Ezra

It was sometime after 2 o’clock in the morning when John realized he was far too drunk and pulled over. The rumble bars vibrated the loose panels of his ’97 Volvo and made Ezra, his dashboard hula girl, rattle back and forth violently. He brought the car to a not so gradual stop, jerked the shift into park, turned off the engine, and threw the keys in the backseat. A buddy once told him if the keys were in reaching distance—or worse, in the ignition—they could still write you up for a DUI. His drunken thoughts coalesced in his brain and he tried to lay his head on the steering wheel. He hit it with a decided thud and honked the horn. He jerked his head upright, trying to determine where the sound had come form.

            Ezra stared at him, wobbling back and forth, mocking his own rocking state—accusing, judging.

            “What the fuck are you looking at?” he said and knocked her over in one swoop with the back of his hand. She lay sideways on the dash and stared up at him. He picked her up and brought her closer to his face. He could barely read the familiar markings on the base—“Love ya! Jan”—with the tiny little heart following her name.

            “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” He put Ezra back on the dash and smoothed out her shiny, plastic hair.

            A bright light blinded him then and a quick rap on the window made John sit up straight. He heard a voice speaking but it sounded like it was far away and underwater. Through his squinting eyes he saw a figure outside his window and rolled it down a few inches.

            “My keys are in the backseat!” he yelled at the glowing figure.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the voice screamed, opening John’s door. Unfortunately, he had been leaning against it, and he fell toward the ground, only catching himself with his arm. Half in his seat and half hanging out the door, John spewed vomit on the cool pavement, the alcoholic liquid  splashing across the pair of Nike sneakers standing in front of him. They looked new, shiny white but now with specks of orange splattered across them like some Jackson Pollock painting.

            “God dammit John! I just got these today!” John peered up at the voice, a woman, still bracing himself outside the car with his arm. She had dark brown hair and olive skin, and now that his eyes had adjusted to the bright flashlight she was holding, he saw that she was remarkably beautiful.

            “Ezra?” he asked.

            “Who the hell is Ezra?” the voice asked and reached down to push John back into his car.

            John caught a glimpse of the real Ezra on his dash, her violent shaking now reduced to a gentle sway.

            “Jan?”

            “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You think that bitch would follow your drunk ass out here in the middle of the night?”

            “Gloria!” The sudden realization elated John. “My sweet little sister!” John wiped a dribble of vomit from the corner of his mouth and wrapped his arms around her neck. She fell forward under his weight, rebalanced, and started pulling him out of the car. “Wait,” John continued, slurring his words, “what are you doing out now? Does mom know you’re here? You can’t drive, you’re not old enough…”

            “I’m 19 John. I moved out of mom’s last year. Gawd you are so drunk right now.” She hoisted him to a standing position and together, like Siamese twins, they made their way back to her car.

            “But me and Jan. And Ezra. I should bring Ezra.” He tried to go back to his car.

            “Whoa, cowboy, let’s keep moving forward here.”

            “But Ezra!” John whimpered.

            “Please just get in the car.” John obeyed, finally grasping the situation despite his inebriated state. His baby sister was saving his drunk ass, again. He sat in the passenger seat and waited for her to join him in the car. Instead, she walked back to his Volvo and opened the door to the backseat. She emerged with his keys, locked the car, and walked back to her own vehicle. She plopped down in the driver’s seat and revved the engine twice before it started. Gloria placed both hands on the steering wheel and sighed.           

            “I’m sorry Sis,” John said, leaning against the car window. It fogged over when he exhaled, and Gloria saw a dribble of orange liquid come out the corner of his mouth. He closed his eyes, letting the rumble of the car and the effects of the whiskey be his lullaby.

            “John?”

            No answer.

            “John?” she said louder.

            No answer.

            Gloria shook her head and put the car in drive.

“Who the hell is Ezra?” she asked, knowing only the black pavement and the night’s sky held the answer.