8
c 2009 by Randal Schaffer
Just west of Avon, Minnesota, he saw a column of smoke rising into the sky. He alternated between watching the smoke and watching the road, until the source of the smoke came into view. An old, grand mansion about a quarter mile off of the road was burning merrily.
A woman, presumably the lady of the house, stood in front waving frantically at him, so he pulled in. She rushed up to his car, screaming “Do you have a cell phone? Please, God, say that you have a cell phone.”
He shook his head. “Threw it away. Do you and your husband not have them?”
She shook her head, obviously angry at herself. “They were in our bedroom when the fire broke out. And we don't have a home phone.”
Crap. “Okay, I'll drive until I find someplace where I can call the fire department. Where's your husband?”
She shot a glance at the house. “He went in to get our little girl, Cindy. She was napping. He's been gone... so long...”
As she said this, the husband came stumbling out of the smoke, retching and puking, covered from head to toe with smoke stains.
And no Cindy.
Shit.
He got out of the car, and said to the woman “What's your name?”
“What? Anne. What? Why?” She couldn't take her teary eyes off of her husband, so he grabbed her chin and turned her face to his.
“Anne. ANNE!” The urge to slap her rose in him, and he choked it down with brute force. “Anne, listen to me.” He folded his car keys into her hand. “Take my car. Go call the fire department, and then come back.”
The antic calm that she had forced on herself when her husband came out empty-handed shattered suddenly and completely. “CINDY! MY LITTLE GIRL!”
She turned as if to run for the house, and he grabbed her. Now he DID slap her, once, hard. She turned her blotchy face to him, anger glossing over the fear now. “Anne. You. Drive to the neighbors. Call the fire department. I will get Cindy. GO!”
He practically pushed her into the car, and felt himself buckshotted with high-velocity gravel as she pulled out. He ran up to the man, who was still retching smoke-colored bile on his hands and knees. He squatted beside the man and said “Where's Cindy's room? HEY! WHERE'S CINDY'S ROOM?”
The man looked up at him through eyes that were more red than white and gasped “Who... are you...?”
His composure snapped. Just like that. In that instant. “GOD DAMN! ARE YOU PEOPLE STUPID OR WHAT? DON'T WORRY ABOUT WHO I AM, JUST TELL ME WHICH ROOM YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER IS IN!”
“Top... top of the stairs.. to the left....”
He took a deep breath. “Thank you, brother. Lie down.” He guided the man down onto his right side. “Stay on your side. DON'T lay on your back. You've got to choke all of that crap out.”
The man drew a ragged breath and caught his arm as he started to go. “Not... in her room. That's why I... couldn't get her. Not there... not in the bathroom... not in our bedroom.”
He nodded, pulled away, patted the man's hand reassuringly, and then sped for the house, thinking not in her room or theirs... not in the bathroom... presumably not downstairs... only leaves one place as near as I can tell. He looked up at the dormer windows at the top of the house, probably an attic, as he pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth.
The door was gone, probably blown out by the heat or kicked loose by the husband. As he headed into the smoking, oven-hot house, he prayed silently “Dear Lord, if it is within your will, please guide me to little Cindy that I may bring her to safety. Oh, and not burning my stupid ass or smoking me to death would be good, too. Thank you. Amen.”
He gusted a little sigh of relief when he saw that the stairs were still pretty much intact. He hit them, flying up them two at a time to the second floor. There was the door that was presumably Cindy's standing open and, across the hall, the one that must belong to mom and dad. With the hand not holding his shirt, he rubbed hard at his eyes which had begun to burn as if someone had poured Tabasco sauce into them.
The stairs ended at the second-floor landing, so he started to scan the ceiling for a trapdoor... and there it was. Little Cindy must have pulled the stairs up behind her. He stretched up, beginning to cough a little as the smoke came through his shirt as he pulled the stairs down.
He climbed them, calling Cindy's name between coughs. Fortunately, the attic was a little smoky, but not bad, and there was no fire here yet. In response to one of his calls, he heard a mewling, gagging noise like a sick kitten and spotted her, crouched in the far corner.
“Cindy. I'm here to help. Let's get you outside.” As he said this, a roaring crash echoed up the steps, and flames started to lick through the hole. Little Cindy screamed and held her arms out to him. He lifted her and walked to the dormer window that he had seen from the outside, kicking it out as he approached it. He helped Cindy through onto the porch roof, saying “Don't move. We don't want you to fall.” And then stepped through himself, making sure that nothing valuable got stuck on the glass.
Cindy was still lying where he had left her, sobbing and gasping. He saw the husband, still on his back on the grass trying to get his senses back. He tried calling over to the husband, but wound up just coughing instead. He didn't know how much longer the roof would hold, but couldn't take a chance on just dropping Cindy from the roof. He leaned back into the attic, which was filling with smoke, and found a box near the window marked "X-mas". He had a flash of anger that these people had the temerity to X Christ's name out of Christmas, but then leaned in far enough to scoot the box over to where he could pick it up and haul it out onto the roof.
He opened the box and found several boxes of large, heavy glass ornaments. He opened the top box and took out two of the ornaments. He threw the first one, but it landed about five feet to the right of the husband and shattered with a pop. The next three landed nearer and nearer the husband. Finally, the last one in the box hit the husband in the forehead with a pop. As the husband sat up, the wife pulled back into the driveway, and he thought that he could hear sirens in the distance.
After looking around for a moment, dazed, the husband spotted them on the roof and stood, staggering over to the porch. He called down "I'm going to lower Cindy down to you." The husband nodded, and then held his arms up, ready to catch his daughter. He scooped Cindy up as the wife raced over, and then sat, bracing his feet in the gutter, and lowered her down. When he had just her hands in his, he called "I'm going to let her go."
He released her hands, and heard her scream briefly and breathlessly. He peeked over the roof and saw that the husband had her and was staggering back out into the yard, holding her close to him. He turned around, had a moment to note that smoke was now pouring out of the broken attic window, and then lowered himself down, his fingers on the edge of the gutter. The gutter came loose with a snap, and he found himself falling toward the steps below.
His feet hit the edge of one of the steps, and he reeled backward, landing hard on his ass. He stood, brushing the dirt from his pants. No real harm done, thanks to God. The wife was there, hugging him, then the husband, shaking his hand. The fire trucks had arrived, parking in the yard, and were getting ready to fight the fire. Lost cause, in his opinion. He shrugged off demands from the couple that he stay to talk to the press and accept more gratitude, but he wasn't interested in that.
He got back into his car and drove to a motel in Avon. After a long shower he threw away the smoke-filled clothes and fell into a long, uninterrupted sleep.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Mailing List
Hello.
If you'd like to be added to mailing list to let you know when this blog is updated, please send the request to dragonfoureyes@gmail.com
Thanks.
Randal
If you'd like to be added to mailing list to let you know when this blog is updated, please send the request to dragonfoureyes@gmail.com
Thanks.
Randal
Saturday, November 14, 2009
A Thank You and a Reminder
Thanks for reading my story. If you're enjoying it, please post a note letting me know. Remember, i'm not getting paid for this, i'm just posting it for your enjoyment and would like to hear your feedback.
Randal
Randal
The Journey Part 7
c 2009 by Randal Schaffer
At about five AM, his door opened, and he snapped awake. Donny Mack was standing on the garage floor, about six feet below him. Donny said "Got you into Cranks and Nuts Garage." Cute name, he thought, as Donny Mack helped him down, and then pointed at the mechanic, who waved a greeting. "This here's Elvin. Don't worry, you didn't wake him up or nothing. He don't usually sleep much since he got back from the war."
He extended his hand to Elvin who took it and shook it. Then he said "Pleased to meet you, Elvin. How are you doing?" Elvin made no reply, simply took his hand back and shook his head. Donny Mack leaned over and whispered "I should have mentioned - his voice didn't come back from the war with him. Viet Cong sniper got him right in the voice box. Lucky to be alive, frankly." He raised his voice slightly and said "I'll have the car off the truck in a jiffy here, Elroy. I'm gonna take this old boy over to the diner and talk him into buying me breakfast while we settle up. You have Ernest call the diner to let him know what the damage is gonna be, okay?" Donny Mack leaned back over and whispered "Ernie's his brother. He'll be here in fifteen or twenty minutes."
Fifteen minutes later, through an artful ballet of lowering the car, then pulling the truck forward, then lowering the car some more, then pulling the truck forward again, Donny Mack had his car neatly deposited into the bay of the Cranks and Nuts Garage.
Donny Mack parked his truck and then walked over, pointing and saying "Diner's about fifteen minutes that way."
They walked in silence, and Donny Mack took a pristine-looking cigarette from behind his ear, struck a match on a greasy thumbnail and lit the cigarette. He smoked like a true addict, not seeming to enjoy the cigarette at all, simply barreling through it to get his nicotine fix. He dropped the butt in the parking lot of the diner and smashed it out with his foot.
They walked into the diner, and Donny Mack waved a hand at the enormous woman behind the counter as they sat down. "Morning, Imelda. Just towed this city slicker in and I was wondering if we could get some breakfast and maybe some coffee."
He quickly jumped in and said "No coffee for me, please. But I will take a hot cocoa."
Imelda looked at him a little oddly, as if she had never heard a grown man order hot cocoa before, and then turned to the task of getting the drinks ready. He looked around the bar, between the salt and pepper shakers, and everywhere else that any diner that he had ever seen keep a menu, but there was none to be found. Donny Mack caught him looking and said "Ain't but one breakfast here, bud. Eggs, sausage and hash browns. It'll cost you six bucks, and tip Imelda well. She's a damned good cook and waitress.
After she handed the coffee and cocoa to the two men, Imelda went into the kitchen to fix breakfast. "She lose her voice in the war, too?" He asked.
Donny Mack chuffed a cigarette smoker's laugh and said "Nope. She just don't talk much. Didn't hardly speak no English when she got here, and I guess that she just fell out of the habit."
As she prepared the breakfast, Donny Mack took out a receipt book and calculator, figured for a few minutes, then said "Okay. Looks like about fifty bucks for the tow. That sound fair?"
He nodded and took three twenties out of his pocket. "Keep the ten for your troubles, okay?"
Donny Mack nodded and pocketed the money, handing him a receipt for the fifty. Imelda brought the breakfast out, he was glad to see, with an unmarked bottle of hot sauce. As he started to upend it over his eggs, Donny Mack caught his arms. "Be careful with that sauce, man. Imelda makes it herself, and it is HOT!" He nodded, dropped a few drops on, and then handed the bottle to Donny Mack, who did the same. He took a bite of the egg with the hot sauce on it, and immediately felt sweat spring out along his hairline.
"Damn." Was all that he could say before taking a large swallow of water. Donny Mack, smiling and nodding, followed suit.
About halfway through breakfast, an elderly man came in, walked up to them and said "Excuse me, sir." He looked at the elderly man who said "I'm Ernest. Pleased to meet you." They shook hands, and then the elderly man told him what was wrong with his car. The whole thing sounded like he was talking in a foreign language. Ernest finished with "He says he can have it done in an hour, and it'll cost you three hundred."
He said okay, realizing that this one day on the road had cost him a tenth of his total stake, and then he and Donny finished breakfast as Ernest went back to the garage.
When Imelda brought the bill, Donny Mack grabbed it before he could and said "I was just joshin' about you buying breakfast. I can write it off as a business expense since we did business while we ate."
