The Return

The Return

   The parking lot was empty.

   Carson slowed to a stop outside of it, letting his vehicle rest a moment as he surveyed the area. Asphalt, square and gray, marked with cracked and faded lines of white, centered by two light poles of faded black, the bulbs of each flickering on and off without much pattern. Not a soul was visible, no vehicle occupied any of the spaces. He had come for a routine maintenance check on the vehicle, but had been directed toward the empty parking lot, the one marked with ‘Rental Return’ and ‘Used Vehicle Parking’ signs, unsure if he was in the right place. 

  A black motorcycle rolled up to the window and Carson rolled down the glass, waiting for either beratement or an identification request, but neither came.

  “Not usually so quiet,” the rider said, tipping a head toward the empty parking lot.

   Carson glanced back to the parking lot, just a short drive away, then back to the rider. “I came for an easy check up; dust off the nuts and bolts, as it were,” he smiled an uneasy smile. “This looks like the rental return lot.” 

   “It would appear that way,” the rider agreed, his voice low and gentle. 

   “There’s no one else here,” Carson pressed. “Is it really for returns? What’s in there?” 

   “That’s the end,” the rider answered. His eyes were hidden by the shade of his helmet, but his smile was visible beneath, a warm thing that held no malice. 

   “Oh,” Carson said. “I shouldn’t be here then, I’ve got plenty of miles left.” 

   The rider leaned back and took a sweeping look over the vehicle, surely noting the wheels and frame and paint job and even the things within; the seats, the flooring fabric, and the few items laying about. Mostly, Carson thought, he kept a clean vehicle. Still, he couldn’t help the nervous twinge that flickered through him, watching the rider’s dark visor move over and over, observing all, taking it all in. Some of it was custom, most of it was aftermarket, but it was a competitive world and Carson wanted his vehicle to look sharp and even stand out, from time to time. 

   “Had a bit of work done?” the rider asked, still looking things over. 

   “Hasn’t everyone?” Carson answered. “Can’t get very far without a few cosmetics.” He laughed, trying to force a bit of humor. He didn’t feel very joyful. 

   “Can’t you?” 

   Carson thought about this for a moment. He wasn’t ready to give up his vehicle, even though it was a loaner; he had grown rather attached to it and didn’t think he should have to give it away just yet. Why should he, when he had taken such good care of it? 

   “I know many others who still have their vehicles, have had them much longer than mine,” Carson protested, sounding weak even to himself. 

   The rider nodded, finally looking back at Carson. “Sure, sure. You see, the terms aren’t the same for everyone. Just the way it is.” 

   “Can’t you give me an extension?” 

   The rider shook his head, slowly at first, then a bit faster until he gave two sharp back and forths, faster than a blinker going on and off. His head stopped moving and that kind, fatherly smile was there. “We need you to enter the parking lot.” 

   Carson nodded, feeling a sudden influx of finality, a precipitous weight carrying over him, boding nothing but one resolute path. Slowly, he began to ease toward the lot. 

   Something crept into him then, a narrow feeling deep in a hidden place that he hadn’t ventured to very often, but one that came screaming and crying to the surface. It started small but the closer he eased toward the parking lot the larger the feeling became. 

   Escape, it told him. 

   Carson glanced at the rider waiting patiently on his machine, the two-wheeler a rare sight these days, and swallowed hard, unsure if he could escape, if he could make a dash for it. ‘It’, being a way out. An extension. 

   “Why not?” he whispered to himself. 

  Without another thought he pushed forward, turning sharply and bouncing over the curb, slipping past the rider on his black steed, and shooting out to the street. There was a rush, then, a feeling he hadn’t felt in so long he hardly recognized it. It was frantic, flooding him like a terrible storm, and for a moment he lost control of his vehicle, moving much faster than he had in a while. He tattered right on the edge of control and chaos and found a moment of total freedom. 

   He slipped into traffic, pulling away from the parking lot, and tried to blend in with the current, slowing to a reasonable pace, the momentary exultant rush fading. Everyone moved in their own way, going to this place or that, all with loaner vehicles from the agency. There was only one agency, as far as Carson knew, and why would anyone want a competitor? Theirs had the best vehicle options and certainly the best return policy. Or so they said. Now, so close to the completion of his term, Carson wasn’t sure such a monopoly was a good thing.

   “Had some work done?” he asked no one as he moved on, trying to remain inconspicuous among the others rolling along the street. “The nerve,” he snorted. 

   Everyone had work done, everyone fixed the things that were going south. Vehicles broke down–that was about as inevitable as the tax man coming around–but it would be a fool who would just let that decay take them away. His father had gained a nasty rattle somewhere deep in his engine and spent much of the end of his lease trying to fix the vehicle before finally giving in and taking the thing back to where he got it. Carson never liked that, wished he had tried to fix the rattle a little harder, go find a few more opinions on how it could be fixed, not just give up. That was how long ago? Carson couldn’t even be sure and that pained him, the memory and the loss of time. . . 

   A black shape flashed Carson’s mirror, coming for him, somewhere back in the shifting traffic. The rider, coming to collect. 

