The Descent of Man. Kevin Desinger

much count on Tuesday being the day. Over the phone he said, “I’m not doing anything right now, and I have a loaner that’s not doing anything either. You’d be doing me a favor to drive it around for a couple days.”

      A short while later I heard a hefty diesel engine rattling out front. It was Tim in his tow truck, maneuvering to hook up to our Camry. He said if I rode with him over to the shop I could sign the paperwork and pick up the loaner. “We’re not talking pretty here. It’s a mule.” It turned out to be a mid-’80s Honda hatchback, after they went from being weightless little toys to having some beef, some actual presence on the road.

      Tim disconnected the Camry from the towing apparatus and opened the driver’s door to look at the steering column. “These guys,” he said, shaking his head. Then he said, “Yeah, probably Tuesday.”

      On the way home I was thinking about what had led to my driving this unfamiliar car—the entire series of strange events—and toward the end of a string of associations I recalled the envelope in the vacant lot. It would remain there for a limited period. It might be one more day and it might be a year, but at some point the envelope would be gone. Nearing the intersection at Fulton, I realized that I was anonymous in the Honda.

      The thing about a loaner is that it’s anycar. An owned car has something of its driver’s identity because he or she has chosen it—less but still true if it’s used. Toyota people never buy Buicks. But a loaner is by definition on hand for use by a spectrum of strangers who have no choice in the matter. Using the Honda as a disguise, I might never have a better opportunity to safely retrieve the envelope.

      I felt through the glove box for matches, finding two partially used books. After learning what I could from the papers, I would burn everything. Sergeant Rainey had convinced me that this little adventure might not be over. Whether the threat was from him or the car thieves, I would feel vulnerable in some way as long as the papers were in my possession, which you could say they were, even under a piece of plywood in a vacant lot. When you commit a crime, you replay it again and again. You think about how you might have done things another way. You discover mistakes and omissions. For example, I hadn’t wiped the envelope for fingerprints.

      I drove around somewhat randomly, checking my mirrors to see that I wasn’t being followed. Eventually I circled out toward the industrial area, trying to quell a fear that the cops had staked out the road to and from the wrecked truck in case the person who had taken it returned to the scene. There were no other cars around, and I felt both conspicuous and anonymous in the Honda as I approached the vacant lot. A stakeout seemed unlikely, but I didn’t want someone grabbing me from behind, saying, “We knew you’d come back. Your type always does.”

      Before reaching the entrance I stopped and sat there, trying to determine whether or not I was about to enter another series of stupid decisions. In the end I felt that this envelope was the only physical evidence linking me to the earlier series of stupid decisions; I had to get rid of it. As Rainey might say, I was already committed.

      The lot looked different in daylight. The brush surrounding it was denser than I recalled, and the lot itself was larger, about the size of a tennis court. I pulled in tight to block the entrance, stopping so that my door opened into the lot. Now a person would have to climb over the hood of the Honda to get to me. I left the engine running.

      The piece of plywood was undisturbed. Still, I half expected the envelope to be gone, but of course it was there. I removed the papers. The top sheet listed the registered owner as Larry Hood.

      His last name was Hood. What a joke: doomed at birth.

      I tore off a square inch from the corner of the tire warranty and wrote in the smallest letters I could manage, “Laredo,” which would put me in mind of Larry but left off his last name because I would never forget Hood. The street address was 1424 SE Condor. I wrote, “14” after Laredo, then below this put “Condor 24,” as if it were a football score between two high school teams. The southeast part I would either remember or figure out. I had more space, so I copied the truck’s license plate backward, even though I felt sure I could memorize it.

      After checking again for witnesses, I wadded the pages individually and piled them like briquettes in the gravel, then lit an edge near the base. I nursed the flame and stayed with it until nothing remained except hot, then warm, then cold black-and-white ash. I chopped this up with an edge of the piece of plywood, stirred it around in the gravel, then spun the plywood over near some other scrap at the back of the lot.

      Now the only physical evidence linking me to the wrecked truck was this little stamp of paper, which I slipped into my wallet behind my driver’s license. After two seconds I realized that the first thing the cops do when they stop you is have you remove your license from that wallet window, exposing whatever is hidden behind it. I moved the slip of paper behind my library card.

      Since the Honda was facing that direction, I decided to risk driving past the truck, just to see if it was still there. I was in the area and still had the anonymity of the loaner, so why not?

      When I rounded the last curve and saw the truck ahead just as I’d left it—all empty-eyed and beaten—I stopped in the middle of the road. I couldn’t bring myself to approach. It was too real or something, so I sat there, thinking or not thinking, I don’t know—nothing I had in the way of thoughts really registered—then I found myself driving in reverse, turned around in my seat with my right arm locked behind the front passenger seat to look fully out the rear window. I veered into the other lane so that I wouldn’t surprise oncoming traffic as I backed through the curve. On the other side there was a wide shoulder. I backed onto it far enough to get turned around, then headed home.

      I regretted wrecking the truck and beating on it with the pipe. It had been violent and pointless, but now that it was done there was no way to undo it. I’ve always wondered why people can’t block out something terrible they’ve done, just put it behind them. I can’t speak for the others (most of whom I admit were characters from books and movies, with the rare instance in the news of people after years of apparent freedom turning themselves in), but for me even the relatively minor act of totaling the truck was the only thing I could think about. You weave a patch of bright color into the muted pattern of your life, and it’s the only thing you look at. Believe me, you can’t tear your eyes away.

      If my odd series of spontaneous decisions had been part of a movie, I would’ve started shaking my head when the protagonist ignored his wife’s advice to stay upstairs and let the cops do their work. I’m not sure I would have thought of him as anything close to a protagonist. However, when you’re the actual guy, and you’re caught up in the moment, everything is different. But after the moment passes it seems impossible to explain this difference to someone who wasn’t there, wasn’t in the moment. The cops, for example. Or a jury, if your case ever makes it to court. Or your wife. Especially your wife.