Donny Mack put one of the twenties that he had given him on top of the bill, and they walked back to Cranks and Nuts together. He noticed that all three bay doors were open now, and all three bays filled. Donny Mack shook his hand and walked back to the truck, while he went in to pay. Elvin was working on one of the other cars as he walked in and waved him a quick hello. Ernest was in the office, and he peeled three hundred dollar bills off his bankroll, and then, reluctantly, added another ten.
He got back into his car, and headed east.
At about five AM, his door opened, and he snapped awake. Donny Mack was standing on the garage floor, about six feet below him. Donny said "Got you into Cranks and Nuts Garage." Cute name, he thought, as Donny Mack helped him down, and then pointed at the mechanic, who waved a greeting. "This here's Elvin. Don't worry, you didn't wake him up or nothing. He don't usually sleep much since he got back from the war."
He extended his hand to Elvin who took it and shook it. Then he said "Pleased to meet you, Elvin. How are you doing?" Elvin made no reply, simply took his hand back and shook his head. Donny Mack leaned over and whispered "I should have mentioned - his voice didn't come back from the war with him. Viet Cong sniper got him right in the voice box. Lucky to be alive, frankly." He raised his voice slightly and said "I'll have the car off the truck in a jiffy here, Elroy. I'm gonna take this old boy over to the diner and talk him into buying me breakfast while we settle up. You have Ernest call the diner to let him know what the damage is gonna be, okay?" Donny Mack leaned back over and whispered "Ernie's his brother. He'll be here in fifteen or twenty minutes."
Fifteen minutes later, through an artful ballet of lowering the car, then pulling the truck forward, then lowering the car some more, then pulling the truck forward again, Donny Mack had his car neatly deposited into the bay of the Cranks and Nuts Garage.
Donny Mack parked his truck and then walked over, pointing and saying "Diner's about fifteen minutes that way."
They walked in silence, and Donny Mack took a pristine-looking cigarette from behind his ear, struck a match on a greasy thumbnail and lit the cigarette. He smoked like a true addict, not seeming to enjoy the cigarette at all, simply barreling through it to get his nicotine fix. He dropped the butt in the parking lot of the diner and smashed it out with his foot.
They walked into the diner, and Donny Mack waved a hand at the enormous woman behind the counter as they sat down. "Morning, Imelda. Just towed this city slicker in and I was wondering if we could get some breakfast and maybe some coffee."
He quickly jumped in and said "No coffee for me, please. But I will take a hot cocoa."
Imelda looked at him a little oddly, as if she had never heard a grown man order hot cocoa before, and then turned to the task of getting the drinks ready. He looked around the bar, between the salt and pepper shakers, and everywhere else that any diner that he had ever seen keep a menu, but there was none to be found. Donny Mack caught him looking and said "Ain't but one breakfast here, bud. Eggs, sausage and hash browns. It'll cost you six bucks, and tip Imelda well. She's a damned good cook and waitress.
After she handed the coffee and cocoa to the two men, Imelda went into the kitchen to fix breakfast. "She lose her voice in the war, too?" He asked.
Donny Mack chuffed a cigarette smoker's laugh and said "Nope. She just don't talk much. Didn't hardly speak no English when she got here, and I guess that she just fell out of the habit."
As she prepared the breakfast, Donny Mack took out a receipt book and calculator, figured for a few minutes, then said "Okay. Looks like about fifty bucks for the tow. That sound fair?"
He nodded and took three twenties out of his pocket. "Keep the ten for your troubles, okay?"
Donny Mack nodded and pocketed the money, handing him a receipt for the fifty. Imelda brought the breakfast out, he was glad to see, with an unmarked bottle of hot sauce. As he started to upend it over his eggs, Donny Mack caught his arms. "Be careful with that sauce, man. Imelda makes it herself, and it is HOT!" He nodded, dropped a few drops on, and then handed the bottle to Donny Mack, who did the same. He took a bite of the egg with the hot sauce on it, and immediately felt sweat spring out along his hairline.
"Damn." Was all that he could say before taking a large swallow of water. Donny Mack, smiling and nodding, followed suit.
About halfway through breakfast, an elderly man came in, walked up to them and said "Excuse me, sir." He looked at the elderly man who said "I'm Ernest. Pleased to meet you." They shook hands, and then the elderly man told him what was wrong with his car. The whole thing sounded like he was talking in a foreign language. Ernest finished with "He says he can have it done in an hour, and it'll cost you three hundred."
He said okay, realizing that this one day on the road had cost him a tenth of his total stake, and then he and Donny finished breakfast as Ernest went back to the garage.
When Imelda brought the bill, Donny Mack grabbed it before he could and said "I was just joshin' about you buying breakfast. I can write it off as a business expense since we did business while we ate."
Donny Mack put one of the twenties that he had given him on top of the bill, and they walked back to Cranks and Nuts together. He noticed that all three bay doors were open now, and all three bays filled. Donny Mack shook his hand and walked back to the truck, while he went in to pay. Elvin was working on one of the other cars as he walked in and waved him a quick hello. Ernest was in the office, and he peeled three hundred dollar bills off his bankroll, and then, reluctantly, added another ten.
He got back into his car, and headed east.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Journey Part 6
c 2009 by Randal Schaffer
About five miles from nowhere, somewhere between Fargo and Jamestown, something bad happened to his car.
It started as an intermittent, metallic tapping sound. tap-tap then nothing for five minutes. Then tap-tap-ta-ta-ta-tap - - - tap-tap - - - tap then nothing for another ten minutes or so. Then it started constantly, and got progressively more aggressive. tap-tap-taptaptapTAPTAPTAPTAP and then something went screeBANG under the hood of his car and thick white smoke starting coming from under the hood.
He pulled over in the widest spot of the road that he could find, got out and popped the hood. It was only an hour or so until sundown, and he sure would like to be in town before that happened. ANY town.
As he looked over the vast complexity of the car engine, he wished… and not for the first time… that he had paid attention when his dad had tried to teach him about cars. His dad was a master mechanic… a man who spoke gasket and piston and alternator as easily as he spoke English.
It had just never really interested him. It had all seemed not only incomprehensible, but actually DULL. And he hated dull.
Well, now he had a feeling that he knew what dull was.
About a half hour after his car broke down, another car headed past him, headed East and going FAST. He tried to flag it down, but it was simply no dice. They either didn't see him, or just didn't care. As the car flew past, all but the middle finger on his waving hand dropped, and he yelled "FUCK YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS!" Then, under his breath, just for emphasis, "fuck".
About twenty minutes later, another car, coming the other direction, actually pulled over the shoulder and stopped. He had been leaning against the driver's side door, and when he saw that this car was actually stopping, he started to run across the road, waving his arms. A small, old man had been in the process of getting out of his car, but when he saw this his eyes widened and he got back into his car.
"Wait!" He yelled when the old man started his car. "Wait, goddamnit, I'm not dangerous, WAIT!" He got close enough to see the old man, a terrorized look on his face, slam the car door lock down before the old man sped out so fast that he sprayed gravel for about fifty yards before he actually managed to get back on the road.
He stopped in the middle of the highway, his hands still in the air. What… the… FUCK?! His arms dropped to his sides.
"What a buncha bullshit." He said to himself as he walked back to his car.
The sun set, and he turned his hazards on. He decided that he would sit in his car to avoid getting run over in the dark.
Some time, in some dark march of the night, he fell into a light, uneasy sleep and dreamed of Jimmy. It had been… oh… probably a year, maybe two before he'd allowed himself to think of Jimmy when he was awake. But in his dreams… at night… sometimes… there was Jimmy.
Maybe that was why he didn't sleep.
Maybe the dreams of Jimmy were just… too much. He and Jimmy playing catch. Teaching Jimmy to ride his bike. Jimmy blowing out his birthday candles.
tap tap tap
Jimmy crying on his first day of school, not wanting to be separated from him.
TAP TAP TAP
The dream vanished like water down a drain, and he sat up from the half-slump that he had fallen into. He rubbed his eyes and felt water there, tears under his eyes and on his cheeks as there almost always were after dreams of Jimmy.
tap tap tap
"Everything okay in there, sir?" A bright light invaded the cab of his car, and he squinted into it, rolling down his window. A North Dakota cop stood there, flashlight in hand, looking around the interior of the car. Probably looking for drugs, he thought. Most likely not a lot of excitement out here.
The cop asked if everything was okay again. He started to answer, and then cleared his throat and tried again. "Uh… yeah… officer. Uh, no I mean. My car broke down."
The cop nodded. "Uh-huh. Can I see your license and registration, please?"
He nodded, and fished the two documents out, handing them to the cop. As the cop turned away he said "Um… listen… officer? Is it okay if I step out of the car? I have to pee and stretch my legs something fierce."
The cop shone his light around the car again and asked "You got any weapons or anything stupid like that in there?"
He thought. No knives? Nothing that could be construed as a weapon? No. "No sir, nothing."
The cop nodded and walked back to his cruiser.
He stepped out into the early morning air, stretching his arms over his head until his back popped. Then he walked to the side of the road and created a small stream in the wasteland.
As he walked back up the shoulder, the cop was returning from his cruiser.
"Well, this all checks out, sir. Sorry for your troubles, but you can't leave your car here."
"Well… what do you suggest, officer? I mean, it won't go anywhere." He dropped into the driver's seat, leaving the door open. The cop leaned in after him. He turned the key, but all that happened was a click and a pop. "See? It won't even start now."
"Well, you can't leave it HERE."
He drew a long, slow breath and said "Well… officer… maybe you could use your radio to call a tow truck for me?"
The cop looked around the deserted, lunar-looking landscape under the nearly full moon, looked over his car again and then back at him. "Yeah, I could do that." The officer said.
"Thank you." As the officer walked back to his car, he thought 'obviously they require IQ tests to be a North Dakota state cop.'
The cop came back a few minutes later and said "Okay, got it called. Donny Mack's. They'll be here in a half hour or so. Coming from Tappan."
To make himself busy, the cop set up flares around his car. He said "Uh… officer… what time is it?"
The cop looked at his watch and said "About quarter after three. Should be here by four."
"Okay, thanks."
Donny Mack's Tow Truck arrived about twenty minutes later, and the cop drove off, waving.
The tow trucks was one of the big ones that could pull the whole car up on the bed of the truck, and he did. As the car was being winched up, Donny Mack asked if he'd like a doughnut and a cuppa joe. He accepted a chocolate doughnut, but passed on the coffee. He had never acquired a taste for the stuff.
Once the car was loaded and secure, Donny Mack said "Damned stupid insurance rules say that I can't let you ride in the cab, but you can ride in your car if you want… if you'll sign a waiver."
"Better than walking to Tappan, I guess. Where’s the waiver?"
He signed the paperwork, then climbed up onto the bed of the truck and into his car.
For thirty solid minutes on the ride into Tappan, he slept soundly without a dream.
About five miles from nowhere, somewhere between Fargo and Jamestown, something bad happened to his car.
It started as an intermittent, metallic tapping sound. tap-tap then nothing for five minutes. Then tap-tap-ta-ta-ta-tap - - - tap-tap - - - tap then nothing for another ten minutes or so. Then it started constantly, and got progressively more aggressive. tap-tap-taptaptapTAPTAPTAPTAP and then something went screeBANG under the hood of his car and thick white smoke starting coming from under the hood.
