The Catalyst
Christian Fallter sat with his hands on the steering wheel of his black panel van, tapping it incessantly. What’s the hold up? he thought. He looked in his rearview mirror and glanced at the precious cargo held in place with ratchet straps. He was so close to his destination he could have thrown a rock and hit it. He was anxious to get this delivery done. He looked at his watch. 3:45.
Why was there so much traffic on Skinner on a July eleventh afternoon? He was about to tap his horn but thought better of it. It was what it was, as the saying goes. He figured those in front of him were just as frustrated. Besides, his last stop of the day (his only stop actually) wasn’t going anywhere. It had been on the same street corner since 1974 and it wasn’t about to magically disappear in 2013. Christian had always been a patient man. That is until he fell and hit his head. That’s when the voice showed up.
In fact, it was the voice that suggested, no, demanded this delivery be made.
“What are you waiting for Christian?” The voice wanted to know. It always sounded low and hollow like they were speaking in a large empty room. It was usually warm and caressing, but today it was painted with a sense of urgency. “You have been far too long in this delivery. Every day more are lost. Do not tarry any longer Christian.” There was a brief pause as if the voice was trying to catch its breath, or think of the right thing to say to get Christian to understand the importance of the delivery of the cargo held in the van. “There is no more time, Christian. No more excuses. No more anything.”
Christian looked in every direction wanting to pinpoint the source of the voice. He had done that very thing quite often since he started hearing it, but he never found it. Desperation filled his reply, “I am. I swear. It’s right up the road.”
The voice returned in an angry snarl that made the hairs on the back of Christian’s neck stand on end. “Now, Christian! Or there will be hell to pay!”
He had to move, traffic or no traffic.
Christian pushed harder on the brake and threw the van’s gear shift into reverse. While holding down the brake with his left foot, he floored the accelerator with his right. When he looked in the side mirror the air was filled with smoke smelling of over-heated brake pads and burning rubber. Drivers behind him began laying on their car horns in an effort to get him to stop.
Christian let his left foot slip off the brake pedal. The van lurch back. The only thing keeping Christian from slamming his head into the steering wheel was his shoulder harness. The van rammed into the car behind him, pushing it into the vehicle behind them, and them into the next in line.
Horns blared at a steady pace.
“Your delivery can not wait!” the voice screamed in Christian’s head, drowning out the din.
When there was enough space between his van and the car in front of him, Christian again applied the brake hard enough for his tendons to bulge. He crammed the gear shift into drive and held the gas pedal down to the floor.
A man pounded his fist against Christian’s window. His face red with rage. “What the fuck!” The man screamed over the squeal of spinning tires.
Christian glanced at the stranger with eyes that were only focused on one thing. He turned the wheel so he could enter the lane of oncoming traffic. He looked up the road, the coast was clear for now. He released the brake. The rear of his van began to fishtail. The stranger outside his door scrambled backward to avoid being run over. Christian turned the wheel, first one direction, and then the other. The straps holding the cargo groaned under the strain as the weight shifted in their containers. The rear passenger side slammed into the car that was in front of him. He spun the wheel again and pulled into the empty lane, heading the wrong way. A trail of smoke billowing behind him.
He flew up the street toward the intersection, his heart racing as much as the van’s engine. Sweat rolled down his face even with the A/C cranked to high against the July heat. His destination was just ahead. He could see it.
Maybe once he was finished with this one task the voice would leave him alone.
The speedometer surged upward, its yellow marker pivoting to the right like a pressure gauge desperately searching for the red danger level. The cars he passed blared their horns to get his attention. Their horns screamed and faded as if they were cartoon soundtracks.
Just up ahead cross-traffic had the green light. But Christian didn’t notice the cars going through the intersection, he was focused on a building just beyond them setting on the corner across the street. Christian required a great deal of speed to deliver his cargo to them. A great deal of speed indeed.
The dashboard clock changed to 3:47.
“The Lord is my Shepherd…” Christian began to pray as he barreled headlong into the intersection of Falcon and Skinner.
