Theme Track: "Lonely in Your Nightmare", Duran Duran

Fennewick First emerges from the glass swinging door, its surface marred by an array of decals and a perpetual film of dirt. He is clad in a suit of the deepest black, a stark contrast to his ghostly pallor and  straw-hued wavy hair of ear length. An ink toned fedora adorns his head, casting a shadow over his penetrating gaze as it sweeps across the surroundings with a swift appraisal.

The scent of a Marlboro cigarette reached my senses before I had even exited the convenience. Its bitter aroma was unmistakably feminine. No man of honor would ever draw breath from a filtered cigarette, regardless of the health warnings. I reached into my pocket, a familiar feeling telling me I knew the owner of this scent, but I needed confirmation. One never knows when an acquaintance might approach, brandishing a switchblade at your throat and a Glock at your temple, demanding repayment of debts. I was in good standing, my dues paid and my rewards reaped.

"Fenney..." A voice, dulcet yet tarnished by a craving for nicotine and cheap excitement, greeted me as I left the establishment, surprised that I had even entered such a rundown place. Her complexion was like coppery porcelain, but her gaze hinted at a deeper turmoil. I found myself studying her rosy cheeks, wondering if the blush was merely a result of the cold. Even without asking, it was clear who she was.

"Must you persist in calling me that?" I felt the cold comfort of my trusty sidearm in my palm, my eyes scanning each passerby.

"Fennewick, then. Do you think it's appropriate to address a lady in such a manner?" Her innocent doe eyes belied the demon within, challenging the age-old belief that the eyes are the windows to the soul. For her sake, I hoped she still possessed one, and that it wasn't merely the glow of artificial life that animated her.

"I am a professor now, Pleiades. I can speak as I please." I stated it as a matter of fact.

"I wanted to be gentle with you," Pleiades, known to me as April, cooed, "But I suppose old habits die hard." Before I could blink, she had a Sig Sauer pressed to my ear and a midnight blue fingernail under my chin. Most men would have been too terrified to blink, fearing their last sight would be darkness rather than beauty, but I knew April had never taken a life, and she wouldn't start now. This was merely a show of force. I was actually quite curious how she had managed to conceal the device about her person, though I assumed beneath the hem of her ruffled dress lay one of those garter-inspired holsters.

"I owe you two hundred," I said, reaching blindly into my pocket and pulling out a pre-tabulated wad of bills.

"This is three-fifty, you don't owe me that much."

"You see what you want," I told her, stepping back and attempting to appear nonchalant, "I'm certain it's two hundred."

She wouldn't have smiled in broad daylight, but I knew she was pleased. Especially when it came to a woman as discerning as April Yvon. She must have been curious about my generosity, but of all my associates, she should have known that I paid based on merit.

The street was brisk, and my BMW M3, a relic from '99, showed its age. I had owned that car for what felt like an eternity. As a rule, I rarely shivered from the cold alone, but I found myself recalling the black lace choker April had worn, an unusual accessory given her typically amiable demeanor.

The key slid into the car lock, a vertical slit in the metal, guided by a satisfyingly slow mechanism. A click from behind made me wary, as I had just settled all my debts.

"If you're here for next week's rent, sir, I must inform you that I only pay current debts."

As I turned, I found myself face to face with an older man, his gaze filled with a complex mix of emotions. 

"Fennewick," He stated in a grizzled voice, "My apologies; I did not intend to startle."

"Montana, what a surprise. How did you know I would be so far from my office?" It was true that I was obliged to entertain any urgent matters within the confines of my cedar-paneled sanctuary, not on a street curb.

"I'm sorry, but I followed you here. I had an important question."

"Proceed." I did my best to maintain a professorial demeanor, even as I watched April retreat down the avenue, her eyes never leaving me.

"It's about the young woman you've been seen with," the thinking man confessed, his tone betraying the fervor of concern or gossip.

I reached for the car door and slid into the driver's seat, cautioning him, "I would advise against becoming too involved with her. She is not much to study."

The turn of the key in the ignition brought the inline six-cylinder engine to life. With a final, ominous glance at my fellow professor, I pulled away from the curb, shifting the gearbox into second as I merged into the flow of traffic. The car phone, a modern replacement for the outdated model that had been in the car when I bought it, rang just as I reached the first stoplight. I picked up the slim receiver, aware that anyone who called this number was likely to mean business. 

"Fennewick First," I announced, addressing the caller. 

"It's a pleasure to hear your voice again, darling." April, what more could she possibly have to say after our encounter at the convenience store?

"April, this is hardly the time for idle chatter," I informed her, a note of sternness creeping into my voice as my left foot eased off the clutch in harmony with my input of accelerator with my right, allowing the car to move forward.

