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“Why are you really on the run, Jimmy?”

He jerked a nod. “Man, we haven’t even passed three mile markers. I mean, I’m about to share the crap I left behind to a stranger in a suit.”

“Hey, no pressure. Seriously. I just like getting to know other humans. Humans are interesting people you know.”

“Yeah, I grew up with a lot of human people.” He reached down to the brown paper bag and pulled out a water bottle and took a swig.

“Hmmm.” Did I push too soon? I never was much for small talk and always had a bad habit of assuming things. Self-projection was zero help, of which I was a pro. Kent, actively listen.   

Jimmy continued. “Catholic. No birth control besides what they called the Rhythm Method. After ten children the Church was stoked my parents didn’t have any rhythm. Then came me. Number eleven. Last in line…for the dinner table, the bathroom, and always for the station wagon.

“Baby of the brood, eh? Spoiled?”

“What do you mean by spoiled?”

“Traditional meaning as in siblings believing you had it made. You know, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat kind of thing.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I waited. He shifted in his seat.

Jimmy continued. “I was spoiled like food being left our overnight, spoiled. I did what I wanted when I wanted, but after a while I felt non-existent, to my family anyway. Mom and Dad separated in the summer after my crush on Sister Jean, my second-grade teacher. That’s the last year I went to Catholic school.

My siblings went into some paradigm shift of survival. Maybe my mom wanted ask herself to move out too. Every man for himself, as they say. By the time a couple of hairs sprouted on my chest our dinners together were scarce. More than half of my sibs were out of the house. The others were busy working and sliding around socially. I came home from public school to snacks and sitcoms with thirty-minute fixes.”

“So you were a Latchkey kid, eh?”

“Latchkey?”

I cleared my throat. “One of those kids whose parents were at work after school let out.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, my mom worked as a cashier at the market and made it home in time to throw something together for dinner. Usually Hamburger Helper cuisine.”

“I have written columns on that ‘cuisine.’ Easy to assess a food that not only sticks to the roof of your mouth but only makes it past the gullet with a gulp of milk.”

“Milk, the next best thing to the Heimlich Maneuver.”

“Oh, that’s good Jimmy. I’m going to steal that line.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “So, you were just a face in the crowd then?”

“Yeah, it felt that way, at least when there were enough faces home form a crowd. Like I said, we didn’t sit still. Maybe to avoid chores, or to fill in the emptiness of a broken family, I guess. That’s my eleventh child estimation of things.” Jimmy settled his chin on his chest, and I heard air rushing up his nostrils. “Hanging around the house just made me more aware of my loneliness.”

I slipped my tie all the way off and threw it over my shoulder like salt from a shaker. I upped the cruise control and slumped my shoulders with a cleansing breath.

“So—how old are you, Jimmy?”

“Twenty-two.”

“How old is your oldest sibling?”

“My brother Joe is forty-three. His son Joey is a year older than me.”

“Interesting.” I opened my window slightly, and grabbed a piece of gum from the console, then flashed Jimmy with one.”

“Sure, thanks.”

“Does he call you Uncle Jim?” My eyebrow and head sloped in his direction.

“He always introduced me that way for the novelty of it. But at family gigs we hung out like cousins. My mom always sent us out to play. Dirt-bomb fights, and pick-up games kept us out of trouble. A lot of the time our official relationship was in the back of our brains. When some new kid found out I was Joey’s uncle there was always an odd look and a moment of silence, like they were expecting some large old guy who smoked cigars with twenty-dollar bills hanging out of his pocket.”

Jimmy had formed the foil wrap from the gum into a ball and rolled it around his palm. He cycled a breath. “Sometimes I just want to file some humans in the circular file.”

“Easy now Jimmy. Remember we are all just a crumple away from the waste basket.”

“What?”

With the best Yoda voice I could muster I said, “Mortals all are we.”

“Heh, yeah, I read Death Be Not Proud in high school. I don’t remember what it was about exactly, but the title says a lot.” Jimmy wagged his finger. “You better be careful Kent, I might be Joe Black in disguise.”

“Meet Joe Black.” I chewed my gum a couple of times. “Good movie. Joe and I have a few things in common.”

“Really?”

“Yes–. We both like peanut butter, and we both look like Brad Pitt.”

Jimmy produced a straight-lipped stare and made a quick tsk noise. “Nice. Joe Black comes for us all. It’d be cool if we simply strolled over a bridge into eternity, peacefully, like in the movie. Death isn’t like that in real life; it really isn’t proud, it chooses how we go. Death has no shame.”

Jimmy looked out at the blurred trees and the distant land circling round as the car cruised on.