The Killer Robot Driving Instructor!

Dedicated to the enduring memory of Matt Rock

Steve walked on the stars.

His body shuddered in cool black. He seemed to grow and shrink in accordance with the length of his every step. His feet would brush against golden shimmers, sending little specks of dust and light spiralling out into the abyss. Before they even began to fade, his feet would push off again. And then he was gone.

He moved quickly, lunging and twirling without thought or effort. He moved past purple antennas of light and red blinking eyes that scared him with their friendliness. He shrugged past sterling expanses of space and life and ducked under nebulas, black holes and planetary rings. He moved with grace.

He was not surprised by any of this in particular. What did surprise him, at the time, was that he was not surprised, and furthermore that he knew — but did not know how he knew — where he was going. His thoughts were a glittering reflection of his world outside, and so he laughed a quiet laugh as he strode past a cosmic array of light and sound that signified something more important that he would ever comprehend. Steve knew where he was going. He was going back in time.

He did not know how long the pie had been with him, but its frequent wisecracks were really starting to get to him.

“Steve, this sure is a timely meeting, isn’t it?” the pie would say, only it wouldn’t really say it, as the pie had no discernable mouth or other method of speaking. It simply lay there on a tinfoil plate, spinning haphazardly around meteors and asteroids, keeping pace with Steve as he moved through time.

Steve mostly ignored the pie because, well, the pie said a lot of stupid things.

“I guess there’s no time like the present, eh, Steve-O?” cracked the pie, twirling its moustache with a grin.

“You don’t have a moustache,” Steve said to the pie, rightly pointing out that pies can’t have moustaches. He could have said something about pies being unable to grin, but felt the moustache comment was sufficient.

The pie looked downtrodden when Steve said this, but that quickly disappeared before Steve could point out that pies cannot look downtrodden. They can’t even be downtrodden, really. Pies are always happy; it’s why they’re not cakes.

“Pies are always happy!” said the pie cheerily, bouncing with celestial wings. “It’s why we’re not cakes!”

“What does that even mean?” Steve asked, pausing to look at his pastried companion.

The pie paused and thought about this for a minute. Up ahead Steve and the pie watched as Steve’s life came into focus. It first appeared as a brilliantly noisy machine, chugging along and pressing down on small objects as they passed by it on a conveyer belt. But then it changed. It was a doorless hallway. Paintings lined the walls.

“Cakes are very very sad,” the pie said, making a remorseful chirping sound, “they serve them at funerals!”

They had stopped now atop a grassy hill that was far too green and inescapably inexplicable, considering they had just been in space, mere moments ago. Steve stood on his tiptoes and peered down the hallway that stood in front of them. It had recently grown, becoming nearly six times as wide and eighteen times as tall as it was before.

“They don’t serve pie at funerals?” Steve asked absent-mindedly.

The pie whirled in front of Steve’s face, flashed green and blue and green again, then said cheerily, “Only if they hate the guy who died!”

Steve mouthed the word ‘Oh’ but made no sound. The hill had moved closer and his toes were just inches away.

“This is my life,” Steve said to the cold air. His smoky breath rose quickly in the dark, searching for the easiest path to obscurity. “I’m going back in time.”

“Hey,” insisted the pie, “I’m going back in time too!”

Steve turned sharply, glaring with red eyes. “Why are you even HERE?”

The pie looked hurt. It sighed heavily and brushed its hair from its eyes, and then turned its back to Steve. A jolt of electricity shot through the air. It left behind it cool orange rain, which fell slowly, like paint dripping down a canvas.

“This really shouldn’t make so much sense,” sighed Steve to himself.

The pie was back. It whirled around him, spinning like a pinwheel.

“I figured out why I’m here,” said the pie. “It’s because they don’t serve pie at funerals!”

“Unless they hate the guy who died,” Steve finished. “You’ve already said that one.”

“But it’s why I’m here!” the pie said urgently. It flew up close to Steve’s face and spoke again, with more defiance. “Your turn!”

Steve watched as the hallway moved to cover him. He was being swallowed.

“My turn?” Steve said, eyes transfixed on the hallway before him.

“Tell me why you’re here,” came the pie’s reply. It spoke flatly.

The first image came into view, of a sandbox surrounded by rotting wood and filled with small red ants that walk in infinite lines. A small boy scoops dirt endlessly under an afternoon sun. The sprinkler spits water at a barking dog. Somewhere there is shouting, and screaming, and the sound of glass breaking.

“It’s not here,” said the pie. “You’re not here for here.”

Steve watched the shadows behind the Venetian blinds. A hand swung and struck, and a body went down. The sun beat down on them all. The dog barked at the sprinkler. The ants kept marching. Nothing would ever end.

“We must go. We don’t have much time.” Laughter and applause. Images faded. Steve’s steps met the coming hallway. It was starting to snow.

A small boy goes down a metal slide on a July day, and his bare legs feel burnt. The girl in pigtails laughs at him. Later she kisses him behind the willow tree as the crows peck at the dead grass. He blushes and runs away. All the doors in his house are off their hinges. Nothing opens easily. Nothing opens quietly.

“Don’t you know? Don’t you know?” Everything was moving so fast. “Quickly! Quickly! The lights are too bright! You know why you’re here!”

