From: st3uy@jetson.uh.edu
Subject: swerve.   [reel two of three]
Date: 8 Sep 1994 12:32 CDT

    swerve.
    by demo

[remove portion.]	'bunker,' the voice from the back seat of a
station-wagon.  bunker turns back, his crouch in the next car stifled, his head
through the other car's frame, 'what?' his voice almost in annoyance.  he
hears the motion of hands stuffing wrapped plastic under shirt and over flesh,
something removed from sight even if in the dark.  'past?' bunker tries, not
able to see.  his voice carries in whisper, 'is it...'  she nodes in the
darkness, agreement.

[do not erase.]		past's hands fumble through paper, material sounding
wet from water dripping or other sources, 'have you been outside?  the rain's
stopped.'
	'no.  well, just to down-stream.  the air was cooler there, getting
good drafts in the frame.'  past seems to ignore bunker's words, her hands push
up, her shadow showing slenderness and little body-covering.  she pushes a
portion of the staiton-wagon's roof aside, her arms up then her legs, out.
bunker moves over the front seat, his head up the hole, 'not used to this.'
past looks down, her face motion the only thing determining that she's alive,
'what are you going to do when spring's here?  it'll be too warm in the frame.'
	bunker looks to her, what he wishes he had in some way outside a
damaged memory they share, her free time he wants in others, 'i'm not thinking
about that now, just don't want to.  i've established a good system here, the
rain comes enough in the daytime, maybe i'll remain some-what into summer.  i
know i'll always be around.'  past sucks in her breath, looking down from the
sky to the exterior of the frame, the square miles of machinery, rusting.  some
odd relfections of starlight echo-off attempts to plastic the tops of some
cars, keeping rain out, only causing more heat at times.
	bunker tries not to look around, wish or want for another place to go,
'going to clean.  want to join?'  past smoothes her hand over the moisture on
the car roof, dust and blackness desposited by the constant rain under her
hand, she pushes a small wave of the liquid near the roof-panel; the water
drips onto bunker.  his hand wipes it away from skin; the tickling of the
plug-in assaulting his sense perception finally after being out of tight space
and darkness, 'i need to go now.'  he moves back into the car.  past pushes in
too, 'i'll come.  do you have any soap?'  bunker hesitates, 'no.  just
realized that, not on me.  let's go to my stash.  i don't remember if i have
any deposited anywhere close.'  past's hair fades from blond to darkness as she
slides the roof-cover closed.  bunker hears her move her hair into a cap; her
hands rustle into a pouch, she grabs something.
	'plug told me to warn you,' past's voice stalling bunker.  'what?  he
tossed me some nose plugs.  was too over-dramatic to detail anything.'  past's
hand stalls from pushing something into bunker's hand, 'that's it, he wanted me
to give you some nose plugs... well not some of his, but some.  didn't tell me
why.'

[revision.]	bunker pulls past through the frame; at moments he stops her
in the midst of a car or truck cockpit, his hands rummaging through selected
spots, places he'd left items in the past.  no-where does he find soap.  they
stop outside the doorframe of his stash.
	'you've never been here have you?  surprised i hadn't brought you here
before, no one really knows about it.'  bunker rolls down the tinted window
from the section he's in, pushing through the window into the next car, pulling
past through, he tells her to sit in the passenger seat.  her hands move
through several piles of pretentious belongings on the dashboard, some form of
sunlight mixed with new rain washing the windshield.  she notices the
passenger's window is abut corrugation, a rig, maybe a shower rig.  she asks
bunker, but he ignores.  he rolls up the driver's side window, the tinting
enclosing the space; bunker turns in the seat and removes one of tthe back-seat
cushions, a hole into the trunk.  he moves partially in and unclicks the trunk
to beyond.  the smell hurls into the closed space.
	the panic in past's voice heightens, 'my...oh.. what the ef?!  smell,
hurry!'  she pushes over bunker's legs, trying to roll down the driver's
window, pushing on the door.  bunker spills his hands into his chest pouch,
yanks the nose-plugs, pushes them over the plug-in.  past calms when she
realizes the same, puts her own on.  bunker pushes through the trunk into the
next area.  past follows in hesitation.

[record over.]	               past grips bunker's arm, her nails tearing into
his t-shirt, some light directed from above through a clear plastic tarp, small
cages of strut and lattice pushing upward, what could be an ongoing project of
bunker's to raise the standing space of his stash area.  what surfaces there
are layered in red, nor is he used to the maroon distubances and
inconsistencies of light through some of the clear ceiling tarp.  the blood
difficult to see but everywhere, what is left behind from a dog carcass
pressed into every surface of the stash space.  past reveals the contents of
her stomach soon; she moves back into the trunk, to the other area.  bunker
kneels, unable to make out any details, scared for what happenbed to his dog.
his hands touch dry liquid, the red intensifying as more light billows into the
larger space.  he re-enters the trunk.

[leave most.]		past shivers, watching bunker squeeze through the
driver's window.  he rolls it up after entering the outer car.  'i don't know
what... what to say,' past's eyes now visible through light pocketing from
cracks in the frame welding, emotion and concern.  bunker stares at the dash
board, 'we need to move on, out.  something's on.'  past turns to bunker, a
fist hits him in the arm, 'how could you... you keep a dog?!'  bunker pulls her
off, holds her arms, 'listen. i had it controlled, making space.  i was making
space.  it had places to go, grass.  i'd been growing effing grass.  that
wasn't rig space, there was ground underneath, dirt.  the dog had stuff to do.
it had things to do.'  bunker's affection for the dog obvious to past; she tries
to comfort him, unable in any capacity, knowing him in more aritificial
manners.  but she tries.

		[end reel two of three]