The first snowfall came, appropriately, on the day after Thanksgiving. Oh, and what a Thanksgiving it was! I had never heard a doorbell ring the number of times ours uttered its hollow bing-bong that festive day. Since the day we arrived in Polestown, I had an inkling of an idea of how friendly and accommodating the people of the town were, but was never prepared for a reception like this one.
Early in the morning, it started, like the first trickles of water through a dam approaching bursting point. The doorbell rang. Still in my pajamas, I answered the door, coming face to face with what appeared to be an older lady behind piles of dishes and trays… an assortment… no, make that a buttload of food and goodies!
And this soon became a pattern – a doorbell chime, or a knock at the door…. A curiousity, who could it be this time? A man, woman, family, sometimes pets, laden for food as if they planned to empty out their refrigerator on that day, bearing the fruits of their baking labor as Thanksgiving gifts… each one overly willing to welcome us for the umpteen thousandth time to Polestown, “I hope you’re doing well here,” “How do you like things in our town?” “Just a token of our friendship.”
Heh, friendship! It had to be some sort of conspiracy! But I liked it anyway.
Oh, yes, the snow. Well, the very next day we saw the first flakes, which multiplied and divided and begat more snowflakes, and soon we had our first true initiation to colder weather, and a full-on one at that… a genuine Tennessee white-out.
Mom flipped on the Weather Channel to listen to in the background as we struggled to find room in the fridge for the incredible excess of food (Did they sell box freezers in Polestown?she thought aloud). Incredibly, as cold as we were feeling it that day, the guy in the warm studio and the three-piece suit who I’m sure got his kicks out of the hurricanes we used to face yearly told us to BUNDLE UP because it was just going to get more DOWNRIGHT FREEZING. Oh, joy. And we hadn’t even gotten around to buying parkas and snowshoes yet.
Around mid-morning, we heard a low, distant rumble, which slowly got louder, soon making our windows rattle slightly. I stepped to the window and tried to peer through the blinding whiteness at our front yard and street beyond. I could make out, very barely, two lights, apparently headlights, progressing steadily and slowly down our road. The rumble led me to conclude that it was a pretty large truck, and as it grew closer I could see a gigantic plow attachment on its front end slicing through the drifting clumps of snow and forcefully shoving them to the streetside. Its driver must have spotted me, because the plow stopped in front of our house and a short, plump man crawled out of the truck and waddled up to our front door, face thick with stubble and crusted with half-melted snow. The doorbell rang.
Oh no! I thought. More dang food!
I opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief. The man was empty-handed. He wore a huge frozen grin and waved. I cracked open the door, goosepimples breaking out all over from the extreme chill.
“Hiya there, “ he offered, extending his hand to shake mine vigorously, “Name’s Joe. Joe Cotton. You the man of the house?”
I sighed… it was obvious the guy didn’t know about my dad and all, and how incredibly ironic his statement turned out to be. Gritted my teeth, I replied, “That I am. I’m Jim.”
“Nice ta meet you, Jim…. Say, I know yous all are new here, so I thought I’d let you know we do something special after our first snowfall… kind of a celebration.”
I wasn’t really fond of cheesy community events, but listened politely as my mom approached Joe and I, placing her hands on my shoulders. Joe looked up at her and smiled broadly, revealing several gaps where dentists quite possibly could have intervened a lot sooner. “Howdy, maam,” he said, “Your son, was just tellin’ him about our snow fair.”
I wasn’t all that interested, but my mom sure sounded excited. “Really? How nice! Is it like a fair?”
“That and more, Miss. That and more. We have all kinds of fixins, and games, and the big event is settin’ up for our holiday snowman display.”
Mom leaned forward. “Snowman display? That sounds unique.”
“Sure is, ma’am. Only one I know of. All shapes and sizes, too! And if y’all want to come by, celebrate with us, everyone’s invited… and we love newcomers, so we can show off and all!” He tipped his grimy baseball cap backward in satisfaction.
I groaned inwardly. My mom’s ecstatic interest meant only one thing – I was probably going to be forced to attend.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
LAST GAS
As the last streetlight, the remaining vestige of civilization for miles, faded into the distance, I glanced over at the wrinkled sheet of paper in my passenger seat, the scribbles and lines spidering across its surface in the darkness somehow offering little assurance that the directions my brother gave me would direct me to the intended destination.The red glow of the dashboard was the only connection I had at this point with modernity, or civilian, or even the warmth of familiarity. Like a strobe, hypnotic and redundant, the yellow broken lines in the middle of the dark asphalt flickered and pulsed monotonously ahead in the headlights, which seemed ineffectively weak against the encroaching darkness. Every so often, I would hear a faint 'tick', then another, like lonely drops of rain - errant bugs whose flight path led them to their doom in the fearsome teeth of my grille, or spread like mustard on the surface of my windshield.