He pulled over in the widest spot of the road that he could find, got out and popped the hood. It was only an hour or so until sundown, and he sure would like to be in town before that happened. ANY town.
As he looked over the vast complexity of the car engine, he wished… and not for the first time… that he had paid attention when his dad had tried to teach him about cars. His dad was a master mechanic… a man who spoke gasket and piston and alternator as easily as he spoke English.
It had just never really interested him. It had all seemed not only incomprehensible, but actually DULL. And he hated dull.
Well, now he had a feeling that he knew what dull was.
About a half hour after his car broke down, another car headed past him, headed East and going FAST. He tried to flag it down, but it was simply no dice. They either didn't see him, or just didn't care. As the car flew past, all but the middle finger on his waving hand dropped, and he yelled "FUCK YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS!" Then, under his breath, just for emphasis, "fuck".
About twenty minutes later, another car, coming the other direction, actually pulled over the shoulder and stopped. He had been leaning against the driver's side door, and when he saw that this car was actually stopping, he started to run across the road, waving his arms. A small, old man had been in the process of getting out of his car, but when he saw this his eyes widened and he got back into his car.
"Wait!" He yelled when the old man started his car. "Wait, goddamnit, I'm not dangerous, WAIT!" He got close enough to see the old man, a terrorized look on his face, slam the car door lock down before the old man sped out so fast that he sprayed gravel for about fifty yards before he actually managed to get back on the road.
He stopped in the middle of the highway, his hands still in the air. What… the… FUCK?! His arms dropped to his sides.
"What a buncha bullshit." He said to himself as he walked back to his car.
The sun set, and he turned his hazards on. He decided that he would sit in his car to avoid getting run over in the dark.
Some time, in some dark march of the night, he fell into a light, uneasy sleep and dreamed of Jimmy. It had been… oh… probably a year, maybe two before he'd allowed himself to think of Jimmy when he was awake. But in his dreams… at night… sometimes… there was Jimmy.
Maybe that was why he didn't sleep.
Maybe the dreams of Jimmy were just… too much. He and Jimmy playing catch. Teaching Jimmy to ride his bike. Jimmy blowing out his birthday candles.
tap tap tap
Jimmy crying on his first day of school, not wanting to be separated from him.
TAP TAP TAP
The dream vanished like water down a drain, and he sat up from the half-slump that he had fallen into. He rubbed his eyes and felt water there, tears under his eyes and on his cheeks as there almost always were after dreams of Jimmy.
tap tap tap
"Everything okay in there, sir?" A bright light invaded the cab of his car, and he squinted into it, rolling down his window. A North Dakota cop stood there, flashlight in hand, looking around the interior of the car. Probably looking for drugs, he thought. Most likely not a lot of excitement out here.
The cop asked if everything was okay again. He started to answer, and then cleared his throat and tried again. "Uh… yeah… officer. Uh, no I mean. My car broke down."
The cop nodded. "Uh-huh. Can I see your license and registration, please?"
He nodded, and fished the two documents out, handing them to the cop. As the cop turned away he said "Um… listen… officer? Is it okay if I step out of the car? I have to pee and stretch my legs something fierce."
The cop shone his light around the car again and asked "You got any weapons or anything stupid like that in there?"
He thought. No knives? Nothing that could be construed as a weapon? No. "No sir, nothing."
The cop nodded and walked back to his cruiser.
He stepped out into the early morning air, stretching his arms over his head until his back popped. Then he walked to the side of the road and created a small stream in the wasteland.
As he walked back up the shoulder, the cop was returning from his cruiser.
"Well, this all checks out, sir. Sorry for your troubles, but you can't leave your car here."
"Well… what do you suggest, officer? I mean, it won't go anywhere." He dropped into the driver's seat, leaving the door open. The cop leaned in after him. He turned the key, but all that happened was a click and a pop. "See? It won't even start now."
"Well, you can't leave it HERE."
He drew a long, slow breath and said "Well… officer… maybe you could use your radio to call a tow truck for me?"
The cop looked around the deserted, lunar-looking landscape under the nearly full moon, looked over his car again and then back at him. "Yeah, I could do that." The officer said.
"Thank you." As the officer walked back to his car, he thought 'obviously they require IQ tests to be a North Dakota state cop.'
The cop came back a few minutes later and said "Okay, got it called. Donny Mack's. They'll be here in a half hour or so. Coming from Tappan."
To make himself busy, the cop set up flares around his car. He said "Uh… officer… what time is it?"
The cop looked at his watch and said "About quarter after three. Should be here by four."
"Okay, thanks."
Donny Mack's Tow Truck arrived about twenty minutes later, and the cop drove off, waving.
The tow trucks was one of the big ones that could pull the whole car up on the bed of the truck, and he did. As the car was being winched up, Donny Mack asked if he'd like a doughnut and a cuppa joe. He accepted a chocolate doughnut, but passed on the coffee. He had never acquired a taste for the stuff.
Once the car was loaded and secure, Donny Mack said "Damned stupid insurance rules say that I can't let you ride in the cab, but you can ride in your car if you want… if you'll sign a waiver."
"Better than walking to Tappan, I guess. Where’s the waiver?"
He signed the paperwork, then climbed up onto the bed of the truck and into his car.
For thirty solid minutes on the ride into Tappan, he slept soundly without a dream.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
The Journey Part 5
When he woke up, he took a long, hot bath and then packed all of his stuff. He killed time until about eight flipping from one bad show on TV to another, and then moved all of his stuff down to his car and checked out.
Before he left, he decided that he wanted to walk around the town for a while. Beach looked like a nice enough little town. He found a little greasy spoon restaurant and had eggs, bacon and hash browns for breakfast with a glass of chocolate milk. He never had developed a taste for coffee and didn't much like fruit juice.
After breakfast, he found the town park and sat down on one of the benches. A few minutes later a scraggly-looking man of about sixty sat down next to him. The man was obviously homeless, and finally said “Scuse me, buddy. You got a cigarette for a vet?”
“I don't smoke... cigarettes.” He said, turning his head to the vet. “You see combat?”
“Oh yeah. Served in Viet Nam in seventy. About the time that shit started to seriously hit the fan.”
“You smoke a cigar?” He asked the vet.
The vet looked surprised and then said “Hell, yeah, I'll smoke a cigar. Haven't had a good cigar in about twenty years.”
“There a cigar shop around here?”
The vet pointed, said “That shop's got some cigars. Mostly cigarettes and head shop shit, but I seen some nice-looking cigars through the window.”
He headed off to the shop, and reached it just as the Pakistani guy who owned it unlocked the door. Let bigots say what they wanted about people from other countries opening shops, he had always found people from... well... about ANYWHERE to make more polite clerks that people from the good old USA.
“Welcome, welcome!” The Pakistani man said. “How may I help you?”
He spotted the small humidor on the back wall and said “I've actually come in to look at your cigars.”
“AH! An excellent choice.” The clerk said. “They are my true passion. But the people, you know, they mostly only want cigarettes and... the like...” He gestured to the array of bongs, pipes, hookahs and rolling papers.
The two walked to the humidor together, and the vet had been right. A decent selection of cigars indeed.
He talked cigars with the clerk for a while, and walked out about five minutes later with two CAO Criollo cigars, a cutter and a box of matches. The vet was still sitting on the bench. He handed one of the cigars to the vet and snipped the end off of his own. He passed the cutter to the vet, who cut his. He used one match to toast the end of his cigar and then a second to light it, passing the matchbox to the vet, who followed suit.
The vet drew deeply on the cigar and then sat back, savoring the taste of the cigar as he exhaled, finally saying “Damn. That's a good cigar.”
He sat back, enjoying his own smoke. He hadn't had a cigar since before he had left Seattle, and he always missed them when he didn't have them for a couple of days. Finally, he said “May I ask you something? Something personal?”
The vet looked at him out of the corner of his eye and said “You ain't gonna proposition me or nothing, are you? I got nothing against queers, but I ain't one.”
He laughed a laugh full of gray cigar smoke, and said “No. Me either. On both counts. I was just wondering... you're homeless, right?”
“Yeah.” The vet said. “Near as I can tell, the only one in Beach.”
“How'd you come to be here? Homeless, I mean. Not Beach.”
The vet smoked his cigar for a moment, thinking, and then said “You know, I ain't really sure. Joined up right out of high school, went and did my bit in Viet Nam. Came home. No parades or protests or nothing. I went back to where I was born, that's Fargo, stayed with my dad for a while. Mom died when I was little. Finally got a shit job in a convenience store and moved out of my dad's place. He was a mean old bastard anyway. Lost that job pretty quick, drifted across the state, working one small time job after another, and finally about five years ago, the jobs just... dried up. My dad was dead by then and good riddance. Got no other family that I know of. Finally just ended up here with no place to stay and no job. Most nights I sleep in the church. My mom always said that God provides, and I guess that's right. Got a couple people around here bring me food sometimes, and the restaurant owner's will usually bring me leftovers at the end of the night. That's about it.”
He nodded, letting the vet's story sink in. “Kind of a shame that they didn't treat you guys better when you came back.”
“Oh, I wasn't looking for no special treatment. Always thought that if a man can't make it on his own, he shouldn't make it, you know?”
“So what do you think of this engagement in Iraq?”
The vet puffed his cigar and then said “I think it's a damned shame, that's what I think.”
“What do you mean? We're there stopping terrorism.”
“Shit. Terrorism. Shit. That's a load of horseshit. We're there because BP and Arco and them guys want control of that oil, and that's all.”
He had heard this argument before, and just didn't... couldn't buy it. “What about all of the young men and women who have died over there? The government wouldn't sacrifice them for oil.”
“Yeah, like I said. Damned shame. But it's all about the oil, and don't kid yourself.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You've gotta pay attention, boy. Right before we invaded, Hussein was going to take his oil off of the US dollar. Then he was going to nationalize his oil fields. Don't get me wrong, he was a sumbitch and the world's better off without him. But it's all about not wanting to lose that oil.”
They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then he took a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the vet, saying “There's a diner over there, about three blocks down with a pretty good breakfast special. Why don't you go have breakfast?”
“Thank you, son.” The vet said, putting the ten in his wallet. He stood up, shook the vet's hand and then finished his cigar as he walked back to the hotel.
He got back on 94 and crossed the miles of mostly empty space that comprised North Dakota and drove through to Fargo.
Before he left, he decided that he wanted to walk around the town for a while. Beach looked like a nice enough little town. He found a little greasy spoon restaurant and had eggs, bacon and hash browns for breakfast with a glass of chocolate milk. He never had developed a taste for coffee and didn't much like fruit juice.
After breakfast, he found the town park and sat down on one of the benches. A few minutes later a scraggly-looking man of about sixty sat down next to him. The man was obviously homeless, and finally said “Scuse me, buddy. You got a cigarette for a vet?”
“I don't smoke... cigarettes.” He said, turning his head to the vet. “You see combat?”
“Oh yeah. Served in Viet Nam in seventy. About the time that shit started to seriously hit the fan.”
“You smoke a cigar?” He asked the vet.
The vet looked surprised and then said “Hell, yeah, I'll smoke a cigar. Haven't had a good cigar in about twenty years.”
“There a cigar shop around here?”
The vet pointed, said “That shop's got some cigars. Mostly cigarettes and head shop shit, but I seen some nice-looking cigars through the window.”
