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HUMDINGER LITERARY MAGAZINE Unforgettable Fiction and Poetry @www.humdingerzine.com, P & E Readers' Poll 2006 TOP 10: Poetry E-zine, Literary E-zine, E-zine Editor Editor-in-Chief: Chris Goebel/ Editor: RS Prasanna/Editorial Assistant: Chronika McDowell/Contest Judge: Tim Bruderek Volume One, Issue Eight April 2006 Bookmark this page as a favorite; visit monthly. Links below. MAINSTREAM FICTION, COMIC FICTION, POETRY, SHAKESPEAREAN SHORT STORY CONTEST, SPACE EXPLORATION, 15 LINE POETRY CONTEST, POLITICAL FICTION, SCIENCE FICTION, AUTHORS INTERVIEWS, HORROR, and FANTASY Lost Things By Cortney Todd The Winner By Dennis Arlo Voorhees Into The West By Brian J. Eckert ALBERT By Edward Shaw Dutch Boy By Lorena Smith Swamp Life By J. Kane Some are Dead and Some are Still Under Cups By Anna-Lynne Williams Eight Months By Megan Renehan The Protagonist By Delilah Gomez Sanguine By Sarah Higham Joe By Lorena Smith A journal for Janie. By Suzanne Cosquer Empathy. In The Neighborhood of OUR Bodies By Brian Alessandro
She paid no mind to time. She didn’t venture into the living room. She didn’t want to skulk the periphery, being still like she were a piece of melting ice. Her daddy said that once. “Be like the ice in my glass.” And he pointed to his glass on the floor, thin transparent slivers floating in still amber liquid. “But it ain’t doin’ nothing,” Tamara said. “‘Xactly.” Lost Things
By Cortney Todd The wooden necklace coiled like a camouflaged snake beneath the dry leaves. It was hard to say if it was hiding or ready to strike or perhaps waiting to be found. Nevertheless, it was difficult to see. Only when the sun hit the leaves just right did the wood reflect the rays and look different from its blanket. Tamera had gone to open the window when Linda told her to. Linda and her daddy were smoking something thick and Tamera couldn’t help but cough each time she dared bring air anyplace past her throat. “Open that window, girl, if you’s havin’ such a hard time with it,” Linda snapped. Tamera cracked the window until it hit the dowel rods and that was when she spotted the necklace hidden beneath the leaves in the basin between the ripped screen and the sill. She might have missed it, if the wind hadn’t gusted and some of the leaves flown to the floor. She might have missed it if she had turned when Daddy yelled, “Shut that, girl. It’s fuckin’ cold.” But she didn’t turn and the wind had blown and she spotted the necklace, grabbing it just before her daddy whacked the window closed and smacked her good upside the head. “Go play.” Tamera watched her daddy rejoin Linda on the chair that had crumbly pieces of orange stuffing falling from its cushion. Each smoked a cigarette and passed a pipe back and forth. “You git,” her daddy said again. And Linda cackled like he’d said something smart. Tamera stepped over a filled ashtray and crossed the room to the kitchen that looked more like a large closet or small hallway. She ain’t my Mama. She don’t matter, Tamara thought, her bare feet picking up some of the ashes and dirt that was too common in this apartment to be considered unsanitary. She squatted in front of the stove where a small table would have fit. The kitchen was an extension of the rest of the apartment. Paint peeling. Muddy shoe prints marking the linoleum floor which was tarred and black where squares were missing. Dirty dishes piled in the sink and on the counter. Dusty, upside-down glasses rested forgotten on the floor beyond the rattling refrigerator. If there were a door between the living room and the galley kitchen, Tamera would have shut it. Instead, she ignored the noises coming from the living room; the intermittent flick of the lighter and the smacking Daddy and Linda’s lips made when they kissed, like bare legs peeling from a vinyl chair. She had squished as much of the necklace into her palm as she could. She opened her hand and let the necklace unfurl and hang from a finger. The beads had been polished and made Tamera think of the wooden seat her daddy had on his side of the car—shiny, fun to push a hand back and forth, to feel the rolling on her palm. She would run her hands back and forth on that seat forever if he would let her. Tamera let her free hand slide from the clasp, down the beads that enlarged until they gave way to four animals carved from mahogany that hung from the base of the necklace: lion, tiger, giraffe and elephant. The animals looked like they could have come from a box of animal crackers, if not for their dark brown color. Tamera thought of her mother. Long batik prints draping to the ground. Thick nappy braids poking like tiny mattress coils from the bright colored fabric she wrapped around her head. Wooden jewelry dangling from her wrists, ears, and around her neck. Her mama’s tiniest movements