It was dark, almost stifling, as if a black wool were stretched out over the horizon. The glowing center line indicated a straight path, which almost certainly led straight ahead into infinity, but of this, I could only see a meager few feet ahead. I could not be certain what, if anything blocked my path. It would be just my luck if an inquisitive deer or wild pig just happened to be crossing my path outside the reach of my headlights.
Boredom began to set in. I was familiar with these long stretches from camping trips in the desert in recent years; this was, according to my brother, only a 40 mile trip. I would have left earlier, sparing me the monotony of darkness and fatigue, but getting out of the city was more troublesome than usual this particular evening; and now, the stress and frustration of being stuck in traffic and spit out into the middle of a vast expanse of nothing was taking its toll.
I flipped on the radio. The volume had been increased as I had been trying to pass the time earlier in the traffic jam by listening to the local pop station, and I winced as static came gushing out of the same speakers, at the same obnoxious, deafening level. I quickly adjusted the volume and began scanning for anything audible to listen to, to keep me alert, awake, and occupied. It wasn't long before I had reached the opposite end of the dial, finding nothing. No music, not even classical. No late-night talk, or health advice, or even the final innings of a baseball game. I was, for sure, in the middle of nowhere. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, and glanced down at the odometer... 28 miles to go.
Seconds seemed like minutes.... no, hours. The incessant drone of the engine, the blinking, that incessant blinking ahead of me... no other cars in sight, nothing for miles... not a sign of civilization other than the occasional tacky billboard for Howie's Country Store or Ralph's Stop n' Go... on and on... I sat back, and tried to relax, get focused, just a little, but it just... wasn't... working...
In the distance. What was that? A faint whitish dot grew steadily larger and brighter... it was a light! No, several lights, illuminating what appeared to be a service station in the distance. A giant QUIK STOP logo on an enormous pole towered over a squat facade and a single pump. Yeah, I was feeling rather thirsty, not to mention fatigued. It was time to dose up on caffeine and tough it out for the last 20 or so miles. I slowed and pulled into the loose gravel of the gas station's parking lot, easing the truck into a narrow space right in front of the door to the little convenience mart. Gathering my keys, I exited my pickup and walked inside to the sound of civilization - chimes. An elderly man with two-days facial growth was sitting behind the counter, deeply engrossed in one of those tabloid rags with a picture of boy-bat on the front.
I sidled over to the soda fountain. Just my luck - a huge handmade sign covered its length. It read, "OUT OF ORDER." Wonderful, I thought, as I headed over to the fridge and grabbed a 20 ounce Mountain Dew. As I approached the counter, reaching for my wallet, the old man - his name tag said "Bart" - looked up, expressionless. I tossed a couple bucks onto the counter.
"You're probably going to need to fill up on gas, sonny," he told me.
That was ridiculous - I had just filled up and had over half a tank to go 20 measly miles. I refused the kind and thoughtful offer.
"Are ya sure?" he asked. "This is the last stop fer miles, last gas you'll find in this hellhole.You'll want to be prepared, you know."
I replied, "That's ok. I've only got a few miles left.. I'll probably stop on the way back."
He looked at me quizzically, and snickered. "You can never be too sure..."
I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes, and walked away.. this guy had obviously lost contact with reality. I let the chimes announce my exit as I strode out the door.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who needed a reprise from the monotony of the road. Across the pump from me was now parked a blue Buick, and its owner was partially obscured by the girder holding up the canopy above. He was busy pumping gas into his car. In the passenger seat, I could see the outline of a woman's head with her hair in a bun. I approached my car, and the man spotted me. He looked down, as if in thought, then looked back up at me again. It was as if all of a sudden he was hit with a jolt of electricity. He shuddered visibly, then his eyes grew dark and narrow, and an angry expression overcame his features. "YOU." he muttered ominously.
Me? He was looking at me. Now he had taken his hands off the pump, was rolling up his sleeves, and began to walk in my direction. "Do I know you?" I asked.
"It's you. You son of a-"
What?
"You killed my wife!" And with this his pace quickened, and I backed away, stumbling over my feet as he was now charging, arms raised, spittle flying from his suddenly clinched mouth...
"Wha? I don't... what are you....huh.." I didn't have time to form a full sentence before he was about on top of me... I fell to my side and scampered out of his way just as he dived in my direction. Regaining my balance, I tore for my car, the man furiously lunging at my legs... I wrenched open my truck door, and shut it before he slammed into it with both arms like a giant hammer.
"You killed my wife! Come out here, I'm going to beat the living... I'll kill you!"
"What are you talking about?" I pleaded, now that I was in the (apparent) safety of my truck, doors locked, man pounding at the window just inches from my face. "I don't even know you... and isn't that your wife in your car?"
