Tuesday Night (Flash Fiction)

She gave him a long look. The red and blue lights of her patrol car flashed in the night. “Can you describe what happened?”

Bob turned and looked at the rear end of his car sticking up from the ditch. He tapped at his chin. Three different times his mouth opened, the words ready to escape, but then it simply shut again.

“Do you know how you came to not be wearing any pants?” she asked.

“Now that,” he said, pointing a finger to the air, “there is a perfectly good explanation for that.”

She raised her eyebrows and tapped the pen to her pad. Bob gave her a look that was almost thoughtful. She might have found it somewhat endearing if he were wearing his pants. Bob turned, and she got a fluorescent headlight view of his underpants. They were tighty-whities and they were old and worn through. She found herself amazed by his nonexistent ass.

“You see,” he said, “I took them off before I got in my car.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Because I was on fire. My pants were on fire.” Bob stretched his arms across the darkness, over a horizon only he could see. “I took them off so I could drive ’em down to the water and put them out.”

She scribbled her pen to the page. “You took your pants off because they were on fire.”

“Yes.”

“And you carried them with you in your car? So that you could drive them here,” she said, pointing to the shoulder where a small stream snuck its way along the road. “So that you could put the fire out?”

“That’s right,” he said, nodding his head. The motion of his nod made the impression that it was all perfectly clear.

“Jesus,” she said under her breath.

“Jesus?” Bob looked at her as if she were crazy. “He didn’t get in the car. He’s in my apartment. He said He’d wait for me there.”

She jotted down another note. “Jesus is waiting for you in your apartment?”

“Yeah, He is.” Bob put his hands on his narrow hips and gave them a bit of a cock. “It was His idea I do this to begin with.”

“Jesus told you to crash your car in the ditch?” She stopped taking her notes.

“No,” he said, drawing the word out. “Jesus lit my pants on fire to get a fire under my ass. I had to crash my car in the ditch to put the fire out.” Bob pointed to his car, a dirty gray Mustang. “See?” He held an open palm to the blinking hazard lights.

“Sir,” she said. She made one final note, Tripping balls, and flipped the pad closed. “Why did Jesus set your pants on fire?”

“I already told you,” he said. Bob sighed and shook his head. “You light the pants on fire.” He counted to one with his finger. “You get the fire under the ass.” Two fingers. “You get them down to that water.” He held three fingers out. “And you baptize the living shit out of ’em.” He held his hand out with a thumb folded in and four fingers pointing up.

She shook her head and pulled out her handcuffs.