Any hint of flirtation instantly vanished from her voice. "Are you on your way to the lot now?"

"I have a twelve-thirty appointment," I replied, knowing she would immediately understand, "You have the one o'clock, correct?"

"Indeed."

"Take the WRX," I instructed her, "We'll want them to learn on something with all-wheel drive."

There was a moment of hesitation on her end of the line, followed by a soft, amused laugh. Whether this was in response to my choice of vehicle or the innuendos associated with all-wheel drive was irrelevant. Regardless, her reaction was endearingly disconcerting.

"See you there," I told her abruptly, returning the slim receiver to its cradle in the center console. It was then that I noticed the engine was under more strain than I would have liked, and that I should have shifted into fourth gear some time ago.

I hoped that whoever I was scheduled to instruct that afternoon would have some prior experience with vehicles. Those who had grown up riding motorcycles or operating farm machinery seemed to have an innate understanding of what the car needed. However, the sporty nature of the Subaru made the gear shifts even more challenging. This was made abundantly clear when I had a student a few years ago. Despite my repeated instructions, the information simply did not stick.

"I just can't get this!" She exclaimed as we pulled into a gas station, coming to a jerky stop between two pumps, a mere ten feet from our intended destination. The next few minutes were spent trying to coach her through the remaining distance, but her clutch control was far from precise enough to cover such a short distance. Fearing she might accidentally launch the car across the lot and hit a pedestrian, I took over.

"Please switch seats with me, Kimmy," I had told the young high school student, whose mind was clearly more preoccupied with the fantasy of owning a sporty car than mastering the subtleties of driving it. She looked at me with a helpless expression before stepping out of the car and allowing me to maneuver the vehicle next to the pump. From that day forward, I never saw that young woman again, nor did I encounter such a challenging situation. Since then, I had made a point to fully fuel the car before taking students out on the road to learn how to drive a manual transmission.

It made me wonder how April had learned to drive, as she was arguably faster at shifting gears than I was. My own skill had been honed out of necessity and determination. I can still recall that October day as if it were only a week ago.

"The car wasn't advertised as a manual," I had protested to the owner, standing outside a large shed filled with several sedans he had refurbished, "I don't even know how to drive a stick shift."

The elderly man, a swindler if ever there was one, stood there counting the crumpled bills I had handed over. "The sale is final, now be on your way."

Had I been armed at that moment, I shudder to think what I might have done. But I was a penniless college student who had just spent months saving up to buy a car I had always dreamed of owning. Was I going to let a minor obstacle like a learning curve stand in the way of my youthful ambitions? So, I spent the day stalling and lurching around until I found the rhythm. I forced myself to take the car onto the highway, driving as far as the border between Maine and Canada before turning back towards Pennsylvania. That was over a decade ago, a testament to how the time slips the mind. With a slip on the clutch, I had relegated the automobile to second gear, the brick visage of the modest commercial plaza housing our office looming in the windscreen. It was a pedestrian L-shaped structure, unremarkable and faded by the relentless sun.

The unexpected arrival of Professor Jewett – or Montana, as he was known – had quite frankly unsettled me. Understatedly worldly and inquisitive, the physics professor would have been better suited to the field of psychology. He would have found a more stimulating task in deciphering the human mind, rather than regurgitating the immutable laws of nature that had formed the basis of his lectures. Rumor had it that he had taken up a side job selling automobiles at the local McBennett used car lot, a notion that was not entirely surprising. With his fashion sense reminiscent of an AMC Gremlin and an impending retirement ahead to fund, Montana was clearly in need of additional income. While regional state universities may have extended an olive branch to both students and faculty, it did not necessarily translate into a fair remuneration.

As I maneuvered into a parking spot, April, ever the specter, glided towards my vehicle with an uncanny grace, even in her stilettos. It was as if she knew I would never dare to hit her with the vehicle. The gearshift was thrust into neutral, the engine silenced, and the gauges fell lifeless. I hastily exited the vehicle, only to find her already there, standing beside the car. Her nutmeg-colored eyes offered a paradoxical warmth in the biting November air, their mystery sending a chill down my spine. Gazing into her eyes was akin to partaking in a potent narcotic, and I had to tear my gaze away quickly; I had already lingered too long. A smirk played on her lips as she registered my reaction. She was perceptive to a fault, and cunningly aware of the dynamic that I was too raveled to comprehend.

Before further words could be exchanged, another figure emerged. A young man, his adolescence evident in his demeanor, approached April and me with the starstruck gaze of a fan meeting his idols. He extended his hand towards me first. "Avery," he declared, offering a brief handshake as a form of introduction.

