Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Ride from a Stranger

It had become urgent. He had to see her. Now. The idea of driving out to her house had been steeping in his mind all day and now it was too strong to ignore. Although Royal had let several absurd fantasies play out in his imagination, he had no intention of trying to put moves on her, or trying to impress her (not that he could, he reminded himself) he just wanted to see her. Or, to put it more accurately, look at her. Her face and body were starting to deteriorate in his memory, and now he felt a kind of helpless, overwhelming urge to look at her. He wanted to study her. He wanted to stare at her while she slept. He wanted to wallpaper his bedroom with her image, psycho-style - thousands of candid snapshots showing her every mood and movement, from childhood to the present: The History of Loletta Winters in infinite detail, all around him.

     Jesus, he thought, get a grip on yourself…

     He crushed another beer can, dropkicked it into the woods, then slid into the Malibu.

     And then another pull of doubt. Was it too soon? She’d said to drop by anytime, but the next day? Crazy, crazy…

     Oh, what the hell, he thought again, she lived in a goddamn commune - a house full of inhabitants - people must be dropping in all the time. 

     He started the car, drove around a steep sand cliff, then back to the dirt road that led out of the sand pits - his old drinking spot. The perfect place for underage kids to get safely trashed.  How many times had he come out here with his buddies? A hundred drinking parties blurred through his mind: crackling campfires filled with blackened, melting beer bottles, rambling, keg-induced debates and bent philosophies, endless bottles passed around. Drunken fights, laughter and the sound of rookie vomiting. Stumbling and crashing through the trees while police lights flashed blue and white spears into the dark woods…

     Years and years, over and over.

     It was getting near dusk and the humidity was finally pulling back. For a while it had looked like the sky was promising to let loose a thunderstorm, but it eventually cleared and now the moisture in the air was starting to evaporate. Thank god.
     As he drove, Loletta’s face began to strengthen in his memory, urging him on and by the time he reached the highway he was speeding, anxiously gripping the wheel with locked fists. It felt good to have the Malibu back (though he did miss the AC in his mother’s Volvo) and he had spent most of the day tooling around Willowburne, enjoying the feel of the road, revisiting scenes of his childhood. All the sweat he had poured over the engine had been more than worth it.

     At the border of Brightstone he spotted a hitch-hiker. A girl, just a kid. The alcohol in his head and the big fine car around him made him feel generous, brave. He pulled over.

     He watched her in the rearview mirror as she ran toward the car, slipping out of a large canvas backpack. He turned when she reached the door. She tried the handle, and then knocked on the window. He unlocked the door and the first sting of doubt hit him. He fixed a friendly smile on his face anyway.

     “Hi, thanks,” she said, stuffing the backpack into the backseat. She shut the door and sat straight in her seat. Now that she was close to him he saw how young she was. She looked twelve years old. She also looked sick. Her eyes were tired, underlined with dark smudges.

     “No problem,” he said, sure now that picking her up had been a bad idea. “Where you going?”

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Sorry, Wrong Number

“Why did you hang up on me?” says a woman caller. Her voice sounds familiar. And angry.

     “I didn’t hang up on you,” I say. It’s an automatic denial. A reflex.

     “Don’t treat me like I’m dumb! I’m not that dumb!” she says and I suddenly realize she sounds like my great-grandmother Judith, only meaner.

     The thing is, Granny Judy died twenty-two years ago. So it’s probably not her.

     “I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong number,” I say, which is true.

     “I told you not to treat me like I’m dumb!”

     “Sorry,” I say and hang up on her, sort of again.

     I think, Boy, the real guy’s going to get an earful now!

Thursday, November 6, 2014