He headed off to the shop, and reached it just as the Pakistani guy who owned it unlocked the door. Let bigots say what they wanted about people from other countries opening shops, he had always found people from... well... about ANYWHERE to make more polite clerks that people from the good old USA.
“Welcome, welcome!” The Pakistani man said. “How may I help you?”
He spotted the small humidor on the back wall and said “I've actually come in to look at your cigars.”
“AH! An excellent choice.” The clerk said. “They are my true passion. But the people, you know, they mostly only want cigarettes and... the like...” He gestured to the array of bongs, pipes, hookahs and rolling papers.
The two walked to the humidor together, and the vet had been right. A decent selection of cigars indeed.
He talked cigars with the clerk for a while, and walked out about five minutes later with two CAO Criollo cigars, a cutter and a box of matches. The vet was still sitting on the bench. He handed one of the cigars to the vet and snipped the end off of his own. He passed the cutter to the vet, who cut his. He used one match to toast the end of his cigar and then a second to light it, passing the matchbox to the vet, who followed suit.
The vet drew deeply on the cigar and then sat back, savoring the taste of the cigar as he exhaled, finally saying “Damn. That's a good cigar.”
He sat back, enjoying his own smoke. He hadn't had a cigar since before he had left Seattle, and he always missed them when he didn't have them for a couple of days. Finally, he said “May I ask you something? Something personal?”
The vet looked at him out of the corner of his eye and said “You ain't gonna proposition me or nothing, are you? I got nothing against queers, but I ain't one.”
He laughed a laugh full of gray cigar smoke, and said “No. Me either. On both counts. I was just wondering... you're homeless, right?”
“Yeah.” The vet said. “Near as I can tell, the only one in Beach.”
“How'd you come to be here? Homeless, I mean. Not Beach.”
The vet smoked his cigar for a moment, thinking, and then said “You know, I ain't really sure. Joined up right out of high school, went and did my bit in Viet Nam. Came home. No parades or protests or nothing. I went back to where I was born, that's Fargo, stayed with my dad for a while. Mom died when I was little. Finally got a shit job in a convenience store and moved out of my dad's place. He was a mean old bastard anyway. Lost that job pretty quick, drifted across the state, working one small time job after another, and finally about five years ago, the jobs just... dried up. My dad was dead by then and good riddance. Got no other family that I know of. Finally just ended up here with no place to stay and no job. Most nights I sleep in the church. My mom always said that God provides, and I guess that's right. Got a couple people around here bring me food sometimes, and the restaurant owner's will usually bring me leftovers at the end of the night. That's about it.”
He nodded, letting the vet's story sink in. “Kind of a shame that they didn't treat you guys better when you came back.”
“Oh, I wasn't looking for no special treatment. Always thought that if a man can't make it on his own, he shouldn't make it, you know?”
“So what do you think of this engagement in Iraq?”
The vet puffed his cigar and then said “I think it's a damned shame, that's what I think.”
“What do you mean? We're there stopping terrorism.”
“Shit. Terrorism. Shit. That's a load of horseshit. We're there because BP and Arco and them guys want control of that oil, and that's all.”
He had heard this argument before, and just didn't... couldn't buy it. “What about all of the young men and women who have died over there? The government wouldn't sacrifice them for oil.”
“Yeah, like I said. Damned shame. But it's all about the oil, and don't kid yourself.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You've gotta pay attention, boy. Right before we invaded, Hussein was going to take his oil off of the US dollar. Then he was going to nationalize his oil fields. Don't get me wrong, he was a sumbitch and the world's better off without him. But it's all about not wanting to lose that oil.”
They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then he took a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the vet, saying “There's a diner over there, about three blocks down with a pretty good breakfast special. Why don't you go have breakfast?”
“Thank you, son.” The vet said, putting the ten in his wallet. He stood up, shook the vet's hand and then finished his cigar as he walked back to the hotel.
He got back on 94 and crossed the miles of mostly empty space that comprised North Dakota and drove through to Fargo.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Journey Part 4
copyright 2009 by Randal Schaffer
He drove for about three blocks until he found a twenty-four hour store, went in and bought two 2-liter bottles of Pepsi and a box of No-Doze. When he got back to his car, he knocked back three of the No-Doze with about a quarter of one of the bottles of Pepsi. Then he drove around to the far side of the convenience store where there were no halogens, and his car was completely in shadow. He pulled a napkin out of his glove box, unzipped his pants and finished off what Merlene had started. As he shot into the napkin, strangely, it was the last time with his ex-wife that he was thinking of.
He cleaned up, zipped up, and headed up the nearest ramp back on to I-94 East.
The night roared past him like a pissed-off oil spill. Lights were few and far between out here, and he was kind of glad of that. I mean, if he didn't leave to get away from people, then why did he leave, exactly?
Exactly.
Why?
The first couple of hours were fine. He chugged Pepsi, took another couple of the No-Doze, and just thought of nothing. Doing nothing but letting the freeway pass under his wheels.
His eyelids started to get heavy at around four AM. When he felt his head nod forward, he snapped it upright, yelling “FUCK!” at himself and slapping himself on the leg several times, stinging himself back into temporary wakefulness.
About fifteen minutes later, he thought “I can just close my eyes for a second. There's no traffic, so if I drift a little, it'll be fine. It'll all be okay. He closed his eyes and allowed his head to droop. He had a moment to think “What's that crunching sound?” before he opened his eyes and saw that his two driver's side wheel were on the shoulder and the two passenger-side tires were in the ditch.
He jerked the car back onto the freeway, cursing. It's a good thing that there wasn't a sign along that stretch of shoulder, or his trip would have ended right there.
As he thought of a sign, one popped up in his headlights that said “REST AREA, 5 MILES coffee and vending machines”
Thank God. He thought. He hated coffee and didn't really want anything from a vending machine, but could sure use some rest.
The rest area was completely deserted as he pulled in. He found a parking space as far from the bathrooms as he could to keep people from looking in on him. He got out, stretched his legs, took a piss in the bushes, and then got back into his car, leaning his seat back at about a fifty degree angle.
He wasn't sure how much time passed between the time that he sat down and the time that he fell asleep, but felt like it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. It seemed instantaneous.
He glanced at the dash clock as soon as he woke up and it said 5:00. So he had slept for about a half hour solid. Good. No dreams. Good.
He pulled back onto the freeway and started East again.
At about 9, after hours of fighting sleep, he pulled into Beach, North Dakota and found yet another chain motel. This clerk seemed more polite than those that he had encountered so far, and told him that he could remain in his room undisturbed until check out time at noon the next day.
He thanked the clerk, bought a danish from the vending machine for breakfast, washed it down with the last of the Pepsi, tossed the comforter into the corner and lay down to sleep.
His dreams were odd, disjointed and disturbing. There was no narrative to them. No specific incidents or images that he could identify as individually disturbing, just an overall feel.
He woke up for the first time in the early afternoon. He slowly opened his eyes, thinking that he should get a drink of water. He was lying on his back, so he looked straight up at the ceiling. A tremendous spider, the size of a dinner plate was slowly lowering itself toward his face.
“SHIT!” He rolled sideways off of the bed, his heart pounding. He got wrapped up the sheet and hit the floor hard on one knee, sending a spike of pain up his leg and into his brain.
He searched the bed in the afternoon sunlight, muted by the cheap hotel curtains, tearing it apart, ripping pillows from their pillowcases and the sheet from the bed. He looked under the bed, behind the headboard.
No spider, of course.
As wakefulness finished descending on him, and his breathing steadied, he realized that this had just been a “waking dream”, a hallucination brought on by the unpleasant dreams. It had happened to him before, so many times that he couldn't count them. And they were almost always spiders. He wasn't sure why... spiders posed no real fear for him in the waking world. For some reason, though, whenever he dragged these terrors into the waking world, they were almost always spiders.
He assembled the bed to a sleepable state again, pissed, washed his face and got a drink of the chlorine-tasting tapwater.
He lay back down in the bed, and prayed. “Dear Lord, thank you for this adventurous day and night. If it is within your will, please grant me some good sleep. And no more spiders. Amen.”
With that, he rolled onto his left side, away from the lighted window, and slept through until about five o'clock the following morning, only waking ten or fifteen times.
He drove for about three blocks until he found a twenty-four hour store, went in and bought two 2-liter bottles of Pepsi and a box of No-Doze. When he got back to his car, he knocked back three of the No-Doze with about a quarter of one of the bottles of Pepsi. Then he drove around to the far side of the convenience store where there were no halogens, and his car was completely in shadow. He pulled a napkin out of his glove box, unzipped his pants and finished off what Merlene had started. As he shot into the napkin, strangely, it was the last time with his ex-wife that he was thinking of.
He cleaned up, zipped up, and headed up the nearest ramp back on to I-94 East.
The night roared past him like a pissed-off oil spill. Lights were few and far between out here, and he was kind of glad of that. I mean, if he didn't leave to get away from people, then why did he leave, exactly?
Exactly.
Why?
The first couple of hours were fine. He chugged Pepsi, took another couple of the No-Doze, and just thought of nothing. Doing nothing but letting the freeway pass under his wheels.
His eyelids started to get heavy at around four AM. When he felt his head nod forward, he snapped it upright, yelling “FUCK!” at himself and slapping himself on the leg several times, stinging himself back into temporary wakefulness.
About fifteen minutes later, he thought “I can just close my eyes for a second. There's no traffic, so if I drift a little, it'll be fine. It'll all be okay. He closed his eyes and allowed his head to droop. He had a moment to think “What's that crunching sound?” before he opened his eyes and saw that his two driver's side wheel were on the shoulder and the two passenger-side tires were in the ditch.
He jerked the car back onto the freeway, cursing. It's a good thing that there wasn't a sign along that stretch of shoulder, or his trip would have ended right there.
As he thought of a sign, one popped up in his headlights that said “REST AREA, 5 MILES coffee and vending machines”
Thank God. He thought. He hated coffee and didn't really want anything from a vending machine, but could sure use some rest.
The rest area was completely deserted as he pulled in. He found a parking space as far from the bathrooms as he could to keep people from looking in on him. He got out, stretched his legs, took a piss in the bushes, and then got back into his car, leaning his seat back at about a fifty degree angle.
He wasn't sure how much time passed between the time that he sat down and the time that he fell asleep, but felt like it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. It seemed instantaneous.
He glanced at the dash clock as soon as he woke up and it said 5:00. So he had slept for about a half hour solid. Good. No dreams. Good.
He pulled back onto the freeway and started East again.
At about 9, after hours of fighting sleep, he pulled into Beach, North Dakota and found yet another chain motel. This clerk seemed more polite than those that he had encountered so far, and told him that he could remain in his room undisturbed until check out time at noon the next day.
He thanked the clerk, bought a danish from the vending machine for breakfast, washed it down with the last of the Pepsi, tossed the comforter into the corner and lay down to sleep.
His dreams were odd, disjointed and disturbing. There was no narrative to them. No specific incidents or images that he could identify as individually disturbing, just an overall feel.
He woke up for the first time in the early afternoon. He slowly opened his eyes, thinking that he should get a drink of water. He was lying on his back, so he looked straight up at the ceiling. A tremendous spider, the size of a dinner plate was slowly lowering itself toward his face.
