Su Nadeau

The Passenger

The tractor, the copper of rust along its edge faded to a dull green, drove through New York City. At the wheel is a man whose fingers draped the shaft of a scythe leaned to his shoulder. The stop light blinked as the tractor slowed down, trembled along the road and bled over the dotted traffic lines. The tractor rode through the city.

A gas station flickered. Around the pumps, a young boy ran. Pumps jumped to a stop, the boy weaved between the cars and holstered the pumps. He exchanged cash with those through windows. What does the young boy see? Around his neck, the boy wore summer. A towel swung from his back pocket, pocked with grease. Between the garage door, an older man sat with an unlit cigar in his mouth. He would shout to the younger boy in a familial way.

The night was made hollow by city lights. At the wheel, the man drummed one finger to a tune he whistled. I strummed the banjo one note at a time, played slow enough so the man knew I loved him and the sour of his skin. When the man speaks, my whole body is tense. He tells me, the city was made for you and me. I hear him in my lungs and my tongue, fat with the anxious hope that this metropolis only existed for us. That, as the tractor traversed its streets it would erase those who lived there and that it would be painless until we were all who breathed. Until we could collapse into one another, until he pressed his yellow teeth to my skin, until I reeked—sour and alone, but with his arm around me.

There was a car at each pump, with more in wait. The pumps required a lever that wasn’t seen anywhere else in the city. They couldn’t be programmed with dollar amounts and with gas prices a twenty dollar bill didn’t get a tank that far. There were two islands with two pumps each on the back and front for a sum of eight. In the left pocket was a wad of cash to make change. Pumps clicked off and the boy leapt from one island to the next. Clicked off a pump and spun around to the car on the other side to deliver a small clipboard with receipt. Then clicked off the next pump and primed another. Was told to keep the change and went over on another pump. Money out of his pocket. The boy was a conductor, he played each pump and cars revolved around him. They clicked to his rhythm and the hose gyrated as oil flowed. Some waited at their pumps, but not one paid attention to the ballet of the boy who stayed in motion—who undid the gas cap, inserted the nozzle, and made change in the same turn.

Everything looked good tonight, but for Susannah. She was draped in the lap of the driver and it was she who cradled the scythe. The summer was thick around us and the tractor became too hot and was forced to stop. Susannah wore a dress that exposed her back, her spine bloomed from the cut of the dress, I took my banjo and went inside a shop for coffee. I sat and stayed under the glass and watched as she pressed her lips to the man and ran her fingers through his beard. I cupped my hands to the coffee and stayed until the stars came out. When the breeze blew cool I climbed the tractor and it was clear, Susannah was the passenger and everything was made for her and for him. Susannah put fingers to my back and greeted me, I drew my chin to my chest and plucked out a few notes.

Around lunch, the cars trickled in and got five dollars at a time. Only enough for the pump to gasp. The boy kept his grip on the pump and cast eyes to the pavement beyond the station. I’ve only got five, the driver said with elbows on the roof of the car. The boy nodded and knew well enough when five dollars came and went. Money was exchanged over the roof of the car. At the nearest stoplight was a tractor, the green and yellow nearly faded to the same color. A woman was at the wheel, a man sat on her lap and ran fingers through her hair. A separate man on the nose of the tractor with his head down, neck made red from the sun.

The boy was the passenger, his fingers and their grease pushed into the strands of her hair. Susannah said to him, let’s ride through this city tonight--I’ll show you what’s mine. There was only the smell of gasoline and Susannah and from under glass there was beauty in the night.

It’s New York City where the tractor puts wheels to concrete. At the driver’s seat the man is in coveralls and holding a scythe in one hand and the wheel in the other. Fingers draped across both and the gaze out over the street. Horns honk and cameras are pointed at the man, someone shouts to get out of the way. Lights illuminate in the same artificial, paranoid green of the tractor and it rumbles forward. Taxi cabs, bicycles, and pedestrians in orbit around the tractor. This close, nothing drowns out the hum of the engine. The tractor pulls to a stop at the next light and I am the passenger.

There are shouts, not at us, not at the tractor. Something down another street. A summer haze settles thick. I plucked at the banjo and ran fingers through my beard. As we rode the day turned to night and the stars came out bright and hollow. With the night, our tractor aged and rusted. The traffic before us stopped. New York City was desolate.

From apartment windows, silhouettes told stories of dinner, couches. Shadowed the actions of a domesticity I yearned for, but instead I stay atop the leather. I work at the banjo, but each pluck instead comes from the driver’s throat. He’s singing. The song ragged, dry, and cracked without melody. He sings something of Susannah. Under glass, the windows are so bright. This city was made for me. For you and me. Everything on this ride through the city is made for you and me.

Ahead there is a motorcade for which we must yield. Bright white and blue lights dot the street and flicker into existence. Susannah is the passenger. She rides through the city with a woman upon her lap. The sidewalk moves to get out of the tractor’s way. Susannah rides through the lobby. A song is sung and it’s voice brings whales back to the bay. A child cries out to Susannah, and says mother three times. Susannah presses her lips to the forehead of the other, who’s eyes never open. Four sets of fingers wrap around the steering wheel and pull it in all directions. The tractor is everywhere and the stars can do nothing to stop it.

Susannah is the passenger, Susannah wields the scythe and keeps it over her shoulder. She tells the woman, the stars are made for you me and the woman nods, never opening her eyes.

It is the passenger, Susannah’s passenger, who plays the banjo. Susannah sings again until the whales come ashore. Like points of a star, the whales dry out on each corner of Manhattan. The tractor makes a pilgrimage from whale to whale until they are decayed and become old bones. Susannah no longer sings. The child that called mother now has her own children. None of them are named for Susannah. They are named for the passenger.

The tractor no longer runs, but Susannah stays atop it and never lets go of the wheel. She is parked beside the whale. She tells the whale that all of this is not for nothing. Somewhere a tractor starts and Susannah feels it tremble.


Su Nadeau is fascinated by soups, bread, and humans. He is a special education teacher and MFA candidate at Columbia College Chicago. Su's work can be found in Entropy Magazine, Yalobusha Review, Green Mountain Review, and elsewhere. Follow him on twitter @SuNadeau.