clacked the beads and carvings together like applause, like everything around her was special. Tamara remembered asking once when her mother held her, “Whatchusmell?” She burrowed her head into the billowy fabric until her nose pressed deep into her mother’s thick flesh, inhaling exaggeratedly. “Coconut and patchouli.” At six, they were still long words for Tamera. She tried walking the animals along the floor, up her leg, a circus parade. She couldn’t keep all the animals upright while making them walk like she thought animals should. So she took one in each hand, letting the other two drag as she crawled past the oven and refrigerator, toward the glasses in the back of the thin galley kitchen. The five upside down, mismatched glasses, each housed a dead cockroach. Tamera knocked the noses of the animals against the glass and imitated their voices. “Can you play?” asked the elephant. “Is this the zoo?” said the lion voice. “Zoo sure ain’t snap,” said the giraffe. “Lemme out,” she imitated a cockroach and shook the glass so that it smacked the roach’s body around, an airy shell, the meat long ago decayed. And Tamera laughed, because she had never seen anyone play with the dead cockroaches in back of the kitchen and it was funny making the drinking glasses be a zoo. She made the animals zookeepers, letting them tend each cage, tilting the glasses slightly to push in tiny pieces of dried rice and pasta and shriveled bits of green vegetable that she found on the floor. Feeding time. She paid no mind to time. She didn’t venture into the living room. She didn’t want to skulk the periphery, being still like she were a piece of melting ice. Her daddy said that once. “Be like the ice in my glass.” And he pointed to his glass on the floor, thin transparent slivers floating in still amber liquid. “But it ain’t doin’ nothing,” Tamara said. “‘Xactly.” Tamera had tried. She stood in the corner trying to feel her skin melting into the air, her eyeballs dissolving into her face, her nose, her lips, her tongue all one. She closed her eyes and sunk her feet into the floor, her ankles temporarily holding her up, liquefying and inching away so that her knees soon would support her. They had laughed. Her daddy and Janelle or Janice—Tamera couldn’t quite remember her name. “Whachudoing girl?” he said. “Nothin’.” “You go in the kitchen and play,” Daddy had said that time, much like today. Usually, the kitchen was boring. No toys. Sometimes, she’d pretend she was cooking. She’d grab a frying pan and make like she was flipping pancakes high and catching them. Or she’d lie on her stomach and try to get her feet to touch her butt. But today, the necklace made for a good game. Tamera played roach zookeeper until she heard high heels on the steps, followed by three short knocks and a woman’s voice that wasn’t Linda’s. Tamera forgot about her game and crawled the length of the kitchen to poke her head into the living room. Her daddy removed a patterned brown and white faux fur coat from the new woman’s shoulders, exposing long brown robes. Linda had left the room. “Who’re you?” Tamera asked. “You mind your business,” said Tamera’s daddy. “But I just wanna...” “I said, mind your business. Don’t bother us.” Her daddy walked across the room to his bedroom and opened the door. The woman followed, her swooping gold earrings jangled when she walked. She gave Tamera a wink as she flounced past with sleeves draping and robes trailing like an angel costume Tamera had borrowed from a neighbor one Halloween. Tamera rose from her position on the kitchen floor and stepped into the living room. Smoke still hovered low, but it smelled different. Fruity, almost like coconuts. She stared at the closed bedroom door. The woman had winked at her. Did she know her? Women often came and went through the apartment and very few gave Tamera more than a grunt or a “hey.” A wink. Who was that woman? Tamera held the necklace in front of her, letting it fall as intended. Where had it come from? Who did it belong to? And then the question she had pushed away in the kitchen, could it be Mama’s? When her mother left, it took a long time for Tamera to realize that she was gone for good. She often disappeared for two days or a week at a time and then would breeze back into the apartment like she’d never left at all, like all that time she’d been at the laundry or in the bathroom. One week, two, a month. Tamera hadn’t thought that her mama was really gone until Daddy started kissing women in front of her. Then she knew. So much time had passed between when her mother left and the realization that she was gone for good, that Tamera didn’t give her mother’s disappearance its proper due. She didn’t understand the tightness in her chest when she’d glimpse a woman far away who walked like her mother; or her curiosity when she’d pass stores she