Inside The Warp by Philip Matcovsky

The locals call it The Warp: the confusing intersection of roads named Past, Present and Future. It’s where travel signs, traffic lights, arrows and alerts, create a blurry sense of time and direction. Cross-eyed motorists take wrong turns or stop suddenly, like Tim in his sage-green hatchback.

With his heartbeat vibrating his ears like a bass drum, Tim’s only comfort at this moment is the hatchback, its familiarity, not unlike the sixteen-year-old corduroy sofa in his basement apartment. Old friends. He looks to the right — that’s it: the second lane around the circle from Present to Future is where he belongs. Tim locates the proper route to get there and moves the floor shifter into drive. The engine cuts out. He tries starting it. The crankshaft and pistons turn over, again and again, gasping. Oh no. Tries a second time. It turns slower now, repeatedly, until the engine stops breathing completely.

Sedans, motorcycles and trucks pass dangerously close to the hatchback. Deep and shallow car horns shout as they go by, shrill and bellowing engines moan. Tim’s anxiety heightens. He feels small in the driver’s seat and for a flashing moment imagines being crushed by a delivery truck. He reaches inside the center console for the phone to call his construction-worker cousin and only true friend, since they were babies. Come on, answer.

“Clive, call me. My car died inside The Warp. I need your help. I’m stuck here.” He searches hopelessly through his contacts for another person to call.

If his dad were alive, he would come fix the hatchback right there in The Warp. He had labor skills: engines, table saws, concrete mixers. He once tiled the bathroom floor and installed a water heater on the same day, all day, family Sunday. Tim’s mom brought dinner down to the boiler room while he worked.

Tim feels less manly than that: he has never repaired a car or tiled a floor. Although his mom brags to relatives about his homemade marinara sauce and braciole. And she provides all the encouragement he needs to continue with his poetry and freelance web design.

A hard knock causes Tim’s head to snap back in whiplash fashion, as if the hatchback were hit by a car. Thankfully, it’s someone banging roughly on the window: Aunt Claire, standing tall outside. Aunt Claire? No, a look-alike with the same thick frame and oily hair. She gives him the put-down-your-window sign. 

“It won’t start,” Tim says.

“Put it in neutral, I’m gonna push you out of The Warp.” Aunt Claire’s clone sees something beyond the hatchback. “Wait, hold on. We may have more help.” She waves to someone. 

Two yoga warriors with ponytails and tight superhero pants run up to assist. And another brave volunteer, in a gray blazer, pencil skirt and flats. Is it Dr. Carmichael who helped him manage his panic attacks last year?

“Steer that way,” Aunt Claire’s clone instructs Tim. Then to her new crisis team, “Okay, push.”

The four heroic defenders stop traffic with hand signals and tight foreheads. They move the hatchback slowly across lanes, ignoring honking and middle fingers, till they reach the shoulder of the road. A quick wish good luck to Tim and they vanish like superheroes do, dodging vehicles with athletic precision to reach their cars that sit side-by-side, center Warp.

Tim takes a long breath. His heartbeat moves down from his ears to his chest where it belongs. The rescue team, while unexpected, seems destined as though the universe sent them. Even if he never sees them again.

Tim’s mom will love the fated feel of Aunt Claire’s clone, Dr. Carmichael, and the yoga warriors showing up. And he can hear his cousin’s response: Only you, Timmy. He tries starting the hatchback again without success. The phone rings, it’s Clive.

Philip Matcovsky

Image by Wanderfrust from Pixabay – An aerial view of a traffic island with one car.