“SHIT!” He rolled sideways off of the bed, his heart pounding. He got wrapped up the sheet and hit the floor hard on one knee, sending a spike of pain up his leg and into his brain.
He searched the bed in the afternoon sunlight, muted by the cheap hotel curtains, tearing it apart, ripping pillows from their pillowcases and the sheet from the bed. He looked under the bed, behind the headboard.
No spider, of course.
As wakefulness finished descending on him, and his breathing steadied, he realized that this had just been a “waking dream”, a hallucination brought on by the unpleasant dreams. It had happened to him before, so many times that he couldn't count them. And they were almost always spiders. He wasn't sure why... spiders posed no real fear for him in the waking world. For some reason, though, whenever he dragged these terrors into the waking world, they were almost always spiders.
He assembled the bed to a sleepable state again, pissed, washed his face and got a drink of the chlorine-tasting tapwater.
He lay back down in the bed, and prayed. “Dear Lord, thank you for this adventurous day and night. If it is within your will, please grant me some good sleep. And no more spiders. Amen.”
With that, he rolled onto his left side, away from the lighted window, and slept through until about five o'clock the following morning, only waking ten or fifteen times.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Journey Part 3
copyright 2009 by Randal Schaffer
His day on the road was pretty much like the previous one. Drive, eat, piss, repeat.
By the time he felt tired enough to stop, he had hit Big Timber, Montana. He found the only outlet of a chain motel, dropped sixty bucks more or less on a night's stay and went up to his room. He shit, showered and put on clean clothes.
He knew that he needed to sleep, but decided that the thing that he needed this evening was a drink. Mostly he decided that when he saw a little dive bar next to the hotel called the STOP ON INN. Thinking that, if there were any place in the world where it would be appropriate to sidle up to a bar then it was the STOP ON INN, he sidled up to the bar and ordered a bourbon straight up.
The bartender brought the drink to him and said “Four bucks.”
He put a five on the bar and said “Keep it.”
The bartender nodded his thanks, and then went to help another patron. As soon as he did, a woman took the bar stool next to him, carrying something pink and frothy. “Hi.” She said in a voice like silk on sandpaper from too many cigarettes and too little sleep.
He turned his head to look her over. Not bad. In Seattle he probably wouldn't have given her a second glance, but, he thought, Toto – it looks like we ain't in Seattle anymore. Out here in the boonies she was probably a beauty queen.
She was average height, average build, average boobs, all held together by an utterly and completely average blouse and almost standard-issue boot cut blue jeans. She was wearing too much makeup topped off by lipstick that was both too much and too dark. She would look like a whore, except that no self-respecting whore would ever go out looking like this. “You new in town?” She asked through her too red lips.
“I'm not “in town””, he said. “Not really. I'll be gone by seven o'clock tomorrow morning.”
“Really?” She tried to purr the word, but then had to choke back a cough. So she lit a cigarette and threw the pack on the bar. “How romantic.”
“No, not really.” He said.
They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks. Finally she said “You got a hotel room or something?”
He nodded. “Next door.”
“Would you like some company?” She asked.
He took the opportunity to look her up and down again. Yeah, not great but not quite “closing time at the bar” bad, either. “I wouldn't mind, but I have to ask you something first that's probably going to piss you off.”
She smiled. “Oh? Are you going to ask if I'm married?”
He looked away, a little surprised, then shrugged. “Actually, I don't even care enough about that to wonder. I was wondering if you were a hooker. Have no intention of paying for it, you see.”
She stood up and put one fist on a hip, saying “You son of a bitch! What kind of a question is that?”
“An honest one.” He said, without looking at her. “I told you that I'm on the road. I don't have money to waste on pussy, although I wouldn't mind having some. And the last thing that I need is some pimp trying to bust my head.”
“Well, listen to the mouth on you!” She said, blushing a little. That's right, he thought, I'm in the heartland now. They probably don't use the word “pussy” out here. Probably “cunt” or “slot” or something much more romantic like that. She stood there for a second, BOTH fists on her hips now, as if she expected him to apologize or beg or grovel. Out here in the asshole of nowhere he was sure that she could find some seedpicker to grovel for her if she wanted. Not his scene. And frankly, masturbation was almost as good, usually. Almost. Usually.
After she realized that she wasn't going to get an apology, and he wasn't going to beg, she sat back down beside him and sipped her drink again. “You didn't answer my question.” he said. “Are you a hooker?”
Without looking at him, as if she were trying to maintain some of the dignity that she had obviously lost sometime around age sixteen, she whispered “No I am not a whore.”
He sipped his bourbon, almost gone now, and calmly said “Well, that's too bad. You could probably make a pretty good living at it. Especially out here.”
She looked for just an instant like someone had tapped her between the eyes with a reflex-checking hammer, and then turned and looked at him. “Is that supposed to be some kind of a compliment?”
“Did you take it as some kind of a compliment?”
She shook her head, slowly, disbelief instead of negation, and said “I think that you're fucking with me. And I don't know if I like it or not.”
He looked at her for the first time since he had initially asked if she was a hooker, and said “Trust me. If I were fucking with you, you'd know.” He looked away again, into the depths of the bar mirror and said “And... you'd like it.”
They drank in silence for a moment longer. He shook the last couple of drops of bourbon out of the glass into his mouth and stood up, saying “Well, I'm going back to my room. If you'd like to join me, then come on.”
There was a moment... maybe three seconds, when he thought that she wouldn't, but after that, she took one last sip of her drink, and then got up and grabbed her purse.
The two walked to the hotel and up to his room without talking, without touching. He turned the overhead light on, and she walked into the main room, saying “Nice place.”
“No it's not.” He said, pushing her onto the bed. “It's a shithole. But it has a bed, a tub and a toilet and that's really all that I need.”
He started to kiss her, unbuttoning her top and then sliding a hand under her bra. She moaned, arched her back so that her breast went more fully into his hand, but obviously wasn't going to help. As he moved his hands down to undo her jeans, without her moving a muscle, he thought “yeah, she's the queen of the cattlemen all right.”
Once her jeans were open enough, he slipped a hand inside her jeans and a finger inside her, his mouth working at one of her nipples. After rubbing her with his finger for a second, he ran the finger up her body and surreptitiously sniffed at it. She smelled like over-ripe apricots. He loved to eat pussy, but had had enough bad pussy in his life to know what a mood killer it was. So no eating her.
He stood up, went to his suitcase. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him. Not even going to take her pants and underwear off, he thought. Lazy bitch.
He rummaged through his suitcase until he found the box of condoms that he had stashed there... just in case. He took one out of the box, ripped the top off of the sleeve and tossed the condom, still inside the now-open sleeve, onto the bed.
He took her boots off, then, in one motion and as if they were one garment, smoothed her pants and panties off. He quickly stripped, and then worked the condom over his erection. One point of pride for him was that, at the age of 44, he could still get as hard as he could when he was seventeen. He released his sheathed penis, and it immediately sprang up to point at his chin. He knelt between the woman's legs, and then rested a hand on her thigh, closing his eyes. He thought “Dear Lord, for this pussy that I am about to receive, may I be blessed with gratefulness. Amen.”
“What are you doing?”
He opened his eyes to see that she was looking at him. He said “Praying.” She laughed her cigarette smoke laugh, and then stopped when she saw that he was serious.
He propped himself up on an elbow over her body, and then eased his way into her. Once he was fully in, he started the mechanical rhythm that he knew would produce the best orgasm for him in the shortest amount of time. With a committed lover, not that there had been all that many of those in his life, he treasured his lover's orgasm like a rare gem, and never allowed himself to have one until she did. With a one-night stand like this, it didn't really matter to him, he just wanted to cum. And no matter how good masturbation was, it usually couldn't beat the feel of real pussy. Usually.
She moaned and groaned under him, scratching his back with her long fake nails. That was okay, he'd just have to remember to get some peroxide back there later to disinfect them. Scratches were almost as nasty for carrying crap as bites.
He was getting close. He could feel it. That feel of climbing, of floating. Really, he thought, that few minutes before the orgasm was better than the orgasm itself. Just as he thought that it was time for him to reach the home stretch and kick her out, someone started to pound on the door and a voice from the other side yelled “MERLENE, YOU BITCH! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!” Followed by more pounding.
Immediately, the woman underneath him... Merlene, presumably, started trying to throw him off. “Shit! It's Luther!” He thought for a second of asking her who Luther was, but decided that it was either a boyfriend, husband or pimp. One thing that Luther definitely wasn't was good news.
He stood up, pulling out of her as he did, and stood by the door. From the other side he heard what he had been waiting for... what every pissed-off shitkicker who's seen too many movies ultimately says. “I'M KICKIN' THIS FUCKING DOOR DOWN!” He heard two shuffling steps, gave Luther a second to wind up, and then opened the door. Luther's foot came through the door, followed by a very off-balance Luther. He popped Luther in the back of the head with the flat of his hand as the man fell through the door. Before Luther could recover, he took one step to the prone body, and delivered one swift, hard kick to the diaphragm, pulling at the last minute. It would hurt like Hell. He wouldn't be able to draw a good breath for a while, but it wouldn't leave any lasting damage.
He heard Merlene scream from across the room, and looked over to see that she had had time to put her bra and jeans on. Obviously has some practice at this, he thought.
“LUTHER! Oh, my God! Luther! Did he hurt you, baby?”
She started to come toward them, so he rested his right foot on Luther's adam's apple. Again, not enough for any lasting damage, but enough to make Luther go “URK”. “Don't come any closer.” He said calmly. “If you want Luther to keep breathing, how about you just stay on that side of the room and get dressed while Luther and I discuss some shit. Cool?” She nodded and withdrew to the corner of the room.
“Luther? That right?” Luther nodded his head frantically. “Okay. Luther. I'm going to ask you a couple questions, and all I need are straight answers so that I can provide you with some advice, okay?” Luther nodded again. “At least one of these questions is going to piss you off, but I don't want you to get any ideas about acting on that pissed-off feeling, okay? I throw iron for a living, and I CAN beat your ass if I have to, okay?” Luther nodded once more.
“Okay. Cool. First question. Merlene over there... she your whore? You pimping her out?” Luther's face grew a little redder, and he sputtered in a choked voice “You... son of a...”
“Yeah, save your breath.” He said, stepping down just a little harder to cut off the flow of words. “Son of a bitch, I heard it all earlier. Is she?” Luther glared at him for a second, and then shook his head no. “Girlfriend?” Another shake of the head. “Oh, Luther... don't tell me that you MARRIED that.”
From across the room he heard “HEY!” He shot a glance at her long enough to make sure that she would shut up, and then turned back to Luther.
“Wife?” Luther was still for a moment, and then nodded his head and shrugged as much as he could. “Has she pulled this shit before?” He nodded again and croaked “Yes...” “How many times? A few?” A head shake. “A lot?” Luther nods. He glances back up at Merlene for a moment, and is pleased to see that she's blushing deeply. “And you're a big guy... look like maybe you were a football player in high school, yeah? So you've probably beaten the shit out of your fair share of horny hayseeds, yeah?” Luther nods again, a little pride working into his stressed face. “And then... when you get her home... you fuck her harder than you've ever imagined that you could, don't you?”
“Yes.” Luther croaks again. “Hard. After I beat the shit out of HER.”