knew her mother liked and wonder who was inside. She didn’t cry or ask questions and her daddy didn’t offer any answers. The necklace was heavy in her hand. She decided to put it on. She fumbled with the chunky hasp behind her neck and pulled a chair over to the unframed mirror hanging alone on the wall. Tamera stood on the seat and peered into the glass. She traced the necklace in the mirror and thought she was pretty in her mother’s jewelry. Mama. Where did she go? Tamera hadn’t asked that question before. She had just accepted that her mother was gone, but now looking into this mirror she began to wonder. Did she take a plane or a bus? Did she run away? Did someone take her? And then another possibility. What if she got lost? She might be looking for the apartment right now. Searching block by block. Tamera could almost hear her calling, see her asking people on the street if they knew where she lived. She could be cold or hurt or scared. She might think I forgot about her, thought Tamera. She might think I moved the apartment or that we moved without telling her. What if she’s trying to come back? What if she saw me on the street and I didn’t know her and she’s mad at me? What if she thinks I don’t want her back? Her mama had worn robes and the color brown and jewelry that click clacked. She had smelled like coconuts. The woman had winked at Tamera. She had known her. How would her mother come back? She couldn’t knock on the door and show up like she did after a day or a week. If I saw her and didn’t recognizing her... Would she come back then? What if she had been in the apartment earlier and left the necklace in the window for me to find? She could be waiting for me to recognize her; hoping that I would smell her smell, see that wink, find the necklace, remember. “Mama?” Tamera whispered and looked at the closed bedroom door. Maybe it was a test. Maybe if she didn’t go in and announce that she knew who that woman really was, her mama would leave again. She crawled off the chair and hurried to the door. She didn’t pause when she grabbed the knob, though she wasn’t supposed to go in the bed room when the door was shut. This was different. Her mama was inside, waiting for her. She flung open the door. Her daddy was naked. So was Linda and her mama. They didn’t see her at first and then Daddy started yelling and running at her. “You know better. You don’t open that door. Shit. I’ll beat your hide. I will. You git. You git outta here now.” “Mama,” Tamera said, looking past her daddy scrambling toward her, at the woman in the bed. “I remember you Mama. I ain’t forgot. I know it’s you.” “You git,” her daddy yelled. “Mama. It’s me. Tamera.” “Yo, I think she thinks I’s her mama,” said the woman. “No shit,” said Linda. Linda and her mother laughed, their big breasts bouncing up and down. They laughed until tears spilt from their eyes. And suddenly Tamera wasn’t so sure. “But, ain’t you... ?” “You git,” her daddy pushed her out the door. “Yo’ Mama ain’t never comin’ back. Throw that into your ugly head an’ remember. Yo’ mama’s gone. Now git outta here!” The women were still laughing and saying things to each other like, “You ain’t no mama.” “Girl’s fuckin’ crazy.” “Mama, shi-it.” The door slammed and their laughter filtered through the walls. “Girl’s got no sense,” Tamera heard her daddy. “Her mama’s gone, long gone and I wouldn’t let her back in here even if she wanted back in. That woman is bitch times one hundred, an’ as far as I go, she be deader than bones turned to ash in a cemetery. Stupid Tamera. Her mama don’t want her; she don’t want her at all, an’ Tamera comes bargin’ in here just like her mama mighta done. She needs a good ole smackin’ around. A beatin’. Somethin’ to get that whole mama thing outta her head for good. Her mama don’t want her.” “She thinks I be her mama,” Tamera heard the new woman say. “Ain’t that funny? Ain’t that crazy?” Tamera stared at the closed door and crossed her arms over her chest like they might block the words from entering her body. Her mama was bitch and maybe dead. At least that’s what Daddy said. And he was gonna beat her for thinking about a Mama who didn’t want her. And Tamera couldn’t think of anything she wanted more than smelling that coconut and playing with her mother’s rings and bracelets as she hung from her hip, legs dangling. “Uh huh. Yeah baby. I like that,” Tamera’s father’s voice was lower now, almost crooning from the room and Tamera began to shake. It started in her shoulders and moved into her lips so that her teeth chattered. She started jogging in place to get warm and stop the shaking, but she still could hear the voices in the room where her mama wasn’t. She had to go. She slipped on her shoes and velcroed them shut. She rushed out the door, down the three stories and was still shaking when her shoes touched the pavement