Driving on the Left

Since arriving in Auckland, I’ve joined a creative writing MeetUp group and started playing with short fiction. This Substack began as an experiment in freedom and voice, so I’m stretching it a little further. I hope you’ll enjoy this detour. - Aaron

It’s so green! Dolly bounced up and down in her window seat.

Can you see the volcano? asked George.

Is that it?

Yes.

It’s not smoking.

No, it’s not active.

George’s wife patted his hand to calm him.

Remarkable. Simply remarkable.

He really didn’t know much else about the island. They spoke English. That was good. Most importantly, they offered fast-track visas to Americans with useful skills. The whole world needs accountants.

They rented a furnished house a short walk from the beach. That first evening they walked the boulevard and watched the waves break in the fading light. Every so often George glanced back at the volcano rising in the distance, its peak shrouded in a constant cloud, and wondered how his life had brought him here.

He had needed to leave quickly and hadn’t done much research. There would be time for that later. So far the island lived up to its billing: perfect climate, beautiful beaches, far away from certain consequences.

Work was fine. Everyone was quite nice. They had funny ways of saying things—how you going instead of how are you, toilet instead of bathroom, keep your eyes on the sky instead of see you later. It didn’t come naturally, but he kept trying. Soon he was saying sorry and no worries and keep your eyes on the sky with the same ease as everyone else.

Linda, home with their daughter, was having a harder time. She met him at the door each evening, eager for another adult to talk to. The neighbours still hadn’t introduced themselves. At the playground the women told her Dolly should have an umbrella. The sun was hot, yes, but the umbrellas they carried were enormous—not the small kind you bought at the drug store.

Chemist, he corrected her.

You get my point.

It takes time, dear. It’s a big change, but we’ll adjust. Did you see how much snow they’re getting back home? I know, let’s hike the volcano this weekend.

That weekend they rented a car and drove out to the volcano. George drove carefully up the winding mountain road. He was still getting used to driving on the left. There were no other cars in the parking lot. Strange. They slathered on some sunscreen and headed out on the trail, but they were soon disappointed. A half mile up the trail safety cones and caution ribbon blocked further progression. Closed, said the laminated sign: nesting season. They turned around and walked back to the car.

The next week at work went well for George, although he was starting to notice a few interesting patterns. He asked IT about upgrading the spreadsheet software. IT sent him to the CFO. The CFO sent him to chief counsel. Chief counsel told him to ask his boss. His boss told him to wait two weeks. No one would say yes. No one would say no.

Then there were the few times he’d sent out emails to colleagues and gotten no response whatsoever. It was odd. Was he being too pushy?

Maybe. He had yet to be invited for coffee or drinks or a barbeque. In fact, now that he thought about it, he didn’t really know much about his colleagues at all—did they have children, what did they do for fun?

As nice as they were, they didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm for the island. On more than one occasion they joked about moving to Australia.

Linda wasn’t so sure how nice they were.

They don’t stop for you at the intersections. They don’t even look for pedestrians, they just drive right through. It’s a wonder I haven’t been hit.

Perhaps you just need to get used to looking both ways.

And the hedges. Why are they so tall? They are obsessed with them, I swear.

The sun is strong here.

It’s like everyone has something to hide. Maybe, they just don’t think we’re going to be here for long.

The next weekend it was Dolly’s birthday, and George bought her a bicycle. There were no bicycles to be found on the island, so George had one imported at great cost. Dolly was excited. George took her out to the street. A passerby under a giant umbrella seemed to glare at them from across the road.

George ignored him. He gave Dolly a push. She pedalled a few feet and then fell. Then she bounced back up. That’s my girl!

He pushed her again. This time she pedalled faster and kept her balance. At one moment he was running with her, the next she was off. It was then George felt it. A shadow passed over him and a rush of wind. In front of him Dolly collapsed under a giant pile of feathers.

Feathers?

The bird took off, Dolly grasped in its massive talons.

It had only lifted a few feet off the ground when Dolly squirmed out and rolled to the earth. The bird turned in mid-flight, let out a high-pitched whistle, and circled back. George looked around wildly. The passerby was hidden beneath his umbrella. George ran to grab Dolly. She was sobbing but there was no blood. He picked her up. Just then the bird landed in front of him.

It towered above them and examined them. Its eyes were yellow and black. George stood frozen in the cul de sac. They stared at each other. Then the bird stepped closer and George prepared to die.

Just then a series of loud bangs echoed across the pavement. George flinched, then dived for the hedge. The bird startled and flew back up into the air. George squeezed himself into the branches, watching as the bird’s silhouette grew smaller in the sky.

Hey you!

George looked up. He was on all fours, covered in dirt and sweat.

What are you doing in my hedge?

George stood shakily. He was still holding Dolly in his arms. She had stopped crying, but she clutched his neck tightly.

It was his neighbour. In one hand he held a pair of hedge clippers. In the other, a roll of unlit fireworks.

Where’s your umbrella?

Bloody Americans.

The next evening George took his family for a walk along the boulevard at sunset. The waves shimmered. All three carried umbrellas.