VICIOUS CIRCLE

by

Brian Coté

George opened his eyes. He saw lights shining against the far wall. They appeared and disappeared over and over again. Alarmed and confused, he sat up slowly, and quietly eased himself off his double bed.

Being careful to stay low and out of sight, he crept to the window, peered out. Under the streetlight he could see an old-model Cadillac turning slowly round and round in the circle drive in front of his house. The car must have been driving around for a long time to wake him up. The headlights strobed through the thin, patterned curtains at his bedroom window every two seconds, casting long shadows across the walls.

A single streetlight illuminated the scene. The windows in all the adjacent houses were dark. The car making its steady, slow circle was the only moving object in sight.

Dressed in light pajamas, George made his way down the stairs. Everything was quiet in the empty house. Only the faint hum of the car's engine could be heard. He passed by the kitchen and through the living room furnished with only a chair and an old television set. The headlights splashed through the darkness in the living room. When he reached the door, George paused for a moment with his hand resting on the handle. He took in a deep breath and then stepped out into the night.

Barefoot, he crossed the dewy lawn and stood on the curb with his hands in his pockets, watching the car turn round and round. The driver must not have seen him, because he didn't stop. Looking closer, George could barely discern a dark figure behind the wheel.

He grew angry. Suddenly he stepped off the curb, and when the car came around, he chased after it, banging on the hood with the flat of his hand. "Hey!" he yelled. The car drove on, and George stopped, waiting for it to come around again. When it did, he chased it and banged on the roof again. "Hey, God damn it!" he yelled indignantly. But the car drove on.

When the car came around for the third time, George stepped out into its path and laid his hands on the hood, as if bringing it to a stop himself - a tiny Hercules in the dark. The engine hummed. The hood was warm beneath his hands.

"What the hell's wrong with you, buddy?" George yelled. "You're waking everyone up, driving around like that."

He felt his anger welling in his eyes. George looked at the dim figure behind the wheel, but couldn't make him out. Then he heard the sound of the car doors unlocking. The driver leaned over the seat, and the passenger's side door swung open. An uncomfortable moment passed, as George stood with his hands still on the hood, deciding what to do.

Finally he walked over and got in.

Without saying a word, the driver put the car in gear and continued his circle.

George studied him. He wasn't old, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, and was dressed in a rough, dirty shirt and an out of date tie, which hung loosely around his neck. His hair was unevenly trimmed and there was a day's growth of beard on his chin. He looked tired, but still his eyes were focused on the road in total concentration. In contrast to his appearance, the inside of the car was extremely neat and tidy. George rubbed his feet on the floor; there was no dirt, and when he stuck his fingers into the ashtray in the armrest, he found it spotlessly clean. Only two things were out of place: a newspaper on the seat between them and a carton of eggs that had slide across the dashboard and was pressed against the front windshield. George eyed the driver nervously.

"What's your problem, buddy?" George asked. "You can't be driving like this at--" he looked at the clock in the dashboard "--three o'clock in the morning. People are trying to sleep."

The driver didn't say anything. His attention was focused on the street.

"Did you hear me, God damn it?" George asked, becoming irritated.

"I heard you," the driver said, and gave George a hard look. "Trust me, man. If I could get out of this any other way, I'd do it. I wouldn't be here. That's for sure."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about being here and driving. If I could get outta this circle any other way, I'd do it. I wouldn't be here driving around like a maniac."

"But you are driving around like a maniac."

"That's 'cause I'm stuck."

George breathed out impatiently.

"Stuck?" George asked. "Stuck where? Why are you here? Why are you driving around in front of my house at three o'clock in the morning, waking people up? They have to work in the morning. It's Wednesday for Christ's sake. What the hell's your problem?"

The driver looked over at him sympathetically, as if George were a small, confused child.

"Have you ever heard of a vicious circle?"

"I think so," George said. "What is it?"

"It's a philosophical term--when you assume the truth of an argument when you state it. Like saying: 'I believe in God, because the Bible says he's real.' 'Well, how do you know the Bible's true?' 'Because God wrote it.' You haven't really said anything, and you definitely haven't proven anything. You've just given your opinion. It's circular logic. Understand?"

