note in his hands.

He couldn’t think of any surprise birthdays, parties, or friends who could possibly have planned a boat cruise or a snorkeling trip.

“What’s the risk assessment?” his accounting professor would’ve asked. True, that. Should he ignore the note for now and see what happens?

Norm got back in the car and drove east back to his apartment.