Free Rides

Free Rides By Gregg D’Albert

©2009

Remy noticed the gumball machines as she was walking out of the Colorado Boulevard Marketplace. There were six of them, stacked three on top of three, and the red paint on their metal bases was chipped and scratched. It was the incongruity that caught Remy's eye; these tacky, middle-American antiques simply didn't belong in the too-trendy Marketplace. In fact, Remy couldn't remember having ever seen them there at all, and she visited the Marketplace frequently to buy her sheet music. She moved closer to the machines to examine their contents: M&M's in the first, Skittles in the second and plastic eggs with prizes in the third. On the bottom row were Chicklets in the first, ordinary gumballs in the second, and in the third, that mysterious product found only in battered red gumball machines, Chlorophyll gum. Remy wondered how they managed to extract the chlorophyll from plants and put it into chewing gum, and whether a person would be able to photosynthesize after partaking of a few pieces. She didn't bother to find out; instead, she impulsively put a dime into the machine containing the prize-eggs, and turned the dial. There was a ratcheting sound, and then a clear plastic egg fell out of the slot and into her hand. "What are you doing?" said a voice from behind Remy. Remy turned around. The voice belonged to her friend, Tamara, who had accompanied her to the Marketplace along with Melanie, another friend. They both now stood there, waiting for an explanation from Remy. “I'm sorry,” Remy said. "These machines just caught my eye, and -- have you ever noticed them here before?" The girls looked at the gumball machines. Tamara shook her head and said, "No, and I'm surprised the stores even let them be installed here. They look so cheap." "You didn't actually waste money on one of those, did you?" said Melanie. "I thought you didn't like sweets." “I don't, so I bought a prize-egg,” said Remy. "And it wasn't a waste; what else could I buy for dime?" Tamara sighed. “Right, whatever. Let's just go, or we'll miss the bus.” “Wouldn't that be a tragedy,” said Remy, following after her friends. They stepped out into the late autumn Pasadena afternoon. The traffic on Colorado Boulevard was heavy and slow-moving, and Remy could tell by the number of people waiting at the stop that they hadn’t missed the bus. She glanced tentatively back at the entrance to the Marketplace. The gumball machines were still there, although they looked somewhat less alien from a distance. How long have they been there? she wondered. And who put them there? Remy liked the Marketplace, despite its inherent trendiness. It was a collection of stores built inside a gutted old building. The developers had left the original facade up to “preserve the dignity of the neighborhood” as they put it. All of the stores within were upscale and tasteful, including the small shop where Remy bought her piano sheet music. The gumball machines, however, just didn't fit. They weren't quaint…just old. And Remy didn't know why they were bothering her so much. As the bus swung into view a few blocks away, Remy realized that she'd forgotten to open her prize. She pulled it out of her pocket and examined it again: A clear plastic egg with only a strip of paper inside. Probably my fortune, she thought, twisting the egg open. The slip of paper fell out, but Remy caught it in midair. She turned it over to reveal a coupon, lettered like a party invitation, which read:

FREE RIDES Redeem this coupon for one month of Free Rides to wherever you wish! Courtesy Quicksilver Transport Services State Lic. # 420714L There was a toll-free number to call at the bottom of the coupon. And that was it. Remy self-consciously closed her jaw and looked up as the dreaded Metro bus pulled toward the stop. “Wow,” she said. The bus struck a pothole, and the jolt snapped Remy out of the semi-daze she'd been in. Riding the bus generally made her mind wander, and sometimes it wandered a little too far to make the trip back unescorted. She sighed. Next to her, Tamara and Melanie were engaged in conversation, talking about the latest social scandal at school. Remy found the subject to be particularly tedious and didn't want to interrupt her friends' enjoyment of it. Instead, she looked to her right where, past an empty bench, she could make out her own reflection in the tinted window on the opposite side of the bus. It showed both the pretty sixteen-year-old girl with expressive brown eyes and rich, brown hair done up in the favored pony-tail, and the intense young woman who felt the weight of the world and the problems of others a little more keenly than most people her age. “May I introduce to you, the act you've known for all these years,” said the man seated behind them to no one in particular. Tamara interrupted her stream of dialogue and shot the man an annoyed glance. The man, grizzled and somewhat unkempt, but not terribly old, took no notice, and continued mumbling to himself. Tamara shook her head. "Metro bus," she said, "the last bastion of L.A.'s acid casualties." Remy said nothing, only continued looking across the aisle at the window. Tamara and Melanie exchanged looks; Melanie shrugged, and Tamara turned back to Remy and put her hand on her shoulder. Remy fliched, and turned to Tamara. "What? Did I miss anything?" "Not really," said Tamara. "It's just that you were starting to act like the rest of the people on this bus," said Melanie. "I've got to admit, it's getting better…a little better all the time," said the man behind them. Tamara rolled her eyes. "Case in point." “I'm sorry,” said Remy. “I was just -- you know -- thinking.” "About Scott?" said Melanie, prompting. "Definitely not," said Remy, shaking her head. "We're over." "Oh, Remy, why? He's so nice, and so cute." "Don't forget," said Tamara, “she didn't just break up with Scott; she 'gave up on boys' altogether.” "That's right," said Remy, defensively. She examined her two closest friends for signs of understanding. Tamara, a somewhat voluptuous seventeen-year-old who wore her blond hair extremely short, was a quirky drama student who adored Remy for her individuality, talent, background, and "cool name". Tamara had a love-hate relationship with all men, boyfriends and relatives alike, and cursed them at every opportunity. But she could no more give up boys than acting; she was equally passionate about both. Of the three, Melanie was the most "typical". She was Remy's age, and very