   Carson felt a rush of something again, but this time it wasn’t the thrill of freedom. Instead it was a blush of apprehension and panic, and he quickly turned off the main road. There were few vehicles on the side street and he knew he would have to make several maneuvers to escape the rider. That was fine, he had been maneuvering for a while. Truth be told, he was quite surprised he had lasted as long as he had, escaping the collectors with their incessant desire to follow the silly rules of the agency, all term limits and use guidelines and the endless calling to ‘return, return, return’. 

   He turned down two other streets, finally losing all other off-main traffic, and slowed down, dimming his lights, hiding out, doing what he could. He felt a little better, a little bit more safe, and rolled on, thinking that maybe he had finally given the rider the slip. They couldn’t chase him forever, could they?

   Carson turned the corner and reached halfway down the road before slamming hard to a stop, the fear bulging out of him again, taking all the wind from his sails. The parking lot sat there as it had before, off to his right, a barren thing with not a soul in sight, no vehicle sitting among the white lines. He watched the black painted light poles sway a little in the wind. He could imagine their creak and groan as they stood aloft, sentinels over nothing, empty lights over an empty lot. 

   A little knocking tap came at his window and Carson cried out as he turned to see the rider sitting there, smiling kindly, dark visor still over his face, black motorcycle jacket matching his motorized horse. 

   Carson let down the glass once more and felt slightly better at the lack of creaking sound coming from the parking lot lamps. 

   “You’re back,” the rider said without breaking the smile. 

   “What’s going on?” Carson whispered, unable to do much else. “The return lot came back. I thought I got away.” 

   “Can’t really get away,” the rider said gently. 

   Carson sank back, feeling the comfortable seats hold him as they had for so long, since the beginning of the lease. “I don’t want to give it up, there’s still plenty of life left in this old thing,” he said. Then, after a carefully considered pause: “Do I get another vehicle, just like this one?” 

   The rider laughed, a merry sound. “There’s no other vehicles like this one. Certainly not anymore.” 

   Carson felt a sting of anger at this. It wasn’t a very nice thing to say, he had spent much of his lease trying to make the vehicle look much like everyone else’s. He thought he had done a bang up job and told the rider as much. 

   “Imitation and flattery and all that,” the rider answered back. He smiled for a second and seemed to be weighing his words. “You know, there’s no shame in not changing what you’re given, in just taking the vehicle as it came to you.” 

   “But it started to break and needed fixing, and the paint began to peel so I had to repaint it, and the seats were worn so I changed the upholstery and there were cracks in the windshield–” 

   “Yes,” the rider admitted, “but how did you change those things? Did you simply fix what was wrong or did you try to supercharge the vehicle? Did you match the paint color or did you pick a new, flashy color, maybe one that would match those younger, newer models? What about the upholstery? Did you replace the stock with stock or go aftermarket new and expensive, maybe in an attempt to match a foreign vehicle? Carson, there have been a lot of choices that could have gone a few ways.” 

   “Why make such a lease then, if you’re not happy with how I took care of the vehicle? You gave me the ability to repair and change what I needed to, when I needed to. That’s part of the lease, isn’t it? My choice?” 

   “Sure, sure,” the rider said again. “Your choice didn’t change your lease, but there is some importance as to how we use the vehicles we are given. It’s still the end either way. 

   Carson sat for a moment, tired and worn out, looking back and forth from the rider in black to the empty parking lot. “Maybe if there were other vehicles in there,” he said quietly, not looking at the rider then. “Maybe if I knew it would all be taken care of, that others have returned their vehicles without trouble. Maybe if I wasn’t alone,” he said in a smaller voice.

   “It’s a solitary thing, ending a lease,” the rider answered, and though Carson didn’t look back to see him, he thought he could hear the smile still on his face. “The rules are as they are. There’s not much change, I’m afraid. Besides, you’ve pushed your limit a bit already.” 

   Carson looked back to that black visor and wide smile, comforting and kind and oh so punctual. “I can’t have any more time?” 

   “What are you afraid of?” the rider asked instead of answering. 

   “This is all I know,” Carson answered in a weak, small voice. 

   “Ah, the unknown.” 

   There was a long silence and Carson wondered if the rider was going to say anything more, when the lights in the parking lot flickered on to full brightness, a glow so great that his vision was nearly flooded with blindness.

   “A bit bright isn’t it?” he asked, squinting out at the rider. The black visor had vanished in the glow of the lamps, only the guiding smile remained. 

   “They’re bright enough,” came the answer. “Let’s go, Carson, time for something new.” 

   “But,” he began to protest, reaching for any final excuse he could make. He felt closer than he had before, and wondered if he shouldn’t just give in. His father had retired his vehicle, and somehow there seemed peace with it. 

   “Ready?” the rider asked, a comforting guide smile right outside his window. 

   Carson nodded and released the tension he held within and let the vehicle roll forward, watching through narrowed eyes as he crossed the threshold and moved among the white lines. It was still empty, at least this part, but the asphalt was smooth and the light wasn’t really so blinding as it had been a moment ago. He rolled to a stop between the glowing light poles, the rider not following him in, and Carson mostly forgot he had been there. He came to rest in the empty parking lot, and waited. It wasn’t so bad. 

The end