“Luther. Buddy. She's playing you. I don't know if she really wants to fuck other guys or not, but what she DOES want is to be dominated. She wants you to take possession of her like that. So it's your choice... you can either fuck her like that EVERY TIME, without her picking up some sucker in a bar to get you to do it... or you can drop her like the poisonous cunt that she is. Your choice.”
With those words, he lifted his foot off of Luther's throat. “Now both of you, get out of here. And don't think about coming back and fucking with me anymore.”
The couple slunk rather shamefacedly from the room, and as soon as they were gone, he started to throw all of his stuff back into the suitcase. He wouldn't put it past these two to come back when he was asleep. And he wouldn't put it past that shitheel of a clerk to let them into his room. It must have been him who told Luther where he was to begin with.
He walked his suitcase to the desk, and threw the keycard on the counter. “I'm checking out.”
“I won't be able to refund your money.” The little clerk sneered.
“You will notice, shit for brains, that I didn't ASK you to.”
His day on the road was pretty much like the previous one. Drive, eat, piss, repeat.
By the time he felt tired enough to stop, he had hit Big Timber, Montana. He found the only outlet of a chain motel, dropped sixty bucks more or less on a night's stay and went up to his room. He shit, showered and put on clean clothes.
He knew that he needed to sleep, but decided that the thing that he needed this evening was a drink. Mostly he decided that when he saw a little dive bar next to the hotel called the STOP ON INN. Thinking that, if there were any place in the world where it would be appropriate to sidle up to a bar then it was the STOP ON INN, he sidled up to the bar and ordered a bourbon straight up.
The bartender brought the drink to him and said “Four bucks.”
He put a five on the bar and said “Keep it.”
The bartender nodded his thanks, and then went to help another patron. As soon as he did, a woman took the bar stool next to him, carrying something pink and frothy. “Hi.” She said in a voice like silk on sandpaper from too many cigarettes and too little sleep.
He turned his head to look her over. Not bad. In Seattle he probably wouldn't have given her a second glance, but, he thought, Toto – it looks like we ain't in Seattle anymore. Out here in the boonies she was probably a beauty queen.
She was average height, average build, average boobs, all held together by an utterly and completely average blouse and almost standard-issue boot cut blue jeans. She was wearing too much makeup topped off by lipstick that was both too much and too dark. She would look like a whore, except that no self-respecting whore would ever go out looking like this. “You new in town?” She asked through her too red lips.
“I'm not “in town””, he said. “Not really. I'll be gone by seven o'clock tomorrow morning.”
“Really?” She tried to purr the word, but then had to choke back a cough. So she lit a cigarette and threw the pack on the bar. “How romantic.”
“No, not really.” He said.
They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks. Finally she said “You got a hotel room or something?”
He nodded. “Next door.”
“Would you like some company?” She asked.
He took the opportunity to look her up and down again. Yeah, not great but not quite “closing time at the bar” bad, either. “I wouldn't mind, but I have to ask you something first that's probably going to piss you off.”
She smiled. “Oh? Are you going to ask if I'm married?”
He looked away, a little surprised, then shrugged. “Actually, I don't even care enough about that to wonder. I was wondering if you were a hooker. Have no intention of paying for it, you see.”
She stood up and put one fist on a hip, saying “You son of a bitch! What kind of a question is that?”
“An honest one.” He said, without looking at her. “I told you that I'm on the road. I don't have money to waste on pussy, although I wouldn't mind having some. And the last thing that I need is some pimp trying to bust my head.”
“Well, listen to the mouth on you!” She said, blushing a little. That's right, he thought, I'm in the heartland now. They probably don't use the word “pussy” out here. Probably “cunt” or “slot” or something much more romantic like that. She stood there for a second, BOTH fists on her hips now, as if she expected him to apologize or beg or grovel. Out here in the asshole of nowhere he was sure that she could find some seedpicker to grovel for her if she wanted. Not his scene. And frankly, masturbation was almost as good, usually. Almost. Usually.
After she realized that she wasn't going to get an apology, and he wasn't going to beg, she sat back down beside him and sipped her drink again. “You didn't answer my question.” he said. “Are you a hooker?”
Without looking at him, as if she were trying to maintain some of the dignity that she had obviously lost sometime around age sixteen, she whispered “No I am not a whore.”
He sipped his bourbon, almost gone now, and calmly said “Well, that's too bad. You could probably make a pretty good living at it. Especially out here.”
She looked for just an instant like someone had tapped her between the eyes with a reflex-checking hammer, and then turned and looked at him. “Is that supposed to be some kind of a compliment?”
“Did you take it as some kind of a compliment?”
She shook her head, slowly, disbelief instead of negation, and said “I think that you're fucking with me. And I don't know if I like it or not.”
He looked at her for the first time since he had initially asked if she was a hooker, and said “Trust me. If I were fucking with you, you'd know.” He looked away again, into the depths of the bar mirror and said “And... you'd like it.”
They drank in silence for a moment longer. He shook the last couple of drops of bourbon out of the glass into his mouth and stood up, saying “Well, I'm going back to my room. If you'd like to join me, then come on.”
There was a moment... maybe three seconds, when he thought that she wouldn't, but after that, she took one last sip of her drink, and then got up and grabbed her purse.
The two walked to the hotel and up to his room without talking, without touching. He turned the overhead light on, and she walked into the main room, saying “Nice place.”
“No it's not.” He said, pushing her onto the bed. “It's a shithole. But it has a bed, a tub and a toilet and that's really all that I need.”
He started to kiss her, unbuttoning her top and then sliding a hand under her bra. She moaned, arched her back so that her breast went more fully into his hand, but obviously wasn't going to help. As he moved his hands down to undo her jeans, without her moving a muscle, he thought “yeah, she's the queen of the cattlemen all right.”
Once her jeans were open enough, he slipped a hand inside her jeans and a finger inside her, his mouth working at one of her nipples. After rubbing her with his finger for a second, he ran the finger up her body and surreptitiously sniffed at it. She smelled like over-ripe apricots. He loved to eat pussy, but had had enough bad pussy in his life to know what a mood killer it was. So no eating her.
He stood up, went to his suitcase. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him. Not even going to take her pants and underwear off, he thought. Lazy bitch.
He rummaged through his suitcase until he found the box of condoms that he had stashed there... just in case. He took one out of the box, ripped the top off of the sleeve and tossed the condom, still inside the now-open sleeve, onto the bed.
He took her boots off, then, in one motion and as if they were one garment, smoothed her pants and panties off. He quickly stripped, and then worked the condom over his erection. One point of pride for him was that, at the age of 44, he could still get as hard as he could when he was seventeen. He released his sheathed penis, and it immediately sprang up to point at his chin. He knelt between the woman's legs, and then rested a hand on her thigh, closing his eyes. He thought “Dear Lord, for this pussy that I am about to receive, may I be blessed with gratefulness. Amen.”
“What are you doing?”
He opened his eyes to see that she was looking at him. He said “Praying.” She laughed her cigarette smoke laugh, and then stopped when she saw that he was serious.
He propped himself up on an elbow over her body, and then eased his way into her. Once he was fully in, he started the mechanical rhythm that he knew would produce the best orgasm for him in the shortest amount of time. With a committed lover, not that there had been all that many of those in his life, he treasured his lover's orgasm like a rare gem, and never allowed himself to have one until she did. With a one-night stand like this, it didn't really matter to him, he just wanted to cum. And no matter how good masturbation was, it usually couldn't beat the feel of real pussy. Usually.
She moaned and groaned under him, scratching his back with her long fake nails. That was okay, he'd just have to remember to get some peroxide back there later to disinfect them. Scratches were almost as nasty for carrying crap as bites.
He was getting close. He could feel it. That feel of climbing, of floating. Really, he thought, that few minutes before the orgasm was better than the orgasm itself. Just as he thought that it was time for him to reach the home stretch and kick her out, someone started to pound on the door and a voice from the other side yelled “MERLENE, YOU BITCH! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!” Followed by more pounding.
Immediately, the woman underneath him... Merlene, presumably, started trying to throw him off. “Shit! It's Luther!” He thought for a second of asking her who Luther was, but decided that it was either a boyfriend, husband or pimp. One thing that Luther definitely wasn't was good news.
He stood up, pulling out of her as he did, and stood by the door. From the other side he heard what he had been waiting for... what every pissed-off shitkicker who's seen too many movies ultimately says. “I'M KICKIN' THIS FUCKING DOOR DOWN!” He heard two shuffling steps, gave Luther a second to wind up, and then opened the door. Luther's foot came through the door, followed by a very off-balance Luther. He popped Luther in the back of the head with the flat of his hand as the man fell through the door. Before Luther could recover, he took one step to the prone body, and delivered one swift, hard kick to the diaphragm, pulling at the last minute. It would hurt like Hell. He wouldn't be able to draw a good breath for a while, but it wouldn't leave any lasting damage.
He heard Merlene scream from across the room, and looked over to see that she had had time to put her bra and jeans on. Obviously has some practice at this, he thought.
“LUTHER! Oh, my God! Luther! Did he hurt you, baby?”
She started to come toward them, so he rested his right foot on Luther's adam's apple. Again, not enough for any lasting damage, but enough to make Luther go “URK”. “Don't come any closer.” He said calmly. “If you want Luther to keep breathing, how about you just stay on that side of the room and get dressed while Luther and I discuss some shit. Cool?” She nodded and withdrew to the corner of the room.
“Luther? That right?” Luther nodded his head frantically. “Okay. Luther. I'm going to ask you a couple questions, and all I need are straight answers so that I can provide you with some advice, okay?” Luther nodded again. “At least one of these questions is going to piss you off, but I don't want you to get any ideas about acting on that pissed-off feeling, okay? I throw iron for a living, and I CAN beat your ass if I have to, okay?” Luther nodded once more.
“Okay. Cool. First question. Merlene over there... she your whore? You pimping her out?” Luther's face grew a little redder, and he sputtered in a choked voice “You... son of a...”
“Yeah, save your breath.” He said, stepping down just a little harder to cut off the flow of words. “Son of a bitch, I heard it all earlier. Is she?” Luther glared at him for a second, and then shook his head no. “Girlfriend?” Another shake of the head. “Oh, Luther... don't tell me that you MARRIED that.”
From across the room he heard “HEY!” He shot a glance at her long enough to make sure that she would shut up, and then turned back to Luther.
“Wife?” Luther was still for a moment, and then nodded his head and shrugged as much as he could. “Has she pulled this shit before?” He nodded again and croaked “Yes...” “How many times? A few?” A head shake. “A lot?” Luther nods. He glances back up at Merlene for a moment, and is pleased to see that she's blushing deeply. “And you're a big guy... look like maybe you were a football player in high school, yeah? So you've probably beaten the shit out of your fair share of horny hayseeds, yeah?” Luther nods again, a little pride working into his stressed face. “And then... when you get her home... you fuck her harder than you've ever imagined that you could, don't you?”
“Yes.” Luther croaks again. “Hard. After I beat the shit out of HER.”
“Luther. Buddy. She's playing you. I don't know if she really wants to fuck other guys or not, but what she DOES want is to be dominated. She wants you to take possession of her like that. So it's your choice... you can either fuck her like that EVERY TIME, without her picking up some sucker in a bar to get you to do it... or you can drop her like the poisonous cunt that she is. Your choice.”
With those words, he lifted his foot off of Luther's throat. “Now both of you, get out of here. And don't think about coming back and fucking with me anymore.”