beautiful, with long, flowing black hair and an absolutely flawless complexion. She was also studious, spirited (captain of the school flag team), and enjoyed a romantic relationship with the star of the school basketball team. She, too, could never give up boys; they were an integral part of a balanced social life. Boys were normal. The absence of boys, on the other hand, was a little frightening. Remy, on the other hand, felt like saying, “Why the hell is it so necessary for a sixteen-year-old girl to be in a romantic relationship? Why is it expected?" But she didn't say it; good friends that they were, Tamara and Melanie still might not see why Remy got so worked up over the subject. "The celebrated Mister K performs his feat on Saturday at Bishopsgate," said the man behind them. Remy dimly realized that he was reciting the entire album Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. In track-order, no less. Tamara ran her hands through her short hair in exasperation. “Remy, if your prize turns out to be a limo, please give us rides to and from school. We'll make it worth your while.” Remy laughed for the first time that evening. She had forgotten about the mysterious prize, and the thought of redeeming it cheered her up a little. And it made her realize how much she hated riding the bus. Her mother was still not home when Remy arrived. She checked the answering machine; no message from Caroline saying she'd be working late again, so she was probably just stuck in traffic. Remy reset the machine and went to the master bathroom to start running a bubble bath. Then she went back to the living room and ran her finger down the extensive compact disc collection, finally pulling out a CD of Mozart flute concerti, a Billie Holliday collection, and a disc by the group Jane's Addiction. As an audiophile, Remy preferred to use the home theater system during these occasions, rather than her iPod. She set the CD changer on “random”, and went back into the bathroom to turn off the water. She left the door open so she'd be able to hear the music and the sound of her mother coming home, should that event actually transpire. Finally, she undressed and lowered herself into the hot water, eagerly anticipating her one daily opportunity to just Think. Caroline Lambert arrived home to find Mozart blaring on the home theater system, meaning her daughter was in the bath. She'd hoped to come home early enough to corner Remy and have a conversation with her. Caroline knew better than to bother Remy while she was bathing, however, so she vowed to talk to her over dinner; it was Thursday, so Remy would be cooking anyway. There would be no escape. Caroline leafed through the stack of mail on the small table in the entryway, fishing out the bills and leaving the rest to go over later. Then she walked toward her office on the East side of the spacious house, wondering if there was something wrong with her daughter, or with herself. The problem was not that they weren't getting along; the problem was that they were getting along like roommates instead of relatives. Caroline's thoughts were interrupted as she turned on the light in her office and saw that there was a fax waiting for her. She did a double-take, pushing her long, blond hair out of her face, and walked over to the fax machine. She hardly ever used the fax anymore, and had only really left it connected out of laziness. And yet, a page-long fax letter was waiting. It was written on the letterhead of the French record company for which her ex-husband worked. And it was for Remy. "Son of a bitch," said Caroline. “After seven years, Maurice finally decided to write to his daughter.” Remy, wearing a kimono, exited the bathroom with her clothes bunched under

one arm. She reached out to turn off the light, and a sock fell to the floor. She knelt down and grabbed it. As she stood up, the other sock fell. She clicked her tongue, and grasped the sock with her toes, bending her leg around so she could reach the sock with her hand. As she did so, her shirt fell. Remy growled quietly, and knelt down to pick up the shirt, vowing to make it to her room in one trip, although by that time she could have already made two trips and been done with it. She gathered her clothes into a tighter ball and stood up just as her mother came down the hail holding a piece of paper. “This is a fax for you,” Caroline said. "It's from your father." Remy dropped the clothes. "So, come on, what did he say?" said Caroline, sprinkling Parmesan cheese on her pasta. "I'm dying to know." "You didn't read it?" said Remy, taking a sip of wine. "Nope. I saw that it was addressed to you and brought it right over. But you'll understand my curiosity, of course." Remy smiled. "Of course." She examined her mother for any signs of wistfulness at the mention of Maurice, but Caroline remained imperturbable. She was also, Remy realized, intelligent, talented, and quite beautiful (the blond, blue-eyed Caroline was often mistaken for Remy's sister). Maurice was a fool to leave someone like her mother, Remy concluded. She played with her pasta for a while, staring at her plate as she turned the fork around and around, the strand of fettucini chasing it like a piece of film at the end of a reel. Finally she sighed, something she found she was getting quite good at lately. “Permission to speak freely, Captain?” she said. Her mother nodded. Remy put the fork down, but continued staring at her plate. "He didn't say anything, really, in that fax; that's what bothers me. Hesaid that he sent a fax because that was the only number of ours that he still had. Then he just put a bunch of silly salutations in his pidgin English, and said that if I ever found myself in France, he could get me an apartment and a job at the recording studio, because he's so rich and influential. That's it. Not a word about his career, or his girlfriend. No questions about my school, or my playing, or anything…" Remy trailed off. After a moment, she resignedly picked up her fork again. “Son of a bitch,” she concluded. Caroline's chuckled. “Funny, that's the same phrase I used a little while ago.” Remy smiled a little, and she finally looked up and met her mother's gaze. "I'm sorry. That was wrong. You may have reason to call him that, but I don't. I don't hate Maurice; how can I hate someone I hardly know? I mean, he must care, or he wouldn't have sent the fax at all, right?" “Right!” Caroline nodded, glad that Remy saw it that way. "He cares about you very deeply, Remy. But he cares about a lot of things very deeply -- music, sex, fast cars -- and he's always had trouble prioritizing. It's funny, though: The things that first attracted me to him are the same things that eventually..." This time, Caroline trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. She took a long sip of wine. Remy nodded slowly. "And I think I've got problems. Seeing what other people go through, I shouldn't complain." Caroline shook her head. "Oh, but you do have problems, Honey," she said. Remy looked at her quizzically, and Caroline corrected, "No, I don't mean…what I'm saying is, you shouldn’t feel the need to belittle your own problems. Our problems are what humanize us. You can't relate to a person who never has problems, can you? You may envy them, but in reality you relate better to people who do have problems, because it makes them human, like you. And it’s comforting to think that they like you for the same reason, because maybe you'll be able to help each other out and solve some of your problems. Does that make sense to you at all?" "Yes, surprisingly," said Remy.