He knelt down slowly, stopping for a moment the incessant beating, and stared darkly into my eyes. "You don't know yet," he muttered. "You're a murderer, and don't know it. Look at the friggin' car, see what you did!" ..and he stepped aside.
I had not looked so closely at the Buick, but now I was compelled by nothing other than sheer fear to examine it, I noticed that it didn't look quite right. At first, it seemed intact, but every so often, like bursts of electricity, would blur, and the car would assume a much less... functional shape. For an instant, it looked as if the roof had caved in, and the door was gouged a couple of feet, and the windows shattered... until everything popped back, and the woman looked back at me from the passenger seat, and smiled. And then another blur, and the face turned into a grimace, a rictus, the jaw dangling from a single fibrous tendon, blood smeared around the inside of the car, all over the seat, bony hand with ripped flesh mocking a salutatory wave.... and then back to normal. God, I needed that MD right away... but first, there was the business of this psycho whaling on my car and threatening me. He moved back into my field of view,
"That's enough time!" he yelled. "If you don't know by now, it don't matter. I'm gonna kill you!" and reared up, this time wielding a very large tire iron. I drew back as he slammed it into my window, shattering it into tiny glistening shards. Now was the time for action! I wriggled the key into the ignition and turned it just as he was doubling back for another blow, hoping to strike home this time. The truck roared to life. The man swung, and glanced my shoulder painfully as I squealed off into the night, trailing behind bits of gravel and sand and spraying them in my wake, obscuring the man, who was shaking his fists and yelling at me as he disappeared in my rear view mirror and the last light of civilization dimmed behind me.
I couldn't have killed this woman, I thought, as I took a swig of Mountain Dew... I mean, she was really alive. She smiled and waved! That other image... had to be just a dream. I stepped more firmly on the gas, pushing 80, 85, 90.. hoping to leave that car in the dust, and gain a little distance before I was able to turn into the safety of my brother's driveway. The dim light had now faded to nothing, and I was left once again with nothing more than my dashboard light and that darned flickering of the yellow road lines to break up the dark emptiness that led into oblivion, for all I knew.
Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing like a good healthy confrontation to heighten my senses, right?
Odometer check. Good... picked up another ten miles, shouldn't be long. I check behind me. No sign of the maniac with the Buick. I nervously tap my steering wheel, whistling some tune I remembered from earlier this evening, in less troubled times. Funny that a traffic jam could now be considered 'less troubled.'
Ahead, another dim light. Odometer says I still have a little while to go. Wonder what this is. Look down at map... funny. Bro didn't mention any more landmarks along the way. Maybe he missed this...
HOLY CRAP.
Tall sign, up ahead. I can barely make out the letters, but the logo is unmistakeable.
"QUIK STOP"
The lights bring more into view; I can see the pump, the canopy above, the convenience store. And parked right below, stocky man with moustache, coddling a large crowbar, a green Buick, straight out of my worst nightmare. Impossible! I hadn't turned, or encountered anything other than a straightaway... my odometer tells me... wait. This can't be possible. I look beside me as I come upon the gas station. The man spots me and smiles, tapping the crowbar against his open hand. Just sitting there, as if he knew something I didn't.
(You don't know yet)
I put the pedal to the floor, engine revving to the redline, topping 100, 110. This had to be some mistake. I look back down at the directions, and up again. The gloom once again deepens to blackness again. And those blasted yellow lines, the sound of crickets audible through my shattered window, the chill night air lifting the hairs on my arms.
I hear a sputter, a cough from my engine, a short hesitation. I was doing so good. My car rocks as the engine hesitates again. Back to my gauges. Oh, Lord - I'm almost on empty! It couldn't be far, seriously couldn't be long before I see the driveway, and the mailbox with BROWN on it, and the friendly welcoming face of my brother, sister-in-law, their two kids...
I push harder, the truck relents.... and finally, in the middle of nowhere, dies, and I struggle to keep control to maneuver to a stop along the narrow emergency lane on the roadside. I mutter a profanity.. this is the worst possible time to run out of gas.
(This is the last stop for miles)
I open the door, and the reading light winks on. Beside me, in the same position they were when I first pulled into the Quik Stop, lay the directions in my brother's handwriting. I pick them up, and reach under the passenger seat for my flashlight.
I continue to think I'm not too far from Jack's house, though I can't be sure now. That most certainly had to be a hallucination, right? I didn't just see the gas station with that crazed guy sitting on his car's hood.... I'm just tired. Really tired. I've been driving too long. I resolve, directions in hand, to walk the remainder of the way to safety. It couldn't be more than 5 miles. At most. I shut the truck off, lock it up, and begin walking along the grass beside the highway, dodging the occasional broken bottle and tire tread. The comfort of the red dashboard light, the familiar monotony of the illuminated center line are both gone, replaced by the faint beam of my mag light, moving back and forth as I try to maintain a steady pace forward.
