“This is bullshit,” Mickey said, rising from his seat on the Metro Bus.
“Sit down, Mickey,” Christina said, embarrassed. “Don’t make a scene. There’s nothing we can do about the traffic.”
River rolled her eyes. “You’re always so passive, Chrissy. We’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes and haven’t moved an inch. I think it’s time to do something.” She gathered up the tote bags that were scattered on the bus floor around them. “At this rate, the milk will be spoiled before we get home.”
“At least it’s air conditioned in here. The milk definitely won’t survive the walk to the apartment. I bet it’s ninety-eight degrees outside,” Christina said.
“I’m getting off,” Mickey said impatiently, and extended a hand in invitation to River.
Christina looked out the window at the stack of cars on Wilshire. “You can’t just get off in the middle of the street.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Chrissy, nothing is moving,” River said. “Whatever is blocking the road isn’t about to magically go away. This bus is a trap.” She found the two heaviest grocery bags and draped them over Mickey’s arm.
“You can sit here if you like, but we’re leaving,” she said, and gestured to Mickey to move to the front of the bus.
Christina was scrupulously rule-abiding, and disembarking in this way felt a bit mutinous. But River was probably right; the bus was going to be stuck for a while. Christina grabbed the last of the groceries and followed her cousin toward the driver. To her surprise, the driver opened the door and freed them without comment.
“Bet he wishes he could walk away, too,” Mickey said as they traded the cool comfort of the bus for the heat of the pavement.
The trio began the trek to the apartment on foot. Christina estimated a thirty-minute walk from where they were. She arranged the bag straps more comfortably on her shoulders. Mickey removed his shirt.
As they walked down one block after another, Christina got a better view of the magnitude of the traffic problem today. She’d never seen anything like it. Wilshire Boulevard was completely jammed. Intersections were gridlocked. Parked cars, and cars trying to exit parking garages, were trapped in place. Because of the heat, most of the drivers were keeping their cars running for the A/C. The air was thick with hot exhaust fumes.
“What a nightmare,” River said.
“Triumph of the internal combustion engine,” Mickey said. “Serves all those car owners right. It’s just too bad they’re taking the public buses down with them.”
Christina never demonized cars, she simply couldn’t afford one. But despite the long walk in the heat, she was relieved not to be in a private vehicle today.
They turned down a side street to escape the pollution on Wilshire, and discovered that traffic was backed up in every direction. Shade was more plentiful on the other side of the street, so they turned to cross over.
“Is that car empty?” River said, shielding her eyes to peer into a silver Toyota Camry that was stopped in the middle of the street.
Mickey and Christina checked the passenger side and back seat.
“Totally,” Mickey said. “Where’s the driver?”
The car wasn’t running, and the doors were unlocked.
“Maybe the air conditioning gave out and he couldn’t take the heat,” River said. “There’s a puddle on the ground under the car. Maybe it’s Freon.”
“Freon’s a gas, not a liquid,” Mickey said. “Could be antifreeze, though.”
Christina knelt down to look at the unknown liquid. As her nose dipped low to the ground, she was struck by an unmistakable smell.
Vinegar.
“Get away from the car,” she said, standing up with deliberation to avoid any sudden movements that could generate a spark.
Mickey was on the other side, and either didn’t hear or ignored her. He reached out for the car’s roof. Christina yelped in dismay when his hand made contact with the metal of the car.
“Mickey, get away from the car,” she said urgently.
He continued to ignore her. “If other people are ditching their cars, too, it’ll take forever to clear this traffic jam,” Mickey said and opened the passenger door.
“No, Mickey!” Christina shouted.
She dropped her groceries and ran at him. He wasn’t expecting to be tackled, and the momentum of her crashing into him knocked them both down, away from the car. Canned beans and frozen orange juice rolled down the street.
“What was that for?” Mickey yelled as he shoved Christina off and stood up.
“Please, listen,” she said. “Stay away from the car.”
The pleading in her voice affected him, and he didn’t move.
“Why?”
She picked up the scattered food items and led River and Mickey to the opposite sidewalk.
“That car is leaking acetic acid.”
River’s eyes widened.
“Hydrogen,” River said. “You told us acetic acid and hydrogen went together.”
“Yes,” Christina said. “There may be a hydrogen leak around the car. Mickey, the slightest thing could set it off.”
They continued walking in silence, passing more cars stuck in the traffic. Some of these were empty, too, but the drivers were loafing nearby, talking on their cell phones as they waited for a chance to escape this extraordinary mess.
“Chrissy,” River said at last, “what is going on?”
She sounded afraid.
“Nothing. I mean, I don’t know. Really bad traffic,” Christina said.
“Chrissy,” River continued, “I thought those bacteria of yours—the ones that eat oil—you said they live underground.”
“They do,” Christina said. “Syntrophus species are anaerobic. That means they’re killed by oxygen. They can’t survive in the presence of air any more than we can survive without it.”
“Then why was that car leaking vinegar?”
“Well, acetic acid is corrosive. It’ll eat through metal pretty quickly.”
Then River’s point penetrated Christina’s willful ignorance. She stopped walking and felt her stomach tie up in a knot.
“No, that’s impossible,” she said, arguing out loud with herself.
“Chrissy,” River said, her voice trembling on the verge of crying, “what would happen if your bacteria got into a car’s gas tank?”
“They would die because of the air.”
“But what if they didn’t die?”
Christina closed her eyes and recited.
“Syntrophus converts crude oil into hydrogen, acetic acid and carbon dioxide. The reaction is energetically unfavorable unless a second species of bacteria consumes the hydrogen and carbon dioxide. Syntrophus lives underground, where there isn’t any air and temperatures exceed a hundred degrees.”
“It’s hot today,” River said.
“But the air…” Christina said.
Mickey’s mental wheels turned more slowly, but he was catching on.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Those bacteria eat gasoline? And turn it into vinegar?”
“No,” Christina said, “I mean, yes, they can, but not in the presence of air, not in a car.”
River fixed her eyes on her cousin.
“What if they survived?”
Christina looked away. Avoiding further eye contact, she picked up her bags and marched away.
“They can’t do that,” she said, as if it were the final word on the matter.
But the ominous statement she herself made a few days ago echoed in her mind.
No one can predict the consequences.