"Good. Then tell me some of your problems." "But I don't even really know what they are myself!" “Oh, I don't mean you have to tell me right now,” said Caroline. "I'm just leaving the ball in your court. If you come up with something, try hitting a return stroke." "I hate sports analogies," said Remy. "But you'll do it, right?" Remy thought about it for a moment. "Yes, Mother," she said, “I will. I promise.” Caroline nodded. Good, she thought, satisfied with herself. You did it. Now let's see if she keeps her promise. "Wait!" Remy said, "I almost forgot. I got something really interesting today!" She ran from the table and came back momentarily with the Free Rides coupon. She told Caroline how and where she had obtained it. "Oh, Honey, that sounds too good to be true," Caroline said. "Why don't you try calling the DMV tomorrow morning and have them check on that operating licence number? I'd do it for you myself, but I have to leave for the studio at the crack of dawn. Call them, just to make sure this company isn't a front for some burglary ring…or worse." Remy laughed. "You certainly have a vivid imagination, Mother. But don't worry, I'll call." Remy called the Department of Motor Vehicles the next morning, before she left for school. When she finally got ahold of someone, they told her that commercial passenger transport fell under the jurisdiction of the L.A. Department of Transportation, and gave her the number. The operator at LADOT put Remy on hold for quite a while as she checked their records. Remy was about to give up when the operator came back on, reading a list of credentials for Quicksilver Transport Services that was completely official and up-to-date. There was also a list of references, and the first name on it was that of the Mayor of Los Angeles. That was good enough for Remy. She thanked the operator, gathered her school materials, and ran out of the house. She missed the bus by thirty seconds. The next one wouldn't come for another thirtyfive minutes. When Remy finally arrived at school, although classes had already started, she found a quiet spot outside and called the number for Quicksilver on her mobile phone. When a friendly voice answered, Remy gave her name and address and told them to be at her house at 7:30 sharp the next morning. "Yes, he should be here any minute now," Remy said impatiently into her phone. "Well, I don't know for sure if it's a limo. I didn't bother to find out." She rolled her eyes at her mother, who was listening to Remy's side of the conversation. “Melanie, I don't care if it's a Yugo, it's still better than the damn bus! Anyway, I'm picking up Tamara, so do you want us to swing by or what?!” Another brief pause, then: "Good. We'll be over as soon as we can." She hung up. "Melanie worried about her image?" Caroline said. "Of course," said Remy, shaking her head. "As if two years of riding the bus to school could possibly do any worse to one's image…if one worried about such things." "Fortunately, you don't," Caroline said. "Damn straight." The sound of a car pulling into their driveway made Remy pause. The car came to a stop, and the engine cut off. “Oh, that's him!” Remy said excitedly. “Do you think he'll come to the door?” “Of course,” said Caroline. "Forget it, I can't wait!" Remy ran to the front door and threw it open.