The couple slunk rather shamefacedly from the room, and as soon as they were gone, he started to throw all of his stuff back into the suitcase. He wouldn't put it past these two to come back when he was asleep. And he wouldn't put it past that shitheel of a clerk to let them into his room. It must have been him who told Luther where he was to begin with.
He walked his suitcase to the desk, and threw the keycard on the counter. “I'm checking out.”
“I won't be able to refund your money.” The little clerk sneered.
“You will notice, shit for brains, that I didn't ASK you to.”
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Journey Part 2
Copyright 2009 by Randal Schaffer
He found the local outlet of a motel chain that had been on the news a few years back as an example of a really bad place to stay. The upside for him is that it was far away from anything else and way off the road.
I forgot to mention earlier... one of the things about him that caused him to so seriously consider suicide. He didn't sleep. Wasn't even really an insomniac, any more than the ocean is a "little damp". He blamed it on his mother's bad genes. She had never slept well, either. So it was important to him to find a place that was quiet. Clean was secondary and amenities were so tertiary that they really didn't even matter.
He pulled into the parking lot, and found the lobby door locked, the desk unmanned.
"Shit."
He started to turn and head back to his car when he noticed a doorbell with a sign, poorly-written by hand that read "Please wring bell for service. Thx." He had a moment to puzzle over the weird misspelling of "ring", and then followed the instructions. Thirty seconds later, he rang again, and then a door opened in the back of the desk, and a very fat man with a face the color of a fire hydrant came out, fastening his belt. He pushed a button on the desk, causing the door to buzz like a pissed-off hornet, and began to gesture frantically with his free hand.
He entered the lobby, and the fat man said "Sorry about the wait... had to take one hell of a dump."
He had a moment to wonder why the fat man felt it necessary to share that particular piece of information with him, and then shook his head, realizing that, in the grand scheme of things (whatever THAT was), it didn't really matter.
He signed the guest card, was told that the room plus tax was fifty-seven fifty per night, with a miserly 10 AM checkout time. He dropped three twenties on the desk. The fat man glared at the bills for a moment, and then, with a put-upon sound, unlocked the cash drawer and doled out his change.
As he turned and headed back for his car, the desk clerk said "Hey."
He turned back around.
"Yeah?"
The fat man said "Buddy... I don't know you and you sure God don't know me, but I gotta tell you. You look like trouble to me, and I don't want no trouble. You give me trouble and I'll put your ass out in a second, you read?"
He looked at the fat man for a few short moments and then said "I'm kind of glad to hear that, as long as you're as strict with all of your customers. There are a lot of things that I want at this moment in my life. Trouble ISN'T one of them." He turned and headed out the door, shaking his head and smiling as the fat man mumbled "Smart ass" under his breath.
As he got his one suitcase out of the trunk of the car and headed up to his room, he wondered why it was that honest people were always called smart-ass. Did it have something to do with the resentment of people who WEREN'T honest?
The first thing that he did... the first thing that he ALWAYS did in a hotel room, come to that, was to cover his hand with one of his clean socks, and then use that hand to remove the top blanket from the bed and throw it in the corner where it huddled, discarded, like the victim of a sex crime, waiting for someone to help it. Hotels... especially cheap dives like this one... NEVER washed the top blanket. Too much expense and trouble. So there was always dust, sometimes jizz and occasionally shit on them. The dust he could live with, the jizz was unfortunate and the shit was just UNTHINKABLE, so it always went into the corner.
He took a quick, very hot shower, and then padded naked back into the room. It was always a bit of an exhibitionistic thrill with him to walk around a hotel room buck-ass naked, as if the ghosts of all of the previous and future tenants were watching him, shocked, excited or bored by his show.
He looked through the drawers in the room, trying to find anything that the other guests had forgotten and the maids (assuming this armpit actually HAD maids) had missed.
The only thing that he found was a Gideon Bible in the nightstand drawer. As he started to slide it shut, the Bible shifted and he saw a glint of plastic bag under the edge of it. He reopened the drawer, and moved the Bible, revealing a sandwich bag with a small amount of marijuana and some rolling papers and matches inside. He smiled and shook his head, started to close the drawer on the pot and then thought "You know what? Fuck it."
He was forty-four years old. A week before Christmas that year, more or less, he would be forty-five and he hadn't smoked a joint in more than twenty years. So you know what? Fuck it.
He sat down cross-legged on the bed, and poured the dope carefully into the rolling paper, clumsily and inexpertly rolling a serviceable but far from perfect doobie. Even when he HAD smoked grass, in those dim dead days of 1980 something, he had almost never smoked joints, had almost always used pipes and bongs. So this was not an easy task, and, when he was done, he really felt as if he had EARNED this doob.
He pulled the matches out of the bag, and then folded his arms across his chest, saying "Dear Lord, thank you for this day. For this high that I am about to receive may I be blessed with gratitude. And please bless whatever holy traveler left this little bag of Maui Wowie. Amen."
He unfolded his arms, raised the doobie to his mouth, struck a match to it, and drew the acrid, old sock and feet smelling smoke deeply into his lungs. Since he didn't smoke cigarettes and had been free of the demon weed for so long, his body immediately rebelled with a half-cough, half-retch, but he fought and won, holding the smoke in. He swallowed repeatedly, wanting to keep as much of this as possible. He sure wasn't going to BUY any weed, even now that he was smoking again, so he wanted to savor what he had while he had it.
When he finally released his breath, he was pleased to see that very little of the smoke had escaped alive. He laughed an evil laugh, and then toked deeply again, settling back against the headboard as the high started to settle in. It happened exactly as he had always remembered... his fingertips started to tingle, and then his sinuses went numb.
He grabbed the TV remote and started to wade through the pond of shit that is late night TV as he smoked his joint.
Finally, around three in the morning, his joint long gone, struggling to keep his eyes open, he turned the TV off, set the little bedside clock radio for 6:30, and lay down. He was completely, utterly and thoroughly exhausted, and he knew that he would wake up at 6:30 feeling like someone had beaten the shit out of him with a watermelon wrapped in a pillowcase, but he also knew that if he went to bed BEFORE that point, sleep wasn't happening.
The first time that he woke up, the clock face told him that it was 3:49 AM. He lay and stared at the pattern on the ceiling that the parking lot halogens made through the slats of the blinds, and then drifted back off to sleep.
The second time that he woke up it was 5:37 AM and the day was beginning to dawn outside. He had a moment to panic, not recognizing his surroundings, and then remembered that he was in Kellogg, Idaho headed... well, pretty much anywhere... and then went back to sleep.
It seemed like seconds, or possibly two minutes later that the clock radio clicked on to a static-laden country station. He started the day as he had since he was a teenager... by swearing at the alarm clock as he turned it off, then took a moment to center himself, crossed his arms across his chest and said "Dear Lord, thank you for the sleep. Please bless this day and keep me from getting a flat tire. Thank you and amen."
He dressed in the same clothes from yesterday, reasoning that no one was really going to care, brushed his teeth quickly, zipped up his suitcase and headed downstairs.
The desk was empty again. He looked for and found the "continental breakfast" through the office window, and decided that it really wasn't worth going through the trouble of disturbing the fat man or whoever happened to be on the desk that morning. As he looked at the forlorn doughnuts and slightly pissy-looking orange juice, he thought that these things could really only be called "continental" if you considered "continental" to mean "coming from between somewhere in Arkansas and somewhere in Oklahoma".
He slid the key card into the small slot on the door that said "KEY CARD HERE PLEASE THX" and then started his car and backed out of the lot.
The same fast-food joint that had served him dinner last night served him breakfast this morning, and he was back on the road.
He found the local outlet of a motel chain that had been on the news a few years back as an example of a really bad place to stay. The upside for him is that it was far away from anything else and way off the road.
I forgot to mention earlier... one of the things about him that caused him to so seriously consider suicide. He didn't sleep. Wasn't even really an insomniac, any more than the ocean is a "little damp". He blamed it on his mother's bad genes. She had never slept well, either. So it was important to him to find a place that was quiet. Clean was secondary and amenities were so tertiary that they really didn't even matter.
He pulled into the parking lot, and found the lobby door locked, the desk unmanned.
"Shit."
He started to turn and head back to his car when he noticed a doorbell with a sign, poorly-written by hand that read "Please wring bell for service. Thx." He had a moment to puzzle over the weird misspelling of "ring", and then followed the instructions. Thirty seconds later, he rang again, and then a door opened in the back of the desk, and a very fat man with a face the color of a fire hydrant came out, fastening his belt. He pushed a button on the desk, causing the door to buzz like a pissed-off hornet, and began to gesture frantically with his free hand.
He entered the lobby, and the fat man said "Sorry about the wait... had to take one hell of a dump."
He had a moment to wonder why the fat man felt it necessary to share that particular piece of information with him, and then shook his head, realizing that, in the grand scheme of things (whatever THAT was), it didn't really matter.
He signed the guest card, was told that the room plus tax was fifty-seven fifty per night, with a miserly 10 AM checkout time. He dropped three twenties on the desk. The fat man glared at the bills for a moment, and then, with a put-upon sound, unlocked the cash drawer and doled out his change.
As he turned and headed back for his car, the desk clerk said "Hey."
He turned back around.
"Yeah?"
The fat man said "Buddy... I don't know you and you sure God don't know me, but I gotta tell you. You look like trouble to me, and I don't want no trouble. You give me trouble and I'll put your ass out in a second, you read?"
He looked at the fat man for a few short moments and then said "I'm kind of glad to hear that, as long as you're as strict with all of your customers. There are a lot of things that I want at this moment in my life. Trouble ISN'T one of them." He turned and headed out the door, shaking his head and smiling as the fat man mumbled "Smart ass" under his breath.
As he got his one suitcase out of the trunk of the car and headed up to his room, he wondered why it was that honest people were always called smart-ass. Did it have something to do with the resentment of people who WEREN'T honest?
The first thing that he did... the first thing that he ALWAYS did in a hotel room, come to that, was to cover his hand with one of his clean socks, and then use that hand to remove the top blanket from the bed and throw it in the corner where it huddled, discarded, like the victim of a sex crime, waiting for someone to help it. Hotels... especially cheap dives like this one... NEVER washed the top blanket. Too much expense and trouble. So there was always dust, sometimes jizz and occasionally shit on them. The dust he could live with, the jizz was unfortunate and the shit was just UNTHINKABLE, so it always went into the corner.
He took a quick, very hot shower, and then padded naked back into the room. It was always a bit of an exhibitionistic thrill with him to walk around a hotel room buck-ass naked, as if the ghosts of all of the previous and future tenants were watching him, shocked, excited or bored by his show.
He looked through the drawers in the room, trying to find anything that the other guests had forgotten and the maids (assuming this armpit actually HAD maids) had missed.
The only thing that he found was a Gideon Bible in the nightstand drawer. As he started to slide it shut, the Bible shifted and he saw a glint of plastic bag under the edge of it. He reopened the drawer, and moved the Bible, revealing a sandwich bag with a small amount of marijuana and some rolling papers and matches inside. He smiled and shook his head, started to close the drawer on the pot and then thought "You know what? Fuck it."
He was forty-four years old. A week before Christmas that year, more or less, he would be forty-five and he hadn't smoked a joint in more than twenty years. So you know what? Fuck it.
