0017: Get Out Of The Car
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Everly glances at her sleeping roommate and at the puked coated coffee cup. She should have aired out the car. It's too late now.
Everly cranks down the window. “Can I help you?”
“License and Registration.”
The officer’s ears blossom off his face, and his small marble eyes study her with a wary expression.
“It’s not my car, it’s my roommate’s car…so I’m not sure where the registration is.”
The officer pushes two stubby fingers into his right temple. “Try the glove box.”
A corset squeezes Everly’s stomach as she raises the gray handle to the glove compartment. Slowly…slowly. BAM. It ejects, energetically offering its contents for inspection.
Everly tries to shield the officer from the small plastic bag as she digs under several chocolate chip cookie dough flavored protein bars, a small makeup kit and a stack of water damaged car manuals to find the piece of paper with the registration on it. She slides it out and slams the glove box shut again.
Everly passes the page to the officer and then digs her ID out of her wallet. The officer nods and takes them back to his car.
Maybe he’ll just give her a warning.
Everly gazes up at the street. 300 feet to Strathmore.
Her road.
She could have walked home by now.
Her hands feel clammy.
Her face flush.
Everly glances back at the officers in her rearview mirror. They sit unhurriedly pecking on the small computers in their laps. The headlights from other Los Angeles drivers, no doubt glad it’s not them pulled to the side of the road, whizz past.
Everly stares at the clock.
2:17 am.
The night air pushes its way into the car, causing Everlys arms to look like the skin of a raw chicken.
Should she roll up the window? But then, it will smell like puke when the officer comes back. Did she bring a sweater? Everly digs in the small tote, but only finds the sandwich wrapper, the purple lip gloss, her phone, the empty bottle of water, and partially used tissue.
Finally, the officer returns, his brow furrowed.
“I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”
--
Everly glances at her sleeping roommate and at the puked coated coffee cup. She should have aired out the car. It's too late now.
Everly cranks down the window. “Can I help you?”
“License and Registration.”
The officer’s ears blossom off his face, and his small marble eyes study her with a wary expression.
“It’s not my car, it’s my roommate’s car…so I’m not sure where the registration is.”
The officer pushes two stubby fingers into his right temple. “Try the glove box.”
A corset squeezes Everly’s stomach as she raises the gray handle to the glove compartment. Slowly…slowly. BAM. It ejects, energetically offering its contents for inspection.
Everly tries to shield the officer from the small plastic bag as she digs under several chocolate chip cookie dough flavored protein bars, a small makeup kit and a stack of water damaged car manuals to find the piece of paper with the registration on it. She slides it out and slams the glove box shut again.
Everly passes the page to the officer and then digs her ID out of her wallet. The officer nods and takes them back to his car.
Maybe he’ll just give her a warning.
Everly gazes up at the street. 300 feet to Strathmore.
Her road.
She could have walked home by now.
Her hands feel clammy.
Her face flush.
Everly glances back at the officers in her rearview mirror. They sit unhurriedly pecking on the small computers in their laps. The headlights from other Los Angeles drivers, no doubt glad it’s not them pulled to the side of the road, whizz past.
Everly stares at the clock.
2:17 am.
The night air pushes its way into the car, causing Everlys arms to look like the skin of a raw chicken.
Should she roll up the window? But then, it will smell like puke when the officer comes back. Did she bring a sweater? Everly digs in the small tote, but only finds the sandwich wrapper, the purple lip gloss, her phone, the empty bottle of water, and partially used tissue.
Finally, the officer returns, his brow furrowed.
“I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”
--