The car was a black sedan…large, but not a limousine. Specifically, it was a late1960's model Mercedes-Benz, with the ‘stacked’ dual headlights and large, grated grille. The car was still in showroom condition; Remy could see her reflection in the gloss-black paint, and the chrome bumpers were so shiny she had to squint against the glare. It wasn't what Remy had expected, but still she thought the car was incredibly classy. She couldn't believe she'd have free use of this vehicle for a whole month. The driver's door opened, and a man wearing a black chauffer's uniform and cap stepped out. He was somewhat short, and looked to be about 50, with strong but friendly features, light-blue eyes, and a salt-and-pepper goatee. When he spoke, it was with an indistinct, central European accent. “Hello,” he said, “my name is Anton. Where will we be taking each other?” Remy shook his hand. “Hi, I'm Remy, the one who got the coupon. And this is my mother, Caroline.” “Indeed?” Anton said, removing his cap and approaching Caroline. “Madame, I honestly believed you to be Remy's sister; you look no more than a few years older. And that is not, how do you say, ‘a line’.” Caroline laughed, and shook Anton's hand. “Charmed, Anton. And thank you; you're not the first person to make that assumption, but I try not to let it go to my head." Anton replaced his cap. 'Well, Madame, I shouldn't worry about it either way. Now, before I forget, here is my business card. It has the telephone number of our dispatcher, and I also wrote down the number of my mobile phone there at the bottom." “Thanks,” said Caroline. “So, can she call you anytime for a ride?” "Anytime, day or night," said Anton. “And as far as she wants to go, she can go -- until this date next month.” Caroline whistled and looked at Remy. "Honey, I envy you; that's a hell of a prize." Remy nodded. “I know, right? I still can't believe it.” She checked her watch. "Oh, no! We'd better go, since we still have to pick up my friends -- er, that is, if…" She stopped herself and looked at Anton. He smiled. “Included.” Remy breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay then. Let's go!” Anton bowed quickly. "Very well, Miss. If I may just have your coupon." Remy handed him the Free Rides coupon, and he cancelled it with a small hole punch. "Thank you, Miss. Here you go." He opened the rear passenger door. “Please, call me Remy,” she said as she got in. “I can't deal with that 'Miss' stuff.” Anton nodded once. “Very well, Mi – Remy.” He went around the car and opened the driver's side door. “I suppose it's not necessary to remind you to drive carefully,” Caroline said to Anton. He shrugged. “I assure you, no; but I appreciate the gesture, in any case.” He smiled and got behind the wheel. "'Bye, Honey," said Caroline to her daughter. "Enjoy the prize, you lucky brat!" Remy smiled and waved. Anton started the car and backed out of the driveway. "Please fasten your seatbelt, Remy; you'll notice this car has been retrofitted with threepoint harnesses." Remy wasn't quite sure what that meant, but put on the seatbelt anyway. She admired the seats themselves: They were brown leather and in very good condition, although softened from years of use. The rest of the interior was typically Teutonic, austere but tasteful, with burled walnut trim on the door panels and dashboard. The Benz rode smooth and quiet. “Please state the address of the first stop,” said Anton, looking at Remy through the rear-view mirror. “The system will navigate for us.” Remy slackened her seatbelt and leaned forward. “Wow, I’ve never seen a navsystem like that before. Amazing!” There was no small screen on the dashboard; instead, the map features were superimposed on the front windshield in the form of a 3-D head-up display.

Multicolored lines traced over the roadways, buildings and even other vehicles; rather than having the effect of blocking the view outward, the display actually made landmarks and potential perils easier to see. "Yes, I admit I was a little impressed, too, when it was first installed. It’s fun, but also very necessary in my line of work." Remy told him the address of Tamara's house, and as soon as she’d finished saying it, the lines tracing the road ahead on the windshield changed from black to red, with the red route following a street to the right a few blocks ahead, indicating the route to Tamara’s address. “Amazing,” Remy said again. Then, something occurred to her. "Hey, since this car is so well-equipped for a museum piece, I take it you have an iPod jack?" “Not exactly. I mean, it’s not necessary. Once you entered the car, the files on your digital music player were automatically transferred to the car’s solid-state drive. Just state the name of the artist or track you would like to play.” “Wait a minute…isn’t that data encrypted or something? How are you able to just grab it like that?” "Oh, well, you see" Anton shrugged vaguely, “it’s the newest thing, a prototype really. I am not sure of all the technical details myself." Remy sat back in her seat. She had accompanied her mother to the most advanced recording studios in the world, and although they all had digital recording equipment, she'd never heard of a device that could do what Anton had just described. She was positive. The days passed. Tamara and Melanie were duly impressed by the Mercedes, and by Anton, and they seemed more excited by the idea of riding to school in a chauffeured car than even Remy. During the weekend, Remy took the car to the mall, and then to the Music Center for a symphony. On Monday, she again gave Tamara and Melanie rides to and from school. Remy noticed that Anton got them to school in excellent, almost impossible, time. That Friday night, after Anton had dropped her friends off, Remy called home from the car and talked to her mother for a few minutes. When she hung up, she seemed disappointed. “What's wrong?” Anton said. "My mother was just on her way out the door. She's a session musician, and the studio in L.A. called her back in to re-record a bunch of tracks that got botched on the original master. She said she may not be home until tomorrow evening." It was nothing new to Remy, and although she was used to being alone, she still disliked it. Unfortunately, Tamara and Melanie both had plans with family over the weekend, so that ruled them out as well. "Anton," Remy said after a while, “when you first met me, you asked me an odd question: You said, ‘Where will we be taking each other?' What did you mean?" "Well, a journey's as exciting for the driver as it is for the passenger, isn't it? Because I don't know where you may want to go next, and for me it's an opportunity to discover new places and hear people's thoughts on life. That's why I've been a driver for over thirty years; I love it." Remy sighed, and leaned back in her seat, pulling her feet onto the cushion and hugging her knees. “Anton, just drive. Let's just go for a ride. Can you do that?” “Certainly, Remy. Any place in particular?” Remy shook her head. “No. Driver's choice.” Anton nodded. "Very well. I will take you to one of my favorite places." Remy smiled in agreement, and closed her eyes. A change in the rhythmic motions of the car caused Remy to awaken from a deep sleep. Without opening her eyes, she could tell that they were moving much slower than they had been, and that the road was rutted and gravelly. She started to take a deep breath and

