Anchor
by Brad Sewell
I slapped my hand against the steering wheel
and shouted my favorite curse word--the Fbomb repeated eight times, if you must know-as I watched the Grand Am’s tach dwindle
from 2800 rpm to 90. The gas warning wasn’t
screwing around with me, after all. I believed
the thing could make it to the Summerville station just across the Georgia state line, but that
faith now seemed more than a little misplaced.
Well, okay, maybe the light had been on long
enough to test the confines of wishful thinking.
The car sputtered to a rest, and I gave the
steering wheel one final, resentful slap before
pressing my forehead against it and trying to
collect my thoughts. I was on a trip home from
college in Huntsville to visit family in Rome.
The state line wouldn’t take long, so I guessed
I was maybe a little over halfway home. Working against me was my habit of traveling late
at night to avoid traffic, as there were now no
other drivers to aid me. Even if I did see the occasional headlights bobbing in the distance, I
doubted they would stop so late for a wandering stranger.
I leaned back in my seat to fish my cell out
of my jacket pocket. No signal in the remote
mountains of northeast Alabama, but I tried dialing Dad anyway. I pressed the phone against
my head as though compression into my ear
would help anything, but nothing happened.
24
When I took the phone away, a disheartening
CALL DISCONNECTED message blinked at me.
I pressed my thumb hard against the redial