Alcohol eased the car's sway over the dividing line and back. The driver danced with the yellow strip that cut the road down the middle. Darkness owned the path ahead and swallowed the space left behind. The driver’s hands hung heavy on the steering wheel, pulling left and pulling right. Wondered what she would think of him in this moment—the real her. The original her. Seeing him like this, seeing how it all ended up. Go back in time, and they could watch him self-destruct. Watch the pain ripen. She would hold his hand and probably cry. Weep and tell him how sorry she was. What a thought. Changing lanes, the driver laughed at the thought of time travel. Swerving back over the wobbling yellow line, he laughed at the power boundaries had on the world. Laughed at life and all the lines we draw, the plans we make, sides we take. Things we lose. His life was just a blur. A blur of tiny light screaming down a narrow path some stranger carved across the earth long ago. A line drawn in the sand. Who knows the names of the people who paved the paths, the ones who rolled out the asphalt? That’s what the driver was thinking. Who the hell painted this line? What side of life was he on, the driver mused. Laughing at his pain as he mocked the roar of the engine with his voice. Growling at the motor, he wondered whether he was coming or going. Was the line an illusion? Are we all only ever going? The driver’s headlights burned a small window into the night ahead. A sudden and fleeting glimpse of what’s to come. Only, the car couldn’t match the speed life truly harnessed. The flash of importance we know to be ourselves. The pain didn’t feel brief. It felt everlasting. Felt like he was just getting started. Like the tragedy was simply the prologue to a growing epic tale of suffering. Something a drink helped him embrace. The driver liked being lost in the dark. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with the power of the car flying into nothing. The night sky in the desert was an extraordinary sight to behold—an unobstructed view of the vast unreachable expanse. Tipping a bottle back, he swallowed more beer. Sighing with a sense of relief as if it were a bottle of fresh air, and all he was doing was breathing. Each drink another breath. He had been driving for a while when the red and blue lights finally filled in through the back window. Red and blue lights glinted in the side mirrors, blinding him in the rearview. Reaching up, he bent the mirror down to save his sight, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The driver wasn’t giving the cigarette much attention. Ash fell wherever it needed to. Camouflaged within the stained upholstery. The years of neglect had rotted the car from the inside out. Taking another breath from the bottle he leaned into the backseat and spoke to no one. “What do you think he wants?” Nothing answered. Letting his hands play with the wheel, Caesar jerked the car around for a few big comedic swoops before cutting into the desert. The driver's name wasn’t actually Caesar. It was Julius. Everyone just called him Caesar because of that famous Roman guy from history class. Nowadays, he just introduced himself as Caesar, so no one had to waste time putting it together. The rumbling terrain shook from below with a fierce and disapproving roar. The four wheels begged for the return of smooth pavement. Caesar let a note sail out from his voice so the shaking car could rattle it. He was happy to find that it was still fun to be childish. Proof that part of him was still alive. There was still a reason to continue his suffering. Caesar didn’t go far before stopping the car. He was spilling too much air from his bottle to justify the off-road excitement any longer. The cop parked behind him. The officer didn’t bother running Caesar’s plates. He immediately stepped out of his highway patrol car with his knee-high boots and marched right to Caesar’s door—strong, precise steps. He ran his fingers along the brim of his stiff trooper hat, the strap snug on his chin. He liked touching his hat. His fingerless leather driving gloves made him feel like a badass. The uniform itself provided him with powerful confidence, but the gloves added a sort of Hollywood blockbuster flare that filled his head with a juvenile sense of reality. The cherry on top of the whole badass package that he knew himself to be was that fuzzy worm gripped strong to his upper lip. The officer’s was classified as a handlebar mustache, so it turned around his lips and traveled down a bit. Facial hair can do wild things to a man’s ego. When he wasn’t wearing his hat, he’d pet his mustache. Sometimes, even with the hat, he would pet it—sometimes he’d finger both, fiddle with his badge, tap at the gun tight to his hip, fantasizing outlandish heroic scenarios. Caesar was already rolling his window down. His hand was reaching out just as the officer stopped at his door. Caesar was holding a beer out, asking the officer if he wanted a drink. The cop took the beer and scratched his head, telling Caesar, “I was sorta’ look’n forward to tapping on your window, giving it the old cliché knuckle, ya know, like in the movies. I just got these awesome gloves, man, I feel like Stallone or something.” With a long, somewhat painful expression, Caesar asked, “You want me to roll my window back up so you can… come up to the car again?” The officer looked back to his flashing vehicle and sighed something hopeless. Then, abandoning the invitation, he exhaled, “Nah, the moment’s passed.” He hooked the beer bottle on his belt and popped the cap. Leaning against Caesar’s car, he took a big gulp. It was his favorite beer, and he told Caesar this. He always did, always complimented him on his taste in drinks. The officer took another drink and looked up to comment, “Beautiful night, Caesar.” With a deep breath, he added, “Nothing like a cool summer night in the desert, the air’s so fucking crisp, so sweet. I just about wish I could scoop a spoon through it and take a goddamn bite.” Taking another drink, he smiled. Caesar took a drink as well and suggested he turn off his flashing lights so they could enjoy the view better. The officer smiled at Caesar, tapping his beer against the car to toast