stretch, but then stopped herself; something felt terribly wrong. She opened her eyes and looked out the window to her right. Clouds of yellow dust blew by as the car hit another rut, meaning they were on a dirt road. Beyond the dust, Remy could make out strange, hut-like habitations, and beyond those, nothing -- just a vast plain stretching out as far as she could see. Not only was the landscape weird, but so was the fact that she could see it at all; it wasn't any darker than when she'd gone to sleep, and the sun had been about to set then. "Anton, where the hell are we?" she said, confused and a little angry. Anton looked at her through the rear-view mirror. "Just a few more minutes, Remy," he said. “We're almost there.” "Almost where?" Remy looked out the left window as they passed another of the dwellings: It was a simple, cylindrical wattle-and-daub hut, with a conical, thatched roof. A few goats grazed around it. “Well,” Anton said, “what does this place look like to you?” Remy continued looking at the hut and the goats through the rear window, until the view was obscured by dust. She turned back to Anton. "It looks like Africa," she said. “One of those Hollywood backlot versions of southern Africa, without the backlot.” She gazed at the unbelievably wide plain again. “…And without Hollywood," she added. Anton nodded. “So, where does that leave us?” "Oh, please, Anton, don't bullshit me! Just tell me where -- " "Ah," Anton interrupted, slowing the car to a stop. "We're here." He shifted into "Park" and cut the engine. There was utter silence, except for the ticking of the cooling engine. Anton was looking at something off to his left. Remy followed his gaze and saw two people about a hundred feet away. The sun was setting beyond them, and Remy couldn't make out any details for the glare. She looked back at Anton, who said nothing. After a brief pause they simultaneously unbuckled their seatbelts and got out of the car. Remy stepped onto soft earth and realized that they hadn't been on a road at all; they were in the middle of the plain, with the Benz’s two tire tracks receding into the infinite distance behind them. Remy circled to Anton's side of the car, and together they walked slowly towards the two people. Remy examined them as she approached. To the left stood a very tall black man, perhaps thirty years old, holding a thin staff, his left foot resting on his right ankle. He wore a brightly colored, loose-fitting wrap-like garment. The man turned his head and looked at them, seemingly unsurprised, though Remy thought that she and Anton must have appeared utterly alien. The man turned his head further and looked at the Mercedes, the sight of which made him raise an eyebrow. He glanced back at the two visitors momentarily, then seemed to dismiss them, and turned back towards the West. Remy continued walking ahead towards the other person, a slender woman who must have been almost as tall as the man, though Remy couldn't be sure, since the woman was kneeling on the ground. The woman didn't turn around, so Remy continued walking up behind her, until she could see over the woman's shoulder. Then Remy stopped in her tracks, and her expression became one of surprise and awe. A medium-sized yellow dog was lying in front of the woman and, as Remy watched in amazement, was giving birth. Two mewling puppies had already been cleaned by the woman and placed on a cloth next to their mother's nipples. The woman helped a third one out of the womb and gave it the same treatment. Remy smiled, fascinated; she'd never witnessed anything give birth before. She looked around for Anton, wanting him to see this spectacle for himself, but he had gone over to talk to the man. Low, foreign syllables reached her ears, and she wondered how Anton could have possibly known the language of these people. She was distracted by the woman tapping her on the arm. Remy examined her

closely for the first time: She was beautiful, with short braided hair and high cheekbones, and perfect skin that was the same shade of dark brown as her eyes. And, Remy noticed, she smelled beautiful, too -- it was some sort of natural perfume that Remy couldn't identify, but it was beguiling. The woman smiled at Remy and motioned to the dog, which lay there stolidly, about to give birth to a fourth pup. "Oh, no, I couldn't…" said Remy, waving off the woman's unspoken suggestion. The woman clicked her tongue impatiently, and pulled Remy down next to her. A short time later, Remy was walking back to the car with Anton. “That,” she said quietly, "was amazing. I'm still in a daze." “You've never seen an animal give birth before?” said Anton. "Not in person. And it's not just the dog! It's this whole experience. Africa. I believe you now, Anton…we're in Africa." Anton nodded. “Those people are Maasai -- the most dignified people in the world, in my opinion. Anyway, I spoke to the man; he said the dog is theirs -- the woman is his wife -but that they do not have a male dog. So he thinks one of the wild dogs around here got together with their dog and, how do you say? Partied. The woman thought that the dog might need a little help delivering the puppies." "So she helped," said Remy. And she let me help." They reached the car and Remy turned back to look at the couple on the plain. "And what's he doing?" "Him?" Anton looked at the man, still standing there facing West, and then looked back at Remy, grinning. “He's just enjoying the sunset.” They drove back across the plain. “So, which is it, Anton?” Remy asked. "Is it the car itself? Is this a magic Mercedes? Or is it you?" Anton's blue eyes appeared in the rear-view mirror. "Sorry, Remy; trade secret." "'Trade secret?!' Some trade! Who is Quicksilver Transport Services? Can all their cars travel through space and time? Does the company make a profit, or do they reach all of their customers through gumball machines?" "I can't tell you. All I can say is that our winners deserve their prizes. Now, let me ask you a question: Does it matter?" Remy thought about it for a moment. "No. I guess it doesn't matter. It's just a wonderful gift. As for deserving it, I don't know about that, but it is nice not to have to take the bus for a while. My mother promises she'll help me get a car when I've finished driver education, but in the meantime, I've grown really sick of the bus." Anton grinned. "Oh, you deserved the prize all right." Remy leaned forward in the seat excitedly. "Can we go anywhere, Anton?" Anton shrugged. “Pretty much. I drive, you fall asleep, and then you wake up where you want to be.” Remy laughed out loud, and clasped her hands together. "Oh, man! I want to go everywhere! I want to see the people! Take me to another place, Anton." Anton laughed, caught up in Remy's mood. "All right, but remember, time is still passing back home. That's just how it works. And if we're gone all night and all day tomorrow, and your mother gets back before we do…" "Well then, I can just leave her a message telling her the truth: That I went for a nice, long drive." “Very well,” said Anton. "And remember also that you have two weeks of your prize left; I wouldn't want you to get bored with it." “Bored? Are you kidding? I want to go somewhere every weekend, and every night after school..." Remy leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes, imagining the places she'd like to see. Finally, she smiled, her eyes still closed, and said, “Wow. What a hell of a prize.”

