You will not be saved

According to the mechanic, another new fight club rule is that fight club will always be free. It will never cost to get in. The mechanic yells out the driver’s window into the oncoming traffic and the night wind pouring down the side of the car: “We want you, not your money.”  

The mechanic yells out the window, “As long as you’re at fight club, you’re not how much money you’ve got in the bank. You’re not your job. You’re not your family, and you’re not who you tell yourself.” 

The mechanic yells into the wind, “You’re not your name.” 

A space monkey in the back seat picks it up: “You’re not your problems.” 

The mechanic yells, “You’re not your problems.” 

A space monkey shouts, “You’re not your age.” 

The mechanic yells, “You’re not your age.” 

Here, the mechanic swerves us into the oncoming lane, filling the car with headlights through the windshield, cool as ducking jabs. One car and then another comes at us head-on screaming its horn and the mechanic swerves just enough to miss each one. 

Headlights come at us, bigger and bigger, horns screaming, and the mechanic cranes forward into the glare and noise and screams, “You are not your hopes.” 

No one takes up the yell. 

This time, the car coming head-on swerves in time to save us. 

Another car comes on, headlights blinking high, low, high, low, horn blaring, and the mechanic screams, “You will not be saved.” 

The mechanic doesn’t swerve, but the head-on car swerves. 

Another car, and the mechanic screams, “We are all going to die, someday.” 

This time, the oncoming car swerves, but the mechanic swerves hack into its path. The car swerves, and the mechanic matches it, headon, again. 

You melt and swell at that moment. For that moment, nothing matters. Look up at the stars and you’re gone. Not your luggage. Nothing matters. Not your bad breath. The windows are dark outside and the horns are blaring around you. The headlights are flashing high and low and high in your face, and you will never have to go to work again. 

You will never have to get another haircut. 

“Quick,” the mechanic says. 

The car swerves again, and the mechanic swerves back into its path. 

“What,” he says, “what will you wish you’d done before you died?”

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