the idea. They were both a couple of pasty white boys. Harmless Caucasians with mixed heritages they knew little of. American mutts. They sat on Caesar’s hood leaning back against his windshield, looking up to the vast explosion of lights that seemed to hang impossibly above them. Caesar was pretty drunk, so his eyes weren’t open so well, but he was still enjoying the sight. The cop's name was Frances. Some people called him Frank, some didn’t. Like Caesar, he enjoyed a drink. Frances was talking to Caesar about the moon while they drank. It was just about half full and looking down at the two with a bright face. Frances was wondering why they only ever landed on the thing the one time. “Why haven’t they built something on it yet? It’s been long enough since they reached the goddamn thing, you’d think somethin’d be fuckin' built on it by now. Ya’know?” Caesar smiled up to the big pale rock and shrugged. “What makes you think shit’s not built on it already?” Frances waved his hands in a disapproving manner. “Bah, fuckers are sneaky, I’ll give you that, but don’t forget the fuckers are dumb as rocks, too. They ain’t up there. Too hard to hide a thing like that. All those nerds with scopes in their yards stargazing.” Caesar laughed a little, and Frances pushed at him, asking him what was so funny. Caesar shrugged and asked him how many satellites he thought were flying over them right then and there. Frances looked at Caesar with a narrow eye, doing this thing he did with his tongue and his front teeth where he sucked in air. It made a squeaky noise. He did it when he was thinking hard. Looking up to the stars, he really gave it a good squeaky-toothed thinking before he said, “I don’t fuckin' now, like fuckin' four or somethin’.” Caesar shook his head, tipping his beer back for a breath of air as he told him, “More like a couple hundred.” Frances sat up quickly and belted out, “Shut up!” with a wincing skepticism glaring from his expression. Caesar smiled as he took a long breath from the bottle and sighed, “Actually, it’s probably more like a thousand, plus.” Frances pushed at him, excited, saying, “You’re fuckin' with me, over a thousand? How they not fuckin' crashin’ into each other? Fuck you, a thousand, plus.” Frances had a big smile, looking to the stars and back to Caesar, not sure if he believed him or not. Caesar had no idea how many satellites were orbiting the planet. He just remembered reading once that there was a lot. Didn’t care if he was feeding Frances false information. Had he known the actual number, he would’ve embellished regardless, because he enjoyed messing with him. Frances was the fun kind of gullible. Never got mad when he found out he was being played, and he never wised up to the fact that everyone around him took constant advantage of his gullibility. Frances was a hard person to upset. Settling back against the windshield, Frances decided a thousand-plus satellites was pretty amazing. He even whispered to himself as he reached for another drink. He whispered, “Fuckin' thousands of'm.” Caesar pointed to a dot moving through the stars and tapped Frances on his arm, telling him it was one of the thousands right there. Frances lit up, and Caesar smiled at his friend’s excitement. He did actually know that what he was pointing at was a satellite. Something his ex had shown him. Satellites blink, and stars sparkle. Moving his hand, he pointed out another. Frances made a happy humming sort of sound, pleased with the night’s discovery. He already knew about the traffic of planes increasing in the sky each year, so the number of satellites was easy to accept. Frances wasn’t dumb by any means, just trusting and maybe slow at times, but only because his excitement always took the lead on most of his thinking. He was divorced with two kids. His wife finally came to terms with her homosexuality two years ago – something their church convinced her to ignore her whole life. After a year of couples therapy, they both stopped going to church altogether. They still lived in the same house, and will until their kids get older. Frances was happy for her. It left him a good shade melancholy. Drinking helped. Drinking with Caesar helped more. Frances smiled really big again when he spotted another satellite. Pointing, he called it out to Caesar’s attention, but Caesar had fallen asleep, a cigarette hanging from his mouth still lit. With a chuckle, Frances tapped Caesar’s chest. “Hey, come on. Let’s get you home.” Caesar rubbed his eyes as Frances slid off the hood. One of Caesar’s flip-flops had fallen off as he woke. Frances picked it up. “You lost your flop, buddy.” Caesar moaned, “Just leave me to sleep here. I can’t drive. I’m drunk.” Frances slapped the flop onto Caesar’s belly and chuckled. Playing with his hat, Frances said he’d follow him, make sure he got home safe. He always did. “Besides, I’m a little loose myself. How’s the saying go? Friends don’t let friends drink and drive alone.” Caesar started to laugh and shake his head. Slipping off the hood, he told him, “That’s not at all what’s said. You’re a bad cop.” Frances helped his stumbling friend into his car. Gave his shoulders a stern, sobering rub as he strapped his seat belt around him. “Drive slow,” he told him, “I’m right behind you,” and then he closed his door. Caesar started the car and gave his friend a drunken smile. “You’re my best friend, Frank. You know that?” Frances was playing with his pistol, spinning it around his finger as he answered, “I know I am, buddy.” Caesar turned his headlights on and sighed, “Where would I be without you?” The question was rhetorical, but Frances answered anyway, telling him he’d probably be dead. Caesar laughed at the truth of the statement and turned to Frances with an idea for a band. “What kinda band?” Frances asked, still playing cowboys with his pistol. Caesar bobbed his head to the imagined music as he explained, “It’s a found instrument band where we find shit on the way to every show to be our instruments, and we come up with all the songs live.” Frances holstered his sidearm and laughed, “Ha! I like that. What’s the band called?” Caesar pondered for a second before saying, “Coke Rodent.” Frances smiled, “I’m already their biggest fan.”