And so they traveled. On the weekends, on weeknights when her mother was away, Remy visited the world. In Ireland, they helped a farmer replace a wheel on his horse-drawn cart. In Kolkata, they joined a discussion on philosophy with some local scholars. And in Copenhagen, a mysterious black Mercedes tagged along at the end of a parade. They drove. Remy played the piano for the children of an orphanage in Bolivia. Anton tried to flush-out a devil in Tasmania. They bought a fez from a young girl in Morocco, giving her far more money than it was worth. And they gave Remy's iPod to a boy on the Navajo reservation, on the condition that he listen to some of the classical music on it occasionally. They traveled, and the hours, days, and weeks flew by. Remy said nothing of it to her mother or her friends; they wouldn't believe her, and she couldn't blame them for that. What mattered was that she believed it, and that she loved it. Finally, sadly, her last weekend of Free Rides arrived: Her privileges would expire that Sunday at midnight. She decided that Friday evening would be spent watching the sunset in the land of the Maasai, where her adventure had started. Saturday and Sunday would be Anton's choice, in recognition of a job well done. As they watched the huge orange sun sink below the African horizon, Anton asked, “Are you happy, Remy?” His tone was casual, but there was also a hint of seriousness in his manner. Remy, her smooth features brought into beautiful relief by the tint of the sun, said, "Yes, I am. Happier than I've ever been. I still have some problems, but…" "That's good," Anton said. "That is the best a life can be: Problematic, but happy." They drove. Remy slept. When she awoke, they were traveling on smooth pavement once more. The lastquarter moon illuminated the low, rolling hills on both sides of the road, and although the stars were more brilliant than what she was accustomed to back home, their light was overpowered by the glow of a city beyond the horizon. Anton's eyes in the mirror: "Remy, what happened between you and your boyfriend?" Remy stretched her arms and yawned. “I broke up with him two months ago.” “Why?” Remy sighed. “I should be used to explaining this, but I'm not; people don't seem to understand. But, put simply, Scott wanted a romantic relationship, and I didn’t.” "At the risk of sounding forward, I suspect that he wanted a little more than just romance." Remy nodded. “Scott is a very likable guy; when I met him last year, we just hit it off. This year, he wanted to get a little more serious with me. One night, he said he wanted to kiss me, and I let him, because frankly, I wanted to kiss him too. So we became an 'item', and it was kind of fun. Then, one day he told me that he wanted to have a sexual relationship with me. Just like that, using those words -- Scott's nothing if not courteous. Anyway, I told him I wasn't ready, and he said that he understood and that he could wait a while. I told him he didn't understand, because I didn't know when I'd be ready; and I told him that I wouldn't mind if he went with some other girl and got it out of his system, because his libido was getting in the way of our friendship. It deteriorated after that, of course, but I still don't think that sex is the be-all and end-all of any relationship." "Wow," Anton said. Remy nodded again. "So then my friends told me I was crazy for breaking up with Scott. I told them they were crazy. Here’s the thing: I don’t have a problem with sex. OK? But I do have a problem with expectations. It’s as simple as that. Things that are important to me, I want to do on my own terms. I’m not one of those ridiculous girls who thinks it’s healthy to put