"I guess so."

"Well, that's where I'm at right now in life. I'm stuck. I've assumed everything; I've made a circle that I can't get out of. I mean, I just got engaged, so now I have to move away, right? I have to quit my job, I have to leave all my friends and my family. I'm stuck. Fate's sucked me in and I don't know how to get out. But, you know, sometimes I really don't care. I mean, I love her and my job sucks here anyway and a couple of my best friends've just screwed me over real good and my family'll always be around. So it's like my life's falling apart and I really don't care. I should, but I don't. I mean, sometimes I do, but not really. I worry about not worrying. I guess that's post-modern, right? Why is that?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know either, but I'm trapped, either way. I mean, I could get out of it all, if I wanted to. I could stay here or run away from her or break off the engagement. I don't know. It'd be worse if I did that. So I'm stuck. No matter what I do, life's gonna get more difficult. And that's just depressing. The only option I have is to choose how difficult I want it. An' what kinda choice is that?"

"It's not."

"I know. So here I am--alone in my car, driving round and round, trapped in a circle. I made it, I guess, and that's what's important. I thought, 'If I can make my own circle, and just drive round and round, 'til it's so normal that I don't even know I'm driving anymore, then I'm free. When I can take my hands off the wheel and the car'll drive all by itself, then Fate's finally taken over."

"What?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but someday it'll happen--maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but the day after or the day after that. Someday." He slapped the steering wheel in emphasis. "When I break out of that turnaround, I can break out of that loop of logic and do something for real. I can make a real decision, make my own decisions. I'll have finally beaten Fate."

"All by driving in a circle?"

"Breaking out's the point, but you have to drive to get there first. You know what I mean? You have to take all that nonsense and forget how stupid it is. Then, when you're finally ready to take it all seriously--I mean real seriously--you can finally see how absurd it all is. But maybe you don't have those problems, living in a house like that." The driver pointed to George's house, a modern, two-story home with a trim lawn and finely carved woodwork.

"I've got my own problems."

"Ya? Like what?"

"Who are you to ask?"

"Just a guy driving."

George sighed heavily. "Lots of problems, but I can take care of them myself."

"Ya?" the driver asked. "You're a better man than me then." He paused and looked at George. "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"I'm sure."

The driver focused on the road, and George lowered his head in thought. The egg carton on the dashboard made a low, squeaking noise, which broke George's concentration. He looked up at it, sitting there in front of him.

Suddenly the driver slammed on the breaks, and the carton flew into George's hands. The driver smiled at him.

"Damn," George said.

"They're real delicate," he said, and took the carton from George's hands. "Nice catch, by the way."

"Thanks."

The driver weighed the carton in his hand, opened it, and held an egg in front of his face, considering it.

"You know, they don't really use real eggs anymore. Not like they used to. I mean, ya, they still come out of chickens, but there aren't any embryos in them. They're empty. Isn't that horrible?"

"It's pretty strange."

They sat next to one another for a moment in silence.

"Well," the driver said, "I guess I'll get going. I'll catch you later."

"Ya? OK...bye."

George stepped out of the car and was ready to shut the door, when the driver said, "Hey, wait a sec."

George leaned in, to see what he wanted. The driver handed him the egg he'd been looking at.

"Have an egg, man," the driver said. "It's on me."

"Thanks."

George held the egg up in parting and returned to his lawn. The car crept steadily round and round. It's headlight splashed across all the house fronts. He watched it and weighed the egg in his hand. Then without warning he threw it at the car, where it splattered across the windshield in a sticky explosion. The car came to a stop and George ran into his house.

He slammed the door shut and leaned against it firmly, listening intensely.

The driver was laughing from the street. "You're a better man than I am," he yelled. He honked his horn three times. The blasts rang out horribly loud, destroying the delicate silence. Then the car roared off into the night, leaving the street deserted.

§ § §

Brian Coté lives in Michigan and just received his bachelor’s in German. Now he lives at home with his parents, reads too much, writes a little, and is waiting for the money to roll in so he can go to Germany and work on his master’s and doctorate.

This is his first published story.

You can reach him at: dirtyhandscleanconscience@yahoo.com .

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