One Headlight

One Headlight

By Mike Roop



It used to be a game we played while driving at night.  When we were in high school, me and my friend Matt, on our way to or from the movies or the mall, or wherever we were going to goof off and check out the girls, we used to play it. 

Spotting the cars with one headlight. 

We used to joke and keep points.  We noticed that when we spotted one, most had the left headlight out, and fewer cars had the right headlight out, so lefties were worth only one point and righties were worth five.  We kept a running total, we did, from one outing to the next.  If we forgot, or thought the other had cheated, we would just start over. 

Along with that little game, after a short time, we had come to a realization.  Well, more like we were making up a story, you know, to give the game a little more history… that maybe the cars or trucks, or what-have-you, that lost the left headlight were like drones or pawns, the lower ranks...  The ones sans the right headlight, we so studiously determined, were the leaders or generals that held command or domain over the lefties.  We thought it was a grand little idea behind our game, and once in a while we added to it, making even more depth to the mythos of one-headlighted cars. 

But, what started out as a game with added foolishness started creeping in on me and Matthew.  Caught up in our own story, both of us, when together or apart, would notice more and more when we were being followed by a car with one headlight. 

There was even a night when I was driving home very late, or early depending on your viewpoint, that I noticed a one-headlighter behind me, a soldier-drone, its left light out...

It’s following me, I thought, as I nervously lit a cigarette.  I immediately turned down a different road on the way home, taking a roundabout path on my way.  Surely, I told myself as I turned, this guy doesn't live down this way, there is nothing this way but just some farmland.

But, sure enough, it also turned.  Naturally, I was at least slightly freaked out, if not maybe a little more, and I turned off the radio now, which before had been blaring loudly at 3 AM in the dark of night.  An unnatural quiet fell over the interior of my rusty blue Mustang. 

I could hear the wind whistling, and the thrum of the tires, and the not so quiet engine of my car.  I knew these roads pretty well, having lived in the same area since I was born, and I knew many ways to get where I was going, taking many different routes.  So I thought I would again test my theory: was I being followed?

I sped up, as was my nature.  I always drove fast, especially at night, because I knew the only cops around were the sheriff or his deputy and they only came out when they had a call.  So I flew down the mostly-paved back roads, dodging the potholes the county had overlooked. 

I hit a big dip in the road, what would be called a “low water bridge” in the South, and the car bounced up and continued on at about 60 MPH, and then around a sharp corner onto a new road.  Surely the car behind me would not notice I had turned before it was too late and I would be home free. 

Once on the next road I hit the gas more, pushing up to 70, then 80...  If I got caught, I knew my mom would kill me for getting such a speeding ticket.  80 in a 35, what a doozy that would be.  But how was I going to explain it?

”Sorry, mom, there was someone following me.”  Get real, that would never hold up. 

It was then that I tapped the brake pedal and slowed down to about 45; I knew maybe I could talk my way out of that kind of ticket.  I kept glancing in the rear-view and side-view mirrors, constantly searching for the headlight I had hoped was not there. 

I saw a brief flash of light and my heart jumped into my throat. 

But it was okay.  It was just a light on someone's barn.  That was all. 

I relaxed, and chuckled out loud to myself, flicking the cigarette butt out the window.  Had I smoked it without realizing it? That or it had burned down when I wasn't paying attention, too caught up in my own illusions late at night.

I pulled off that road onto the highway; further down that particular highway was my street.  Not many cars down old route 82 at night, except for a few semi-trucks mostly.  I drove down the last stretch, about a mile, to my street. 

And, just as I was slowing down and turning, a car went past the other way, down 82 in the direction I had come from. 

The car had one headlight out.

They’ve seen which street I live on, now, the thought came unbidden, they know where I live... 

The next day, when I again met up with Matt, we talked and eventually I mentioned it.  His face had then gone a little pale as he looked back at me.  He related a similar story.  We began to wonder then if we were both just too imaginative for our own good and this was just ridiculous.  So we laughed it off and went on with our high-school lives.  We had enough to worry about with girls and college and the “real world” fast approaching. 

After I graduated high school, I didn't see Matt as often, and soon our time tapered off to almost not at all.  We got together maybe every month or two, or three, as time wavered on. 

Then one day I had come home from work and found a message from Matt on my answering machine.  His voice sounded unsure, almost quivering and shaky.  He said I had to come by and talk to him because he had something urgent and important to tell me. 

I took a shower and changed clothes before I headed over on a hot, sticky July evening in Ohio.  I drove over to Matt's place which took me about 15 minutes to get there most days, depending on traffic.  Absent was his parents’ Buick; the garage door was open, though, and his car was in the garage.  Matt was pacing in the driveway.  I pulled up into the drive and got out as he walked up to my car. 

”What's up,” I said cheerily.  It had mostly been a good day... so far. 

”The generals know,” he said.  His eyes were wide with fear.  I can honestly say I had never seen Matt so scared.  Then I noticed blood dripping from his hand. 

”Huh?” I asked.  At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about.  “Matt, what's up? What happened there?” I said, pointing at his bloody hand. 

”The generals know we know,” Matt said, licking his lips which were dry and cracked.  He looked awful, like he hadn't slept in a month.  “And they tried to send a soldier after me.”

He looked toward his car in the garage.  I followed his gaze and noticed a large oil stain seeping out from underneath.  Matt just looked away, off towards the slow sunset, his eyes glazing over.  I walked over, closer to the garage.  And then I saw it. 

Auto parts were scatted around the cement floor, the tires were slashed; I saw a utility knife with blood on it. Blood on the floor, mixing with oil, dirt, grease.  The hood was up and I peered inside to see the engine was a wreck of broken parts; a hammer lay tossed to the side. 

