The Bodyguard ("Traffic" story #78)

TRAFFIC
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard’s mother thinks it can’t be coincidence. To begin with, she doesn’t believe in such things—especially not when it comes to something like a car. THAT car in particular.

One thing is certain beyond all else, you can’t take anything lightly when traffic is involved. With traffic there’s no distance. And no control. Not with all the other idiotic drivers sipping whiskey, crunching fluorescent chips in their smelly mouths, and watching portable TVs. It’s why she so often thinks ahead and brings Jesus down off her kitchen wall to accompany her on her journies. She always makes sure to gently kiss his forehead before stuffing him and his nice big cross into the glove compartment. She wants to be sure He's happy. With The Holy Redeemer on board, she figures she has at least a bit of a fighting chance to get where she’s going.

Which, today, is a place she’s already pretty afraid to go.

She smiles into the rearview mirror. But it’s not real. She’s just checking her lips. She wonders if her fear is visible. She can’t tell. But she’s glad the lipstick is so razor-perfect. This morning she spent half an hour on each lip. Not enough for just her to be satisfied. Not today. Not when she’s going where she’s going—and meeting who she’s meeting.

Right after kissing Jesus and right before she stowed Him in her car’s glove compartment, she’d spun a cocoon of tinfoil around Him. Two silver layers of the stuff. She needed to. She wanted to keep Him safe from seeing what is ahead. Safety is important. So is control. She needs as much control as she can get. It’s possible (very possible) the man from the market might get carried away again with his cigar and this time it will not happen in her own hygienic home. This time it will happen there, in whatever ramshackled room the ex-secret-policeman hangs his coat. And, although she wants to, she knows she can’t carry Jesus in there. No. No way. Not even with The Redeemer swaddled and secure like a morsel of fine Swiss chocolate. No, she’ll be alone in there. It must be so. Sweet Jesus is wonderful, certainly, but also so much like a child. He would not understand. Ever. No, when and if her skin touches the cigar, she has to be completely and utterly alone.

Which obviously isn’t the case NOW! Not with this herd of imbeciles in their petrified cars! For her, even worse than being trapped near these disreputable lowlifes, is the fact that she’s certain she knows the vehicle two cars behind her—as well as its driver (even if she hasn’t ever actually met him). In fact, their relationship is why she’s so sure the scoundrel’s car being back there is no coincidence. Before she was captured by this traffic snarl, she’d seen that car, that evil hunk of metal. Following her to her little rendezvous? Had to be. What other explanation could exist? Certainly there’s buckets of vehicles exactly like it. Still, she knows with ever fiber of her nicest silk suit who sits grinning inside that car back there. It’s her Hindu’s brother. She can already smell his horrible Safari cologne whispering in through her window.