The crickets are loud, and as I trudge through the tall grass, I can feel a soft breeze on my face, hear it whispering through the trees in the distance. An owl offers a lone, wistful challenge to my invasion. The isolation surrounds me like a scratchy blanket, and I shudder in the chill nighttime air, briskly trudging forward.
I stop, because there's something else I hear. It's distinct, and growing louder. A nervous lump lodges in my throat as I turn around and face what I had dreaded would happen... a distinct pinprick - no, two, - a faint pair of eyes growing wider apart and brighter, and the sound... a low rumble, the hum of an approaching car. I take a deep breath, face forward once again, and speed up, moving my legs as fast as they can go, a growing ache spreading through my thighs, cramps threatening to overtake me, my lungs feeling a stinging, spreading fire. Sweat beads on my forehead, my arms sway, I hasten into something of a run, but the rumble grows louder still, and the lights illuminate the ground in front of me. I look back again, and notice that the car behind has sped up and has begun to veer toward the right, almost off the road, directly into my path.
I yell for help, running faster still, stumbling but pressing onward, as the fury of the engine and the green, monstrous beast behind the wheel of which is someone I had never met but who even now craves my blood all over the pavement, roars like a predator lured by the scent of living, breathing prey. The noise is deafening, the light now blinding as I look backward, and can't see anything but bright light and the speckles of dead bugs on the windshield and the reflection of yellow lines, so familiar but so foreign... and the light encompasses my entire being, and becomes infinitely bright, and flashes out, leaving nothing but blackness...
****************************
Blue. Red. Flickering. Lights pierce the darkness of isolation. Two men wearing uniforms bent down over a broken figure, one with a penlight and the other lifting a blanket over the prone form.
"Oh, man. Doesn't look like this guy's going to make it, either." ,the first man sighed.
The second looked up at his buddy. "I thought he had a fighting chance, at least. The folks in the Buick over there never saw it coming, didn't even have a prayer."
"It's horrible. Woman's jaw got clean sheared off."
The second man replied, "Looks like the guy here just fell asleep, and just happened to slam into the only other car on the road for miles."
"Good thing ol' Bart there heard the commotion. Seriously, I thought the old coot was as deaf as a rock." First man pointed to the bright, welcoming light of the Quik Stop in the distance. Below the logo, a smaller, less well-placed sign read, "Last Gas For Miles".
"Yeah, well sometimes I wonder about his mental health, talking about seeing ghosts all the time. I think the isolation gets to him."
First man looked up. "Doesn't it get to everybody around here?"
Second man sighed, and pulled the blanket the rest of the way over the dead man's face, as the blue and red stobes danced across the crumpled, overturned pickup in the brush just a few yards away.
It was dark, almost stifling, as if a black wool were stretched out over the horizon. The glowing center line indicated a straight path, which almost certainly led straight ahead into infinity, but of this, I could only see a meager few feet ahead. I could not be certain what, if anything blocked my path. It would be just my luck if an inquisitive deer or wild pig just happened to be crossing my path outside the reach of my headlights.
Boredom began to set in. I was familiar with these long stretches from camping trips in the desert in recent years; this was, according to my brother, only a 40 mile trip. I would have left earlier, sparing me the monotony of darkness and fatigue, but getting out of the city was more troublesome than usual this particular evening; and now, the stress and frustration of being stuck in traffic and spit out into the middle of a vast expanse of nothing was taking its toll.
I flipped on the radio. The volume had been increased as I had been trying to pass the time earlier in the traffic jam by listening to the local pop station, and I winced as static came gushing out of the same speakers, at the same obnoxious, deafening level. I quickly adjusted the volume and began scanning for anything audible to listen to, to keep me alert, awake, and occupied. It wasn't long before I had reached the opposite end of the dial, finding nothing. No music, not even classical. No late-night talk, or health advice, or even the final innings of a baseball game. I was, for sure, in the middle of nowhere. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, and glanced down at the odometer... 28 miles to go.
Seconds seemed like minutes.... no, hours. The incessant drone of the engine, the blinking, that incessant blinking ahead of me... no other cars in sight, nothing for miles... not a sign of civilization other than the occasional tacky billboard for Howie's Country Store or Ralph's Stop n' Go... on and on... I sat back, and tried to relax, get focused, just a little, but it just... wasn't... working...