and she began to run. Tamera sprinted past the row houses and apartment buildings, not stopping to look before she crossed the street. Her arms swung wildly as she tried to get her tiny legs to move faster. Whenever a streetlight glowed red, she turned and bolted a new direction. She ran as though chased by a wild animal or someone with a gun. Familiar houses gave way to the unfamiliar. Long shadows disappeared with night. Still, she ran. Snot hung from her nose. The necklace bounced against her chest. Cold air razor-bladed her throat. Her arms and legs ached, yet a hand on her back kept pushing her away from that apartment; away from her naked daddy and the women in the bed, away from someone who looked like her mama but wasn’t. And then she fell. She skidded on the pavement and ripped open her jeans at the knee. Her palms embedded with stinging gravel. “Shit,” she said, clutching her wrist and looking at her knee. “Shit, shit, shit,” she said like she’d heard her daddy say when he’d hit his foot on the coffee table or break a dish. “Shit...” She began to cry. She balled up on the pavement, sobbed into her knees and stuck her bloody palm into her mouth, tasting the metallic flavor. Her hand and knee hurt, but no one came and finally her sobs waned to whimpers and she looked around. The sidewalk was dark and deserted, not a streetlight or porch lamp lit. The hollow sound of the highway moaned in the distance. Tamera pulled her knees closer to her chest. The sidewalk was icy on her butt. The cold air chilled her sweat and she shivered. She had landed next to some stairs leading up to a dilapidated Victorian house. Tamera crawled from the sidewalk and curled her legs beneath her on the bottom tread, which was warmer than the cement. I’m lost, she thought. The word echoed in her brain. Lost. It was a scary word. She had never been lost before. She stared down the street one direction and then the other. Nothing was familiar. She couldn’t even remember which way she’d run before she fell. It was so cold. The nighttime, city orange glowed through the low hanging clouds like a candle at the end of its wick refusing to go out. Tamera peeked through a slit between two houses and over the roof of a bungalow in the next block, and barely made out the high rises. They looked far away. Probably as far away as the apartment that she had run from. The orange sky and the buildings bothered her, made the outside cold seem like it came from inside her. She looked down at her shoes and wished she had put on a jacket before she left. She pulled her legs further beneath her for warmth and felt the necklace shift against her chest. It had been in that window basin for a long time. Her mama didn’t put it there to test her. Her mama was gone. She unclasped the necklace and brought the smooth wood to her lips. Mama’s gone. And now I’m gone too. The metallic taste lingered. The highway seemed louder. Tamera leaned her head against the railing and closed her eyes. Maybe I’ll be home in the morning. I’m not lost. This is just the laundry. I’ll be home in a couple days. Just a couple days. © Copyright, Cortney Todd Gene steadied the gun, found the target and snapped back his index finger. A second after the trigger released, a hard crack sounded, and the men watched as the edge of the sign flapped in the sudden thrust of wind the bullet brought… The Winner
By Dennis Arlo Voorhees Arlene wasn’t gonna go for this. He’d already been caught in the bar at ten in the morning by her sister. She was stopping in to buy cigarettes and just happened to pick the VFW out from any other damn bar downtown. The thing was, he was supposed to start work today, a lie he never meant to tell. It sorta fluttered off his tongue. He meant that he planned on buying the newspaper, scanning the classifieds over a bloody mary or four. By now, Gene knew this was not the appropriate next move. Flowers and dinner and maybe her kind of movie was right, but after about a fifth of vodka, no amount of tomato juice in the world could make him think straight. Gene was thinking maybe he should turn back. Bring the huge Texaco sign back to the old filling station and surprise his wife at work with one of those fancy coffee drinks. But what kind of man would that make him? A quitter, just another wannabe in Wrangler jeans and chew spit dripping from his bottom lip. Besides, Randy was already on his way to meet him down on frontage road. Gene would show him. They’d lean that old Texaco sign against the barbed wire fence on the edge of the land trust, and he’d prove he was the better shot. Randy was even going to bring one of his daughter’s dolls, this giant cartoon sponge Randy won for her at the state fair. That way there’d be a target and a souvenir for the winner. Their own little carnival. Gene pulled his Ford Ranger off the interstate