Philip Kobylarz is a teacher and writer of fiction, poetry, book reviews, and essays. He has worked as a journalist and film critic for newspapers in Memphis, TN. His work appears in such publications as Paris Review, Poetry, and The Best American Poetry series. The author of a book of poems concerning life in the south of France, he has a collection of short fiction and a book-length essay forthcoming.
So there I was. Piece of shit freeway between the crummy town I lived in running to the even worse town in which I worked. The sun was burning bright, so bright it was blinding and maybe that was the reason no one was slowing down. Waving my arms like a madman, ok, maybe not the best way to solicit help, but when you’re in a state of emergency, what else to you do? I felt like jumping out in front of an oncoming truck. There weren’t any. And there weren’t. There weren’t. There wasn’t anything.
Or, there were long periods of silence, broken by only the sound of a car coming– passing– departing– and an echo of my own gagging voice in full fledged curse. Screw all motorists! Where’s their sense of fidelity, where’s their feeling of brotherhood? That’s what cars do to us, little coffins on wheels. They take us faster to the end.