In the distance. What was that? A faint whitish dot grew steadily larger and brighter... it was a light! No, several lights, illuminating what appeared to be a service station in the distance. A giant QUIK STOP logo on an enormous pole towered over a squat facade and a single pump. Yeah, I was feeling rather thirsty, not to mention fatigued. It was time to dose up on caffeine and tough it out for the last 20 or so miles. I slowed and pulled into the loose gravel of the gas station's parking lot, easing the truck into a narrow space right in front of the door to the little convenience mart. Gathering my keys, I exited my pickup and walked inside to the sound of civilization - chimes. An elderly man with two-days facial growth was sitting behind the counter, deeply engrossed in one of those tabloid rags with a picture of boy-bat on the front.
I sidled over to the soda fountain. Just my luck - a huge handmade sign covered its length. It read, "OUT OF ORDER." Wonderful, I thought, as I headed over to the fridge and grabbed a 20 ounce Mountain Dew. As I approached the counter, reaching for my wallet, the old man - his name tag said "Bart" - looked up, expressionless. I tossed a couple bucks onto the counter.
"You're probably going to need to fill up on gas, sonny," he told me.
That was ridiculous - I had just filled up and had over half a tank to go 20 measly miles. I refused the kind and thoughtful offer.
"Are ya sure?" he asked. "This is the last stop fer miles, last gas you'll find in this hellhole.You'll want to be prepared, you know."
I replied, "That's ok. I've only got a few miles left.. I'll probably stop on the way back."
He looked at me quizzically, and snickered. "You can never be too sure..."
I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes, and walked away.. this guy had obviously lost contact with reality. I let the chimes announce my exit as I strode out the door.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one who needed a reprise from the monotony of the road. Across the pump from me was now parked a blue Buick, and its owner was partially obscured by the girder holding up the canopy above. He was busy pumping gas into his car. In the passenger seat, I could see the outline of a woman's head with her hair in a bun. I approached my car, and the man spotted me. He looked down, as if in thought, then looked back up at me again. It was as if all of a sudden he was hit with a jolt of electricity. He shuddered visibly, then his eyes grew dark and narrow, and an angry expression overcame his features. "YOU." he muttered ominously.
Me? He was looking at me. Now he had taken his hands off the pump, was rolling up his sleeves, and began to walk in my direction. "Do I know you?" I asked.
"It's you. You son of a-"
What?
"You killed my wife!" And with this his pace quickened, and I backed away, stumbling over my feet as he was now charging, arms raised, spittle flying from his suddenly clinched mouth...
"Wha? I don't... what are you....huh.." I didn't have time to form a full sentence before he was about on top of me... I fell to my side and scampered out of his way just as he dived in my direction. Regaining my balance, I tore for my car, the man furiously lunging at my legs... I wrenched open my truck door, and shut it before he slammed into it with both arms like a giant hammer.
"You killed my wife! Come out here, I'm going to beat the living... I'll kill you!"
"What are you talking about?" I pleaded, now that I was in the (apparent) safety of my truck, doors locked, man pounding at the window just inches from my face. "I don't even know you... and isn't that your wife in your car?"
He knelt down slowly, stopping for a moment the incessant beating, and stared darkly into my eyes. "You don't know yet," he muttered. "You're a murderer, and don't know it. Look at the friggin' car, see what you did!" ..and he stepped aside.
I had not looked so closely at the Buick, but now I was compelled by nothing other than sheer fear to examine it, I noticed that it didn't look quite right. At first, it seemed intact, but every so often, like bursts of electricity, would blur, and the car would assume a much less... functional shape. For an instant, it looked as if the roof had caved in, and the door was gouged a couple of feet, and the windows shattered... until everything popped back, and the woman looked back at me from the passenger seat, and smiled. And then another blur, and the face turned into a grimace, a rictus, the jaw dangling from a single fibrous tendon, blood smeared around the inside of the car, all over the seat, bony hand with ripped flesh mocking a salutatory wave.... and then back to normal. God, I needed that MD right away... but first, there was the business of this psycho whaling on my car and threatening me. He moved back into my field of view,
"That's enough time!" he yelled. "If you don't know by now, it don't matter. I'm gonna kill you!" and reared up, this time wielding a very large tire iron. I drew back as he slammed it into my window, shattering it into tiny glistening shards. Now was the time for action! I wriggled the key into the ignition and turned it just as he was doubling back for another blow, hoping to strike home this time. The truck roared to life. The man swung, and glanced my shoulder painfully as I squealed off into the night, trailing behind bits of gravel and sand and spraying them in my wake, obscuring the man, who was shaking his fists and yelling at me as he disappeared in my rear view mirror and the last light of civilization dimmed behind me.