off sex until middle age or something. I’m sure I’ll have, you know,bunches of sex someday. But it will on my own goddamn terms.” Anton blinked. “Forgive me if this sounds cliché, but you're wise beyond your years, do you know that?” Remy shrugged. “No, but I know one thing: I can't believe you dragged all that out of me! I haven't even told my mother that much!” "But you should," said Anton. "Because it helped you to tell it, didn't it?" Remy leaned back in her seat, relaxing. "Yeah. It did." "Then that's something we have in common," Anton said. "We both like to help people." Remy smiled. “Yeah. That's definitely true. If I ever decide what kind of occupation I want, it might be something that lets me help people." "What about your music? Your piano playing?" said Anton. "Well, I'm supposed to go to Juilliard, but…I don't know; for me, music is an interest, not a passion. Isn't that lame? I'm almost guaranteed admission to the most prestigious, most respected music institute in the country, and here I can't even decide if I want to attend. But I want to be passionateabout it before I make that commitment. That's the biggest problem with me: Too many ‘interests’ and no ‘passions’. I guess I'm just a confused teenager, that's all. As Tamara likes to say, ‘Angst isn't just a word; it's a way of life.’" Anton chuckled, and took a sip of coffee from a thermos. Remy gazed out the window. “What city is that?” she said, indicating the glow on the horizon. "That’s San Jose. We're on our way to San Francisco. I know it’s not that far from your home, but it’s one of my favorite places.” "Oh, Anton, that's great! I love that town." Remy leaned back in the seat for a moment, then clicked her tongue and unbuckled the seatbelt. "Hold ‘er steady, Anton, I'm climbing up front. We're gonna talk some more. Did you know that I was supposed to be a boy? ‘Remy’ is a boy’s name in France…" They drove, and they talked. Just after sunrise, they stopped and ate breakfast at the St. Francis Hotel, atop San Francisco's Nob Hill. Afterward, Remy asked Anton to drive her around town to see the sights. They hadn't gotten very far when Remy spotted something out of her passenger window. "Anton, stop the car! Pull over! That girl is crying." Anton pulled the Mercedes over alongside a small urban park. There, alone in the drizzle on a park bench, a girl of about nineteen was sobbing. Remy got out of the car and walked towards the girl, examining her: She had pale skin and jet-black hair cut in a short bob. And she was dressed entirely in black. Remy remembered that Tamara had looked pretty much the same way during her Goth phase. The girl saw Remy approaching and made an attempt to stop crying, wiping her eyes with the collar of her black sweater. "Hi," Remy said calmly. "Are you all right?" The girl had been about to say a sarcastic remark and tell Remy to get lost, but something about Remy's earnestness made her hold it back. The girl glanced at Anton, who now stood a respectful distance behind Remy, then at the Mercedes parked in the street, then back to Remy. "No," she said. Remy sat down on the wet bench, crossing her arms against the chill. “What's wrong?” she asked. The girl examined the sidewalk for a moment, wiped away a stray tear, and sniffed. “l left my boyfriend,” she said quietly. Remy and Anton exchanged glances. “I couldn't take it anymore,” the girl continued. "I don't have anywhere else to go, but…I had to leave."

"What's your name?" said Remy. "Jane," the girl said. "Yours?" "Remy." “Cool name,” Jane said. ` “Thank you. This is my friend, Anton.” Anton bowed quickly to Jane. "Are you rich or something?" said Jane. "Something," said Remy. "Maybe lucky. Anyway, Jane, your boyfriend didn't…hurt you, did he?" “Hell yeah! He hurt me, his friends hurt me…and he's hurting himself too, and I don't -- I mean, I can't…” Jane started to cry again, her tears falling onto her leather jacket, mixing with the raindrops. Remy looked at Anton, who said nothing, and back to Jane. "Please don't cry," she said. “I want to help you somehow…let me help you.” Jane sniffed, and wiped her tears away again. "Yeah, well, that's really nice of you," she said, "but I don't even know you, and you don't know me. I mean, why would you want to help me, anyway?" "Because you need it," Remy said. Jane gave a cynical laugh through her tears. "Jesus, what are you, my guardian angel? Look, I’m just gonna go." “No, please don't!” said Remy. “Please, Jane -- you said that you had no one else. Now, what would you have done if we hadn't come by and offered to help? Hmm? What were you going to do?" Jane lowered her dark brown eyes and said nothing. Remy sighed, and took Jane's hands, rubbing them between her own to warm them. She glanced down momentarily, and did a double-take. She stopped rubbing. Across each of Jane's porcelain-white wrists was an ugly red scar. Jane took her hands from Remy and covered her face; tears escaped between her fingers. “The right way, this time,” Janesaid quietly, her voice hitching. “Lengthwise instead of across.” Remy began to cry too, and she looked helplessly to Anton. He fidgeted for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, he knelt down beside Remy and gave her a handkerchief. Remy mopped her eyes. "Oh, Anton, what can we do? We've got to help her." Anton lowered his gaze. "Remy -- you've only got one day left with me." "I don't care! I'll take her home if I have to! My mother would understand…anything's better than leaving her here alone. Don't you see? She was going to kill herself! I can’t just leave her to that fate. I can't." Remy turned back to Jane and pulled her hands from her face. Jane continued sobbing, her face contorted in pain. Remy hugged her gently. "We’re here now," she whispered in Jane's ear. "I'll help you. Don’t worry." Remy continued the embrace until Jane's sobbing slowed down a little. Then she began rubbing Jane's hands between her own again. After a little while, she stopped rubbing. Something in the back of her mind was nagging her, an idea trying to make itself known. Something about Jane. Something about Jane's hands. Remy looked down and examined Jane's hands, turning them over and over in her own. They were pretty hands, smooth and white, and Jane's fingers were long and slender. Realization dawned on Remy. She looked Jane in the eye. “You play, don't you?” Jane sniffed, and nodded. "Since I was four, and up until a couple of years ago, when -- when my parents were killed. But I started up again this year, playing keyboard in a band. How did you know?" Remy glanced back quickly at Anton, her expression suddenly full of hope. She turned back to face Jane. “Holy shit…I can help you," she said. "Oh God, I can really help you!" "How?"

