Something died. Maybe it wasn't tonight nor the night before, but something that had been buried deep and firm in R. J. Martin's sternum was no longer there. The object had formed in his early youth and he'd gotten used to the feeling, one of a warm embrace, something precious. It didn't matter because it was gone. The feeling had left slowly but suddenly. One night just as its gradual disappearance was getting comfortable, it was gone entirely. Martin had been aware of this but he did not fight it. Rather he allowed it to happen, fearing that if he had tightened his grip, he would have lost it anyways. That scared him the most, and he did everything in his power not to face the possibility that he in fact had no power over anything at all.

Chapter 1

The 110 freeway connects Pasadena to the dreamy parts of LA; to the downtown skyline, to Chinatown, to Dodger Stadium, to those endless Bay Watch beaches, and to the rest of the whole world. In that way, the 110 was Martin's lifeline out of that dried up little gulch they called the Arroyo Seco and into the greater basin of Angels. There are two ways one can drive that narrow, windy freeway. Many drive conservatively. They make room for cars on the oncoming ramps. They slow before each little curve in the road and sit behind the family minivans and the mover's pickups. Sometimes you could catch one of these types wandering curiously to the left only to be quickly chased back to that laggard right lane. That was Martin's job. The inside lane was for the youthful. Martin had driven his father's old sports car down from the vineyards of Napa. In autumn, it had the sweet fragrance of Zinfandel. But like Martin, the car had lost its romantic luster by the onset of winter. Martin couldn't tell the difference, for one can rarely smell oneself. The car had now become perfumed by his smell; an amalgamate of shitty Chinese food, used condoms, the sulfurous LA smog. And liquor, cheap liquor.

That night in late January, Martin urged that shell of a BMW down the old highway at offensible speeds. He was a talented driver. After long, drunk nights, it was his steady hand that led groups back to the apartment. Martin could sleepily navigate the desolate dust road of Napa, 7 drinks deep. He preferred LA. Martin weaved between leisure drivers and whirled past white vans and doubled buses. Back home he'd fallen into the habit of holding a hand or grasping the thigh of a woman. Now he found his hand laying limply on the passenger seat. In other times, Martin would let this hand hug the center console and fight the pulling force of sharp turns.

His steering hand rested gently on his left knee while his right foot worked the pedals. He kept his hand loose, allowing the thumb and forefinger to pinch the bottom of the wheel ever so slightly. When that wrist rolled from one side of his knee to the other, the bitter blue sports car would miraculously draw circles about the proceeding automobiles. And never a grand motion, that kind of driving was out of fashion; the gentle prodding of Martin's fingers was enough to elicit a response. So, Martin's father's car, which had once trampled through the vintages of the valley vineyards, now marauded the freeways and cried through the streets, stealing passing kisses from dainty bumpers before springing off to big things.

Martin rolled his windows half-down. He howled the songs on the radio, and let the breeze run through his hair and lift the dank air in the backseat. He was looking for that rockstar feeling. In other times, that 110 freeway was known to be the Historic Route 66. Martin and the deep blue convertible came swiftly upon the narrow, meandering turns of that old pilgrimage. There amongst the countless, snaking automobiles, Martin often thought of the Joad family and Steinbeck, and how in other times freedom seekers would forfeit their lives on that forgotten road down to Santa Monica that led into the hearth of the warm, rolling waves of the Pacific. Freedom tossed the car above the night lights before a crazed descent into the city's Asian-most part. From there, it was a short 15-minutes till the car jolted down the Wilshire ramp and headed for the Intercontinental downtown.

There was a woman waiting for him. "An old fling," Martin called her. It wasn't; they weren't old and there never had been any flinging. She was an acquaintance from college. Same floor, three doors down, but they hadn't ever talked until last year when they'd met at his father's wine tasting. There had been dinner and talking some time ago. Now she was in LA and she called him to room 312. She wanted some catching up. Martin hadn't been attracted to her nasal laugh or the way she chewed with her lips puckered. It turned him off. Regardless, it was now a feeling he wanted. He sped. The looming skyscrapers and one-way streets hid many undesirable stenches.