I couldn't have killed this woman, I thought, as I took a swig of Mountain Dew... I mean, she was really alive. She smiled and waved! That other image... had to be just a dream. I stepped more firmly on the gas, pushing 80, 85, 90.. hoping to leave that car in the dust, and gain a little distance before I was able to turn into the safety of my brother's driveway. The dim light had now faded to nothing, and I was left once again with nothing more than my dashboard light and that darned flickering of the yellow road lines to break up the dark emptiness that led into oblivion, for all I knew.
Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing like a good healthy confrontation to heighten my senses, right?
Odometer check. Good... picked up another ten miles, shouldn't be long. I check behind me. No sign of the maniac with the Buick. I nervously tap my steering wheel, whistling some tune I remembered from earlier this evening, in less troubled times. Funny that a traffic jam could now be considered 'less troubled.'
Ahead, another dim light. Odometer says I still have a little while to go. Wonder what this is. Look down at map... funny. Bro didn't mention any more landmarks along the way. Maybe he missed this...
HOLY CRAP.
Tall sign, up ahead. I can barely make out the letters, but the logo is unmistakeable.
"QUIK STOP"
The lights bring more into view; I can see the pump, the canopy above, the convenience store. And parked right below, stocky man with moustache, coddling a large crowbar, a green Buick, straight out of my worst nightmare. Impossible! I hadn't turned, or encountered anything other than a straightaway... my odometer tells me... wait. This can't be possible. I look beside me as I come upon the gas station. The man spots me and smiles, tapping the crowbar against his open hand. Just sitting there, as if he knew something I didn't.
(You don't know yet)
I put the pedal to the floor, engine revving to the redline, topping 100, 110. This had to be some mistake. I look back down at the directions, and up again. The gloom once again deepens to blackness again. And those blasted yellow lines, the sound of crickets audible through my shattered window, the chill night air lifting the hairs on my arms.
I hear a sputter, a cough from my engine, a short hesitation. I was doing so good. My car rocks as the engine hesitates again. Back to my gauges. Oh, Lord - I'm almost on empty! It couldn't be far, seriously couldn't be long before I see the driveway, and the mailbox with BROWN on it, and the friendly welcoming face of my brother, sister-in-law, their two kids...
I push harder, the truck relents.... and finally, in the middle of nowhere, dies, and I struggle to keep control to maneuver to a stop along the narrow emergency lane on the roadside. I mutter a profanity.. this is the worst possible time to run out of gas.
(This is the last stop for miles)
I open the door, and the reading light winks on. Beside me, in the same position they were when I first pulled into the Quik Stop, lay the directions in my brother's handwriting. I pick them up, and reach under the passenger seat for my flashlight.
I continue to think I'm not too far from Jack's house, though I can't be sure now. That most certainly had to be a hallucination, right? I didn't just see the gas station with that crazed guy sitting on his car's hood.... I'm just tired. Really tired. I've been driving too long. I resolve, directions in hand, to walk the remainder of the way to safety. It couldn't be more than 5 miles. At most. I shut the truck off, lock it up, and begin walking along the grass beside the highway, dodging the occasional broken bottle and tire tread. The comfort of the red dashboard light, the familiar monotony of the illuminated center line are both gone, replaced by the faint beam of my mag light, moving back and forth as I try to maintain a steady pace forward.
The crickets are loud, and as I trudge through the tall grass, I can feel a soft breeze on my face, hear it whispering through the trees in the distance. An owl offers a lone, wistful challenge to my invasion. The isolation surrounds me like a scratchy blanket, and I shudder in the chill nighttime air, briskly trudging forward.
I stop, because there's something else I hear. It's distinct, and growing louder. A nervous lump lodges in my throat as I turn around and face what I had dreaded would happen... a distinct pinprick - no, two, - a faint pair of eyes growing wider apart and brighter, and the sound... a low rumble, the hum of an approaching car. I take a deep breath, face forward once again, and speed up, moving my legs as fast as they can go, a growing ache spreading through my thighs, cramps threatening to overtake me, my lungs feeling a stinging, spreading fire. Sweat beads on my forehead, my arms sway, I hasten into something of a run, but the rumble grows louder still, and the lights illuminate the ground in front of me. I look back again, and notice that the car behind has sped up and has begun to veer toward the right, almost off the road, directly into my path.
I yell for help, running faster still, stumbling but pressing onward, as the fury of the engine and the green, monstrous beast behind the wheel of which is someone I had never met but who even now craves my blood all over the pavement, roars like a predator lured by the scent of living, breathing prey. The noise is deafening, the light now blinding as I look backward, and can't see anything but bright light and the speckles of dead bugs on the windshield and the reflection of yellow lines, so familiar but so foreign... and the light encompasses my entire being, and becomes infinitely bright, and flashes out, leaving nothing but blackness...
****************************
Blue. Red. Flickering. Lights pierce the darkness of isolation. Two men wearing uniforms bent down over a broken figure, one with a penlight and the other lifting a blanket over the prone form.