Matt was suddenly up beside me.  “It won't start, now, and even if it could, it ain't got tires.”

He said this, mind you, not sounding crazy at all, but just matter of fact, as if to say, “Mind your feet, I just mopped.”

To be honest, I wish he did sound crazy.  I wish he was a raving loon, bouncing around like Daffy Duck making gibbering noises and singing “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down.” But he was so calm just then, looking at the broken, trashed car.  It was just... unsettling. 

My palms were suddenly sweating something awful, I noticed, so I wiped them on my jeans as I walked back out into the open air of the driveway.  I reached into my car through the open window and grabbed my cigarettes.  Matt didn't like that I smoked, but I didn't care, I lit up anyway. 

Matt stood there in the arc of the garage opening leaning on a tool chest. 

It still hadn't struck me what he was talking about. 

The generals and a soldier?  The one-headlighters hadn't crossed my mind in months. 

But they had Matt's... 

I noticed it was getting dark so I said, “Um, hey...  You wanna go inside? Watch some TV? Talk?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, taking a deep breath, “Let's go.  Lose the smoke, though, man.” Matt walked into the house, letting me follow.  I flicked the butt out into the yard and went inside. 

When we had sat down in the living room, he spoke, looking me in the eye, “The One-Headlighters, Mike... We were right and we didn't even know it.”

I looked at him, now fully realizing what was tickling at the back of my brain.  It was there, but I sure as hell didn't want to recognize it...  “No way, man,” I said, “We made all that up.  It's a joke. A game, Matt.  What's really wrong?”

I was trying to go for something else; anything else, really, perhaps a girl he was seeing dumped him.  Maybe that was it.  Or maybe he didn't get accepted at the school he wanted to go to.

“No. That's it,” he replied, “and it's no game anymore.  They know that we know.”

I started getting frustrated.  I had better things to do than screw around with this kind of foolishness.  If Matt wasn't going to level with me, then I was leaving.  I stood up and looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall. 

“You do believe me, don't you, Mike?” he asked, his eyes wide.  “Come on, I didn’t make that up!” he yelled, stabbing a finger in the direction of the garage.

“Matt,” I said determined, “This is the really Real World.  What you are talking about is a story we made up.  Fiction.  Not Real.”

“But it is real!” he pleaded. 

I shook my head at him and turned away, walking outside. The sun was just under the horizon and the streetlights were on. Matt followed, repeating himself.  “It is real! And they know that we know!”

I reached my car and opened the door.  Matt was still trying to convince me.  I turned and put a hand up to stop him. “Look, Matt, we have been friends a long time.  And it's been fun, making up stories and goofing off.  But you have to know,” I poked his chest, “deep down, that this is not real! Cars with one headlight are just that. Cars with one headlight out. They don't have a hierarchy and they sure as hell don't try to kill people! Now come on!”

I suddenly realized I was shouting at him.  My voice echoed off the neighboring houses in the cul-de-sac where he lived.  I was worried we were being spied on and some old lady would call the cops about a fight.

“But Mike,” he said, looking pitiful and hurt, “You are the only one who will listen! WE did this thing...  WE figured it all out! AND THEY KNOW!”

That was the last straw.  “MATT!” I yelled, too loud for comfort.  I stared at him, clenching my fists.  This was insane.  If he wanted insane, I would give it to him.  “Look! I'll prove it to you!”

Reaching into my car I pulled on the headlight switch, illuminating Matt, the garage, and his wrecked car.  Then I got under my front seat and pulled out a tire iron.  I stormed around him and struck my driver's side headlight.

SMASH!

The right headlight.  Matt fairly shrieked with horror as it flickered out. 

“ARE YOU NUTS, MAN!?” he screamed. 

It was almost comical.  But I didn't care. I could buy a new headlight, big deal.  I turned around, grinning, almost laughing.  Then I saw his face; he was white as a ghost.  He suddenly ran towards the garage and in his haste he knocked over the tool chest.  He reached down and grabbed a ball-peen hammer and turned around, looking at me with quite a mad gleam in his eyes. 

“MATT!” I held my hands up, “You are NOT going to total my car!” I laughed through that demand, this had all become so ludicrous I couldn't believe it.  Then my laughter caught in my throat.  A rumbling behind me made me jump.  I stumbled and fell backwards into the yard. 

My Mustang had started up. 

All on its own. 

And I could still feel the keys in my hip pocket... 

This wasn't happening.  This COULD NOT be happening. 

The Mustang lurched forward with a growl and squeal of tires.  I couldn't look away as it barreled into the garage.

And Matt. 

I heard a sickening crunch, the scrape of metal, as my Mustang crushed Matt into his own wrecked and gutted car.

They know that we know, I kept hearing Matt say.  They know that we know... 

And I tried to tell the police that when they arrived soon after.  I tried to tell the doctors and nurses in the hospital, and to the judge at the hearing, and again at the trial where I was convicted of murder. 

Sometimes someone will say they believe me, but I can tell they don't. 

They are just trying to be polite. 

Even the paramedic who sits in the ambulance with me now; he is just being polite.  He even tries to believe with me by telling me he sees a truck with one headlight, right now.

But I am not crazy. 

I know I am not crazy, even as they are taking me to the mental hospital now.  It wasn't just a game, and it's not a joke. 

I don't make jokes anymore. 

Not about cars with one headlight, and not even about trucks with one headlight, like the paramedic is talking about now.

I follow his gaze and his gesture as he points excitedly out the windshield of the ambulance at the semi-truck with one headlight out, a left headlight, coming straight at us.

And I watch as it plows right into us.

Oh, they know.  And now they know that you know, too.