Back Seat Driver by Matthew Dube

When first they came to earth, the aliens took the form of cars, misidentifying them from orbit as
the dominant life form on this planet. I’ve always wondered about that. Like, where do cars even
sleep, unless parking lots are like alien flophouses. Before her accident, my stepmother used to
joke that it could be worse, they could have manifested as Starbucks…. On the day of my road
test to get my license, my dad had a meeting or something so my stepmother picked me up
outside my high school cafeteria instead. I almost didn’t recognize her in her neutral gray blazer
and skirt, this look in her eye. She was on her lunch hour, and even though we were running late,
she stopped at a drive thru on the way to the DMV. Once the driving inspector buckled himself
into the passenger seat, it was like him and me no longer even existed for my stepmother. She
spread unfolded paper napkins across the back seat like a picnic blanket and ate her lunch. I
stared into the rear view mirror, trying to reconcile this completely self-contained person with
the stepmother who had a special chicken soup recipe for when I was sick, who liked to pinch
my father’s tight belly and make him laugh. I was watching her when the inspector shouted
“Stop! Stop!” because I’d rolled through a stop sign. I pumped the brakes too furiously and too
fast and stalled the car in the middle of the intersection. My stepmother had been holding a
ketchupped fry to her face when I stopped, and it painted a red stripe across her cheek. There
were stains on the seat, her blouse; the whole back seat was a mess of wrappers and ketchup,
special sauce and soda…. Sometimes I’ll find myself driving behind one of the aliens when they
fight gravity, riding their brakes down a small hill, or else swing from one lane to another like
they’re dodging laser attacks. I wasn’t always a great driver, but when you are stuck behind a car
and can tell there’s no one behind the wheel it makes you want to do something. I daydream
about tapping their bumper, just to remind them that they share the road, that we’re here…. I’m
friends with an EMT named Tim; he cleaned up the site after my stepmother’s accident, and he
told me he’s seen accident scenes where their bodies gave up passenger trash like blood, empty
water bottles and drink lids speared through by straws, French fry boxes smeared with ketchup. I
don’t think I could stand to see that.

Matthew Dube's

stories have appeared in Whiskey Tit, Indicia, Pomme and elsewhere. He learned to drive on the seven hills of Worcester, MA, and that was enough to make him swear off getting behind the wheel for a decade.