"Oh, man. Doesn't look like this guy's going to make it, either." ,the first man sighed.
The second looked up at his buddy. "I thought he had a fighting chance, at least. The folks in the Buick over there never saw it coming, didn't even have a prayer."
"It's horrible. Woman's jaw got clean sheared off."
The second man replied, "Looks like the guy here just fell asleep, and just happened to slam into the only other car on the road for miles."
"Good thing ol' Bart there heard the commotion. Seriously, I thought the old coot was as deaf as a rock." First man pointed to the bright, welcoming light of the Quik Stop in the distance. Below the logo, a smaller, less well-placed sign read, "Last Gas For Miles".
"Yeah, well sometimes I wonder about his mental health, talking about seeing ghosts all the time. I think the isolation gets to him."
First man looked up. "Doesn't it get to everybody around here?"
Second man sighed, and pulled the blanket the rest of the way over the dead man's face, as the blue and red stobes danced across the crumpled, overturned pickup in the brush just a few yards away.
BIRDSEED
The old man, wrapped snugly in an oversized trenchcoat, leaned forward across the stone chess table in the park. His breath came in sporadic bursts of white mist, which drifted slowly to nothingness in the chill atmosphere of this brisk winter day. He wore a knit black cap and heavy leather gloves, and his nose was two shades darker red than normal. He sported a ragged white beard peppered with shards of grey, dripping condensation beading on the hairs in glistening, half-frozen pearls.
Overhead, a coo and flutter. The pigeons had arrived, right on time.
The man produced a plastic bag from one of his coat pockets and placed it on the table in front of him. The birds, despite possessing a minimal memory, nevertheless had become familiarized with his presence each and every morning for what seemed to them a lifetime - and perhaps it was. They hovered gently and settled to the ground, and one or two of them got brave and landed on the table not far from the old man's reach. They waddled to and fro, back and forth, in ecstatic anticipation.
"Patience, my little fellows," the gentleman whispered. "I think I have enough for all of you."
The wind whipped icily from the north, and the man produced something else from his deep pocket - a scarf, which he wrapped slowly around his face, and let trail down the back of his jacket.
"Ah," he continued, "Much better. Now, where were we?"
Gingerly, as best he could using his bulky gloves, he opened the plastic bag and scooped out a handful of the precious seed. The birds pranced around excitedly, bobbing up and down like miniature oil derricks. He lifted his hand and, with one swift swipe of his hand, spread the seed over the concrete surface of the patio. Within seconds a pulsating mass of feathers and claws was upon the booty, plucking each seed up with frenzied delight.
"Good... now eat up."
For a few minutes, the elderly man watched the birds wipe up the last of the seed particles, until all traces of the pigeons' food were gone. He smiled, lifting the scarf ever so minutedly, and eased himself up off the stone bench. He brushed himself off, making sure none of the seed had lingered on his coat or slacks, then ambled off carefully, as he had for the last several months, toward his humble apartment.
As he looked back, a portion of his bushy eyebrow had fallen, getting into his eye. He pressed it back against his tan forehead, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then continued home.
If anyone had been around that moment, they might have heard him mutter something through the protective wrap of his scarf, something that sounded vaguely like, "Allahu Akbar."
If anyone had seen this man, or known of his intentions, they might indeed have tried to stop him... or perhaps not, considering his harmless daily routine of feeding the birds.
But indeed, nobody noticed the hunched old man walking away from the chess tables in the middle of the park, where pigeons hungrily stabbed at seed, and were cooing happily, oblivious to what they were being fed. And hours later, the park worker, armed with a scraper and a pail, paid no mind to his daily chore of scraping bird excrement off of the concrete. He wasn't getting paid much, but it was enough to let him hold on to his humble abode, and keep out of this godforsaken weather. He went about his duties, marveled at the redundancy of the chore, then left, satisfied with a job well-done.
Once the respiratory distress started days later, the man didn't know what hit him. Nor did the boy who insisted, despite the protests of his mother, that he chase the birds and let them land on his shoulder and peck at the brass buttons on his snowsuit. But the old man, looking very distinguished indeed on a seat close enough to observe his work, yet far enough away... just far enough away.
The soft tinkle of bells alerted him to the presence of customers. He whisked toward the front of the store and watched as a family of three - a man, his wife and young daughter - scanned the shelves of bird food. He grinned briefly, then inserted himself between man and wife and asked, "Good morning, folks. How might I help you?"
"Ur, um," the husband replied, "We're just getting some food for our lovebirds, that's all."
The storekeeper nodded and flashed his yellowed teeth through his dirty grey beard. "I tell you what, sir. I just got a shipment in of some brand new seed. I think your birds would absolutely love it."