He sat down cross-legged on the bed, and poured the dope carefully into the rolling paper, clumsily and inexpertly rolling a serviceable but far from perfect doobie. Even when he HAD smoked grass, in those dim dead days of 1980 something, he had almost never smoked joints, had almost always used pipes and bongs. So this was not an easy task, and, when he was done, he really felt as if he had EARNED this doob.
He pulled the matches out of the bag, and then folded his arms across his chest, saying "Dear Lord, thank you for this day. For this high that I am about to receive may I be blessed with gratitude. And please bless whatever holy traveler left this little bag of Maui Wowie. Amen."
He unfolded his arms, raised the doobie to his mouth, struck a match to it, and drew the acrid, old sock and feet smelling smoke deeply into his lungs. Since he didn't smoke cigarettes and had been free of the demon weed for so long, his body immediately rebelled with a half-cough, half-retch, but he fought and won, holding the smoke in. He swallowed repeatedly, wanting to keep as much of this as possible. He sure wasn't going to BUY any weed, even now that he was smoking again, so he wanted to savor what he had while he had it.
When he finally released his breath, he was pleased to see that very little of the smoke had escaped alive. He laughed an evil laugh, and then toked deeply again, settling back against the headboard as the high started to settle in. It happened exactly as he had always remembered... his fingertips started to tingle, and then his sinuses went numb.
He grabbed the TV remote and started to wade through the pond of shit that is late night TV as he smoked his joint.
Finally, around three in the morning, his joint long gone, struggling to keep his eyes open, he turned the TV off, set the little bedside clock radio for 6:30, and lay down. He was completely, utterly and thoroughly exhausted, and he knew that he would wake up at 6:30 feeling like someone had beaten the shit out of him with a watermelon wrapped in a pillowcase, but he also knew that if he went to bed BEFORE that point, sleep wasn't happening.
The first time that he woke up, the clock face told him that it was 3:49 AM. He lay and stared at the pattern on the ceiling that the parking lot halogens made through the slats of the blinds, and then drifted back off to sleep.
The second time that he woke up it was 5:37 AM and the day was beginning to dawn outside. He had a moment to panic, not recognizing his surroundings, and then remembered that he was in Kellogg, Idaho headed... well, pretty much anywhere... and then went back to sleep.
It seemed like seconds, or possibly two minutes later that the clock radio clicked on to a static-laden country station. He started the day as he had since he was a teenager... by swearing at the alarm clock as he turned it off, then took a moment to center himself, crossed his arms across his chest and said "Dear Lord, thank you for the sleep. Please bless this day and keep me from getting a flat tire. Thank you and amen."
He dressed in the same clothes from yesterday, reasoning that no one was really going to care, brushed his teeth quickly, zipped up his suitcase and headed downstairs.
The desk was empty again. He looked for and found the "continental breakfast" through the office window, and decided that it really wasn't worth going through the trouble of disturbing the fat man or whoever happened to be on the desk that morning. As he looked at the forlorn doughnuts and slightly pissy-looking orange juice, he thought that these things could really only be called "continental" if you considered "continental" to mean "coming from between somewhere in Arkansas and somewhere in Oklahoma".
He slid the key card into the small slot on the door that said "KEY CARD HERE PLEASE THX" and then started his car and backed out of the lot.
The same fast-food joint that had served him dinner last night served him breakfast this morning, and he was back on the road.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Journey Part 1
copyright 2009 by Randal Schaffer
One day, he just left.
To this day if you ask him why he left, he probably couldn't tell you.
He just did.
It seemed like the right thing to do.
He withdrew all of the money that he had from the bank, something like $5000 and some change. What some would call his "life savings". Pretty miserable life, really, if that's the savings.
Maybe he did it to save his life.
Suicide was something that was never far from his mind, usually. And not in that "cry for attention:" way that so many people like his ex-wife used it. To her, "I'm going to kill myself" was a statement used to get her way. He hated that. To him, being a basically logical person, it seemed more like a shortcut to an inevitable destination. We're all going there, we all get there, what difference does it really make how or when you do it?
But that day... instead of killing himself... he tossed his clothes into a suitcase, tossed the suitcase into the car and just... left.
He headed out of Seattle on I-90 East. Not that there was anything drawing him East, really. It just seemed like a trip West would end very quickly at the Pacific Ocean, and he didn't want that.
He had a moment to wonder if anyone at the plant would miss him, and if they did, when it would happen. Tomorrow? The next day?
He listened to the radio for a while, old rock and roll from when he was a kid, but turned it off pretty quickly. It was difficult to keep a radio station tuned in moving cross-country as he was.
He didn't realize that he had dropped his cell phone in his pocket until it started to ring around Ellensburg. He pulled his car to the side of the road and looked at the display. It was his ex-wife. Probably, he thought, calling to threaten to kill herself over one thing or another. He couldn't cope with it. He pulled as far as he safely could off the road, put on his emergency flashers and turned the ignition off. He walked about a hundred yards into the scrub grass, and then threw his cell phone as hard as he could. He watched it arc through the air, creating a moment of beauty in the cloudy Washington sunlight before disappearing over a low hill. Probably, he thought, the two most useful things that one of those damned things has ever done.
When he got back into his car and pulled back into the sparse traffic, he felt like two large lead fishing weights had been removed from his balls. In his happiness at feeling liberated, he turned the radio back on, fiddled with the tuning until he found some oldies station belting out "Back In Black" by AC/DC, sang along for a while, and then turned the radio off again.
The end of his first day found him in Kellogg, Idaho. He had never been to Kellogg, had BARELY ever been in Idaho, so it seemed as good a place as any to start.
He got a burger and fries and a Coke at the drive through at some dive fast-food place, and ate in the car while he looked for a cheap place to crash.
One day, he just left.
To this day if you ask him why he left, he probably couldn't tell you.
He just did.
It seemed like the right thing to do.
He withdrew all of the money that he had from the bank, something like $5000 and some change. What some would call his "life savings". Pretty miserable life, really, if that's the savings.
Maybe he did it to save his life.
Suicide was something that was never far from his mind, usually. And not in that "cry for attention:" way that so many people like his ex-wife used it. To her, "I'm going to kill myself" was a statement used to get her way. He hated that. To him, being a basically logical person, it seemed more like a shortcut to an inevitable destination. We're all going there, we all get there, what difference does it really make how or when you do it?
But that day... instead of killing himself... he tossed his clothes into a suitcase, tossed the suitcase into the car and just... left.
He headed out of Seattle on I-90 East. Not that there was anything drawing him East, really. It just seemed like a trip West would end very quickly at the Pacific Ocean, and he didn't want that.
He had a moment to wonder if anyone at the plant would miss him, and if they did, when it would happen. Tomorrow? The next day?
He listened to the radio for a while, old rock and roll from when he was a kid, but turned it off pretty quickly. It was difficult to keep a radio station tuned in moving cross-country as he was.
He didn't realize that he had dropped his cell phone in his pocket until it started to ring around Ellensburg. He pulled his car to the side of the road and looked at the display. It was his ex-wife. Probably, he thought, calling to threaten to kill herself over one thing or another. He couldn't cope with it. He pulled as far as he safely could off the road, put on his emergency flashers and turned the ignition off. He walked about a hundred yards into the scrub grass, and then threw his cell phone as hard as he could. He watched it arc through the air, creating a moment of beauty in the cloudy Washington sunlight before disappearing over a low hill. Probably, he thought, the two most useful things that one of those damned things has ever done.
When he got back into his car and pulled back into the sparse traffic, he felt like two large lead fishing weights had been removed from his balls. In his happiness at feeling liberated, he turned the radio back on, fiddled with the tuning until he found some oldies station belting out "Back In Black" by AC/DC, sang along for a while, and then turned the radio off again.
The end of his first day found him in Kellogg, Idaho. He had never been to Kellogg, had BARELY ever been in Idaho, so it seemed as good a place as any to start.
He got a burger and fries and a Coke at the drive through at some dive fast-food place, and ate in the car while he looked for a cheap place to crash.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Welcome to "The Journey"
Hello, and welcome to my first online book.
I will start publishing the book proper tomorrow night. For now, i wanted to issue some cautions and ground rules.
This is a book for adults. I do not mean porn, although it does contain some fairly strong sexual content. It contains drug, alcohol and tobacco references. It contains "bad" words. It contains violence.
In other words, it resembles real life.
Now, the ground rules...
I am publishing this book in this format because i want to be read, damn it! I think that i am a good writer. People that i share my work with tell me that they enjoy it, and i'm tired of waiting for an agent or publisher to recognize that. I would like to make money off of my writing, but so far it ain't happening. The next best thing is to be read and to receive feedback. Like a lot of writers, i have a rather large ego, and the safest thing is to just keep it calm by stroking it.
This work is my copyright, and no one else can use it any time for any reason without my written permission. I hope to publish this book once completed, provided that i haven't shot myself in the foot by weblishing it. (With that in mind, any agents or publishers who happen across this and would like to represent or publish me based on its strengths, please let me know.
I love feedback, but please keep the feedback civil. I will delete rudeness. Also, please do not send suggestions for things to happen in the story. If i realize that's happening, i will delete the feedback unread. This is my story, not a group effort.
If you live in one of the towns mentioned, please feel free to post a WOO HOO FOR {insert town name here} but please do not send me corrections or minutia about your town. I am going for real town names, but everything else is more or less fictional. More or less.
If you enjoy this story, please leave a note letting me know, and send the URL to your friends who enjoy fiction. If you don't, then by all means stop reading. My mind criticizes me far worse than any of you could, so please don't feel that you need to drop a note that says "you suck". Just stop reading and back slowly away from the blog.
All righty. Tomorrow night begins "The Journey".
Thanks in advance for reading and enjoy.
Randal
I will start publishing the book proper tomorrow night. For now, i wanted to issue some cautions and ground rules.
This is a book for adults. I do not mean porn, although it does contain some fairly strong sexual content. It contains drug, alcohol and tobacco references. It contains "bad" words. It contains violence.
In other words, it resembles real life.
Now, the ground rules...
I am publishing this book in this format because i want to be read, damn it! I think that i am a good writer. People that i share my work with tell me that they enjoy it, and i'm tired of waiting for an agent or publisher to recognize that. I would like to make money off of my writing, but so far it ain't happening. The next best thing is to be read and to receive feedback. Like a lot of writers, i have a rather large ego, and the safest thing is to just keep it calm by stroking it.
This work is my copyright, and no one else can use it any time for any reason without my written permission. I hope to publish this book once completed, provided that i haven't shot myself in the foot by weblishing it. (With that in mind, any agents or publishers who happen across this and would like to represent or publish me based on its strengths, please let me know.
I love feedback, but please keep the feedback civil. I will delete rudeness. Also, please do not send suggestions for things to happen in the story. If i realize that's happening, i will delete the feedback unread. This is my story, not a group effort.
If you live in one of the towns mentioned, please feel free to post a WOO HOO FOR {insert town name here} but please do not send me corrections or minutia about your town. I am going for real town names, but everything else is more or less fictional. More or less.
If you enjoy this story, please leave a note letting me know, and send the URL to your friends who enjoy fiction. If you don't, then by all means stop reading. My mind criticizes me far worse than any of you could, so please don't feel that you need to drop a note that says "you suck". Just stop reading and back slowly away from the blog.
All righty. Tomorrow night begins "The Journey".
Thanks in advance for reading and enjoy.
Randal
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