"Fennewick First," I responded, withdrawing my hand from the handshake.

"Kennewick?" The young man seemed confused.

"Fennewick," Said I, a bit perturbed on account of his misunderstanding my name.

"You resemble Eric Johnson," Avery observed, stepping back to scrutinize my appearance, "If he were a vampire with hair like Isaac Newton."

A frown swiftly crossed my face at his peculiarly specific comparison, though I was flattered to be likened to the famous guitarist and mathematician nonetheless. Before I could formulate a response, April took the initiative to introduce herself.

"I am Pleiades," she informed the young man, who seemed instantly captivated by her. His hand eagerly reached out for a prolonged and gentle handshake. I considered it fortunate that I would be his mentor, and I seized the opportunity to redirect his attention when his gaze strayed over her, less discreetly than he probably intended. April shared my disapproval as I physically guided Avery away by his shoulder, bidding a quick farewell to the sentinel by my vehicle. After a moment's hesitation, I returned to my BMW, inserted the key into the door handle, and double-checked that it was securely locked. April's expression soured at my second check, as if I suspected she might abscond with the vehicle.

I attempted to convey my apology through a submissive glance, but her stoic demeanor remained unbroken. By the time I had traversed the sloping parking lot, Avery was already inside the car, fiddling with the gearshift and clutch as if he were well-acquainted with them.

"Have you ever driven a manual transmission vehicle before?" I inquired of him as I took down the starting time, date, and pertinent information on the small clipboard stowed in the glovebox.

Avery, it seemed, was oblivious to his surroundings; his attention was consumed by the sight of April, who stood in the car park, presumably awaiting the arrival of her own pupil. His fondness for her was palpable, a fact that stirred a sense of unease within me. As an educator, it was a source of great vexation. "Your silence, I presume, is an indication of uncertainty," I remarked, hoping the sternness of my voice would jolt him from his amorous reverie. 

"Have you ever observed?" Avery queried, his voice heavy with what I suspected was infatuation. 

"Observed what? That you are neglecting your studies in favor of casting longing glances at my colleague?" 

The youth met my gaze, "She bears a striking resemblance to Thalia, have you ever noticed?" 

I was familiar with the name he mentioned, but I wanted to be sure. "The Latin pop singer, right?" 

"That's the one," Avery responded, not really striking me as the Latin music type.

I would have made mention of the instrument in my possession, once given that name, but it seemed that Avery was not the type to appreciate such information. Thus, I withdrew a sketchbook of charcoal from my satchel and began instructing the young man on the art of igniting the vehicle and shifting it into first gear. The afternoon was punctuated by the jarring sound of the engine stalling repeatedly, leading us to the inevitable conclusion that our journey would not be a long one. With a sigh of resignation, I returned the sketchbook to its resting place in the glovebox, my attention now solely focused on guiding the proper use of a manual transmission vehicle. I cast a regretful glance in April's direction, knowing full well that she could have done a commendable job with the task, if her student was more adept with a standard.

In the solitude of my own vehicle that night, I scrutinized the intricate details of the drawings I had captured, using a printer's loop and the soft glow of the radio unit to illuminate the block typeface I had etched in the margins. A smile of satisfaction played on my lips - with such a meticulous document, one might mistake me for an architect or engineer. Despite the lines being drawn freehand, they were surprisingly well-proportioned, and the measurements precise. It was a boon to be gifted with the ability to perform simple physical calculations, a skill Montana himself had often praised. The speed limit at which the distances were covered fit neatly into the mathematical framework, requiring only a simple chronometer to complete the estimate.

A knock echoed from the window. The familiar warmth of a feminine smile graced the windowpane opposite me, to which I responded in kind. The door was unlatched by a single digit, though my gaze remained fixed on April as she swiftly entered. A harsh gust from the outside invaded the cabin, causing a shiver to run down my spine and my fingers to stiffen around the instrument I held.

"Greetings, April," I uttered, extending the pad towards her as she shut the door and placed a sculpted hand against the dashboard's main heating vent.

"Charming sketch, Fenney," she breathed out, the nickname scraping against my disposition like nails on a chalkboard.

"Appreciated," I responded tersely, "I suppose all that remains is to escort you home."

"I'll ensure they lay eyes on these," she assured me as I shifted the car into reverse and maneuvered out of the parking space. The strip mall was now nothing more than a fluorescent wound carved into the celestial majesty of the night sky.

"Excellent." Words seemed superfluous, and we journeyed in silence for a while, gliding through the post-rush-hour streets bathed in the warm glow of fading taillights, a whisper of the impending winter.