"Well, if you don't mind, um, we prefer to get, you know, the cheapest brand. We're on a budget, you know."
The old man scooted backward and gleamed as if he had come up with a brilliant idea. "Indeed, indeed. I understand. Let's make a deal, okay? You can buy one bag of your birdseed at regular price, and I let you try a bag of this new stuff absolutely free? How about it?"
"Well, sure, why not?"
The storekeeper winked. "Trust me, you'll really appreciate this new seed."
The family picked up the two bags of seed, paid for their order, and left as quickly as they arrived. As they walked out the door, the old man noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and froze. The door shut, and the man exhaled. Moving over to the far corner of the store, he replaced the blanket that had slid off the birdcage that housed two green parakeets, now lifeless and stiff.
Overhead, a coo and flutter. The pigeons had arrived, right on time.
The man produced a plastic bag from one of his coat pockets and placed it on the table in front of him. The birds, despite possessing a minimal memory, nevertheless had become familiarized with his presence each and every morning for what seemed to them a lifetime - and perhaps it was. They hovered gently and settled to the ground, and one or two of them got brave and landed on the table not far from the old man's reach. They waddled to and fro, back and forth, in ecstatic anticipation.
"Patience, my little fellows," the gentleman whispered. "I think I have enough for all of you."
The wind whipped icily from the north, and the man produced something else from his deep pocket - a scarf, which he wrapped slowly around his face, and let trail down the back of his jacket.
"Ah," he continued, "Much better. Now, where were we?"
Gingerly, as best he could using his bulky gloves, he opened the plastic bag and scooped out a handful of the precious seed. The birds pranced around excitedly, bobbing up and down like miniature oil derricks. He lifted his hand and, with one swift swipe of his hand, spread the seed over the concrete surface of the patio. Within seconds a pulsating mass of feathers and claws was upon the booty, plucking each seed up with frenzied delight.
"Good... now eat up."
For a few minutes, the elderly man watched the birds wipe up the last of the seed particles, until all traces of the pigeons' food were gone. He smiled, lifting the scarf ever so minutedly, and eased himself up off the stone bench. He brushed himself off, making sure none of the seed had lingered on his coat or slacks, then ambled off carefully, as he had for the last several months, toward his humble apartment.
As he looked back, a portion of his bushy eyebrow had fallen, getting into his eye. He pressed it back against his tan forehead, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then continued home.
If anyone had been around that moment, they might have heard him mutter something through the protective wrap of his scarf, something that sounded vaguely like, "Allahu Akbar."
If anyone had seen this man, or known of his intentions, they might indeed have tried to stop him... or perhaps not, considering his harmless daily routine of feeding the birds.
But indeed, nobody noticed the hunched old man walking away from the chess tables in the middle of the park, where pigeons hungrily stabbed at seed, and were cooing happily, oblivious to what they were being fed. And hours later, the park worker, armed with a scraper and a pail, paid no mind to his daily chore of scraping bird excrement off of the concrete. He wasn't getting paid much, but it was enough to let him hold on to his humble abode, and keep out of this godforsaken weather. He went about his duties, marveled at the redundancy of the chore, then left, satisfied with a job well-done.
Once the respiratory distress started days later, the man didn't know what hit him. Nor did the boy who insisted, despite the protests of his mother, that he chase the birds and let them land on his shoulder and peck at the brass buttons on his snowsuit. But the old man, looking very distinguished indeed on a seat close enough to observe his work, yet far enough away... just far enough away.
The soft tinkle of bells alerted him to the presence of customers. He whisked toward the front of the store and watched as a family of three - a man, his wife and young daughter - scanned the shelves of bird food. He grinned briefly, then inserted himself between man and wife and asked, "Good morning, folks. How might I help you?"
"Ur, um," the husband replied, "We're just getting some food for our lovebirds, that's all."
The storekeeper nodded and flashed his yellowed teeth through his dirty grey beard. "I tell you what, sir. I just got a shipment in of some brand new seed. I think your birds would absolutely love it."
"Well, if you don't mind, um, we prefer to get, you know, the cheapest brand. We're on a budget, you know."
The old man scooted backward and gleamed as if he had come up with a brilliant idea. "Indeed, indeed. I understand. Let's make a deal, okay? You can buy one bag of your birdseed at regular price, and I let you try a bag of this new stuff absolutely free? How about it?"
"Well, sure, why not?"
The storekeeper winked. "Trust me, you'll really appreciate this new seed."
The family picked up the two bags of seed, paid for their order, and left as quickly as they arrived. As they walked out the door, the old man noticed something out of the corner of his eye, and froze. The door shut, and the man exhaled. Moving over to the far corner of the store, he replaced the blanket that had slid off the birdcage that housed two green parakeets, now lifeless and stiff.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