"First of all, you must honestly want me to help. Do you?" Jane nodded, and Remy continued: "Second of all, I need you to trust me. Do you believe me when I say I want to help you, no strings attached?" "Yes," Jane said without hesitation, catching some of Remy's excitement. "Good. And finally, is there any reason that you can't leave San Francisco for another town that's just as nice?" Jane thought about that one a little longer. “No,” she finally said. "I guess not. Like I told you, I have nothing here. When I left my boyfriend, I packed every last earthly belonging of mine. And you know what? It all fit into this one backpack. And I wondered, How did it ever get to this?" She sighed, and looked Remy in the eye again. "It can't get any worse. I'll go wherever you can take me.” Remy smiled. "Yes! That's good, Jane; you’ll see." She stood up and held out her hand. "Come with me. I'm sorry to rush you, but I haven't got a lot of time." Jane took Remy's hand and pulled herself up. "Then I guess I'm ready." “Great,” said Remy. “Excuse us for just a moment, Jane.” She pulled Anton aside. “Remy,” he said, a little confused, “what --” "I'm sorry, Anton," she interrupted, “I know I promised to let you pick the last destination, but now I have an address to which I need you to take me.” Anton smiled and stood up straight, adjusting his cap. "Of course, Miss." Remy gestured for Jane, and they all walked back to the Mercedes. Anton opened the rear door, and the girls got in. Then he got in behind the wheel and started the engine. “Miss?” he said, looking at Remy through the rear-view mirror. Remy closed her eyes, remembering. She sighed, and nodded to herself. "Number 107, Rue Le Fiell," she said. “Paris.” "You gotta be kidding," said Jane. Maurice Lambert climbed the last flight of stairs to his flat, shifting the evening edition of Le Monde to his left hand, in order to fish out the keys from his pocket with his right. The paper slipped out of his hand, and he cursed softly, scooping it up again. As he stood up, the keys slipped out of his other hand. He was about to utter a more severe curse, but he noticed something strange as he glanced at the keys lying on the floor: Light was streaming through the crack at the bottom of his door. He knew he'd left the lights off. He picked up the keys quietly and ran his hand through his rich, brown hair, unsure of what to do. Finally he came to a decision and reached for the door, turning the knob quietly: Unlocked. He took a deep breath and then burst through the door and into the flat, confronting the last thing in the world he expected to see. There was an older man inside his apartment with two girls. One of the girls, he knew, although it had been years since he'd seen her, was his daughter. Maurice dropped the paper. "Remy?!" he said. “Mon Dieu! What are you doing here? How did you get here?” He ran to his daughter, and they embraced. “Oh, I don't care, as long as you are here!” Remy smiled, and pulled herself from the embrace to look Maurice in the eye. "Do you love me, Father?" she said in French. "Oh, what kind of question is that?" he said, also in French. "Of course I do." Remy nodded. "Good. Then you are going to do me a few favors. Because you love me." Maurice looked at her, confused. “Say you will, Maurice. I haven't got much time.” “Yes, yes, of course Iwill! Anything you ask!” “Good.” Remy switched back to English. “This is my friend, Jane. She does not speak French very well, but that's OK, because you speak English better than you admit. What you

will do now is provide Jane with the job and apartment that you previously promised to me. And you will be nice to her, because my other friend, Anton, will be keeping an eye on you." Maurice self-consciously closed his jaw and glanced at Anton, who tipped his cap. "Because you love me," said Remy, "isn’t that right?” She kissed him on the cheek. "Au revoir, Maurice. See you soon." Maurice held out his hands. "Wait! That is it? Of course, I will do this favor for you, Remy, but can you not stay for a little while? I want to talk to you." "Maurice, I promise I would stay if I could, but I have to go right now. I do want to talk to you. So, please call me.” She pointed to the phone number she had written directly on his teak dining table with a grease pencil. “I will be there when you do…and I will listen.” Remy and Anton walked to the door. Jane ran up to Remy and took her hands. "Remy…" she said, struggling for the words that could match the emotions. "I – I love you for doing this. You’re amazing. I’ve only known you for a few hours, but I love you, and somehow I know it’s real love, not just relief or gratitude. So, having said that…" She hugged Remy tightly. “…You’d better fucking visit me.” Remy laughed. "Oh, Jane, you're so welcome. I will come as soon as I am able.” They pulled apart. "You know, I guess I have this need to help people. When I help others, I'm helping myself." Remy looked pointedly at Anton and smiled. "Ask anyone."

EPILOGUE The man -- balding, thin, thirtysomething -- squashed out his cigarette and huddled against the December chill, which was surprisingly bitter for West L.A. He mused: Wife gone, no friends, car impounded, bills, taxes. He had a hell of a lot of problems to work out -- big problems. But things had been starting to look up just a tiny bit lately, starting with the Christmas present he'd gotten from his sister: It was the best, most useful, and timeliest gift he'd ever received, or could hope to receive. He just wished they'd hurry up. Almost as soon as he'd had that thought, a gleaming black Mercedes, circa late-1960's, rounded the corner and pulled up to the curb in front of him. The man squinted against the glare of the impossibly well-polished chrome reflecting the winter sunshine. The engine shut off and the door opened. A striking young woman wearing a black chauffer's uniform, her brown pony-tail peeking out from under a black cap, got out of the car and leaned against the driver’s door. "Hello," she smiled. "My name's Remy. Where will we be taking each other?" fin