Fade in to a basement couch. The springs are gone and the upholstery sags so low that their bodies touch the floor. His lips had touched hers with all the promise of a thousand empty nights, and he wrapped his arms around her such that they were both sure he would never let go. Above them a ceiling fan counts the time in squeaky rotations. Her body is burning against his.

“The moon!” the pie is shouting. “The snow comes from the moon! It’s made of cheese and broken men! Quickly now; you’ll have to go there soon.”

Swirling vortexes of colours. A man stands in the rain holding a single rose. Nobody ever comes. His head is swimming and he rises up towards clouds on winged slippers made of white dust. His nose bleeds in class one day and he laughs with abandon. He stands in the rain holding a bouquet of roses. Nobody ever comes. He’s lying on the floor with a needle in his arm. He shouts out the names of people he thinks he’d like to know. He is lying in the rain surrounded by fallen roses. Nobody ever comes.

“And what are you?” asked the pie, “Why am I the only one talking? I guess there is a time and a place for everything — laughter! Applause! — but this is your life, Steve-O! Pies don’t have lives. We’re just happy!”

His face is bandaged and his hair hangs down to the middle of his back. A woman pushes a cart filled with manila file folders past him. He thinks of manila, and how nothing is that colour — just file folders. He laughs and slides into the passenger seat beside a scared young girl. I’m a driving instructor, he tells her, but more believably. I will be giving you your test, he says. Don’t be nervous, he says. He smiles.

“Oh Steve Steve. Steve the driving instructor. What a life you made for yourself. And look,” the pie said, pointing with a bony arm towards the end of the hallway, “we’re nearly at its end.”

His days fade into numbered pieces of paper in a wastepaper basket. He slides into the passenger seat beside a scared young girl. I’m a driving instructor, he tells her, but more believably. The sun burns through the sky at breakneck speed. Steve’s mind goes with it. He stops when it gets dark, and comes to life when it goes light. He moves with robotic precision, and feels with robotic emotion. It’s not often that he cries.

“STEVE!” the pie shouted, “You’ve forgotten about the snow!”

“The snow comes from the moon,” Steve replied, staring unblinkingly at the realization that there was just the one painting left.

“You learn so damn fast,” the pie said without missing a beat.

“Why do people go back in time?” Steve asked, fighting against everything to avoid moving towards the last painting.

“The sights! The sounds! The complete drama of it all! It’s truly a time to remember! Laughter! Applause!”

“This is why you ask the questions.”

“This is why I ask the questions.”

Steve felt the hallway start to move again. It shuddered as it came to life, like an old carnival ride. He could hear a soft guitar, played through a crackly radio that made it sound like sadness.

“Ask me a question,” Steve said as the painting came into view.

“Why do people go back in time?” the pie asked, spinning close enough to brush against Steve’s back.

And then Steve knew.

“To try and change what happened,” Steve said. “To try and make things better.”

“You learn so damn fast.”

The hallway arched and dropped and they fell like a roller coaster through time. Steve watched as he slid into the passenger seat beside a scared young girl. I’m a driving instructor, he tells her, but more believably. They drive and she nearly swerves across three lanes of traffic trying to avoid a plastic bag on the roadside. He reaches across and grips her steering wheel. The car is righted. His hand brushes against hers. He thinks of ceiling fans and warmth.

Her body breaks beneath his. The car is parked behind the public library. Her screams had stopped. They would wonder about her, he thought, as he climbed into the driver’s seat. His pants were covered in barbecue sauce. Geese wandered back and forth across the empty road. The library was beside a river. He heard her gasp and cry in the back seat. He put his foot on the gas pedal and drove. Cool water covers everything.

“How do I change it?” Steve yelled. “How do I stop this? You have to tell me!”

The pie whirled around and around. Steve tried to follow with his eyes, but felt so dizzy and lost.

“You should have asked earlier,” the pie replied, talking quickly as he moved. “This is the end. I’ve already told you everything I can tell you.”

Steve’s legs broke beneath him, and he fell to the hardwood floor of his life with a resounding thump. It echoed forever.

“But I don’t want to be this man.”

“You’re not anymore,” the pie grinned. “So don’t worry.”

Snowflakes covered Steve. He spoke slowly and with much effort. “I can’t — I can’t do anything to change this?”

“Nope!” the pie said with glee.

“None of this is real,” Steve said, rubbing his aching legs. He did not want to look at the wall of blackness ahead of him.

“Nah, you’re right. Snow doesn’t really come from the moon. And pies can’t talk. And men can’t travel through time. But I think you’ll end up liking this better than the reality of things.”

Steve looked up as the pie circled him. He sobbed into his knees. The pie went faster and faster. It seemed to be growing. The snow began to twirl with it, and then, so did the room and everything. Suddenly it all just tipped to the left, and Steve fell into the dark abyss he had fought so hard not to look at.

On March 14, police pulled a battered white Trans-Am from the river near the Public Library. Inside they found the bodies of Steve Sobricki, 21, a local driving instructor, and Anne Turtle, 16. They had both been dead for days. Initial opinion amongst the community was that it was a simple car accident, but later forensic evidence would reveal something much worse. A pink box was recovered on the floor in the backseat. Wrapped in twine, it bore the logo of a local pastry shop.

Nobody ever figured out who the pie inside was for.