onto a dirt road and up over a sun bleached pasture. This was the same place he and Randy would go drinking in high school. To his knowledge the kids still do, but they couldn’t go. Once you hit 30, you can’t go to high school parties. Not unless you wanted be a dirt chicken, and Gene didn’t need to earn any more derogatory labels. An idea of a fire pit, some stumps and tallboys of Busch, scattered among the dirt. It seemed like the leftovers of an accidental party. Why choose this spot? The scenery gave nothing. The land was too brown, like the fields had burned and never been reseeded. You couldn’t outdream the landscape. There’s a joke that you could see all the way to Billings from there, and you probably could, Gene thought. Since Randy wasn’t there, Gene started setting up. He dragged the Texaco sign from the bed of his truck. The sign was twice his size, but made from cheap plywood, so Gene easily dragged it through the dirt, over a slight incline, and rested it gently against the rusty barbwire. Perfect placement. From fifty yards away, shooting from the shoulder, the bull’s-eye hung there at eye level. Crudely painted circles, on an off white backdrop, the sign had to be stolen from a driving range or shooting range or something. If it wasn’t for the black stencils that spelled TEXACO, nobody could argue any different. Slowly, like a rumble in his stomach getting louder, Gene heard Randy’s truck grunting down the road. About fucking time. He accelerated toward Gene, slammed his brakes, and the truck curled a stop around the fire pit. He hollered, spit out some Copenhagen onto the dirt. Randy wanted to be a movie redneck. He played the part well and hardly ever strayed from the stereotype. “Took you long enough,” Gene said “I’m surprised to see you here. I figured you’d be on your knees at Arlene’s work, saying it was an accident how you got shitfaced all day. In fact, you should’ve done that because I’m the best shot in Sanders County. You want me to fire blindfolded?” Randy slapped Gene on the ass and spat some more brown juice on the ground. “I’ll let my gun do the talking,” said Gene, game face on. Randy laughed. “Oh shit I almost forgot.” Randy pulled out a fifth of bourbon from under the seat threw it at Gene. Gene took a long pull from the bottle and handed it back. They both looked out in the distance in the direction of the sign. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s a perfect fit. Let me go get Sponge and we’ll be ready to go.” Randy gave a split tooth grin pulling the stuffed sponge from the passenger side. “This thing has so many fucking holes in it, Darcy won’t notice a few gunshot wounds. I know you won’t even hit it.” Randy laughed and ran toward the sign. Watching him zigzag across the pasture made Gene dizzy. He was drunk, maybe too drunk. He imagined loading his gun and shooting just beyond Randy’s head. A bullet he could hear buzz by. No way. He’d heard stories. Randy would randomly jump, and get it in the temple, and he’d be in jail, and some college kid in New York would read the local paper and ridicule him on some syndicated radio show. They’d never ask him to explain. Randy was back, his gun cocked and loaded, squinting at the target. Leaning his rifle against the truck, he dragged a line in the dirt with his boot. “We shoot from here. We each get three shots. I brought a marker so if it’s close, we can trace the distance to the bulls-eye, and as you can see, I drew a new bull’s-eye right on Sponge’s chest, right where the old one was. Ladies first, Genie.” This time his chew spit landed an inch from Gene’s boot. Gene didn’t reply. He sipped the whiskey, secured the cap, and let it fall to the ground. Randy whimpered as Gene brought the shotgun to his shoulders. He could see the target. Darcy’s toy hung like a bad joke that no one but the joker would ever see. In truth, it looked ridiculous against the burnt vegetation and the red sun. He had the spongy heart in his sights, and he waited. Randy was sure to say something to throw him off. But after a while, he dug his boots into the ground, inhaled the dusty air and pulled the trigger. For a split second, silence. Then Randy hollering. Gene missed the entire sign. He looked at the gun. Maybe the bullet was broken. Randy laughed and approached the line. “This is gonna be easier than I thought,” he said, whipping the gun to his right shoulder like he was in combat. Gene wasn’t even looking when Randy shot. At the sound of the barrel locking, he turned around ready to hear a small explosion of plywood. Nothing. Randy’s bullet was probably still racing through the air toward Billings. Randy kicked the dust, chuckled. Gene knew how it felt. It’s hard to talk the talk when you’re too drunk to walk the walk. Approaching the line, Gene visualized a bow-hunting trip he took to the Yaak valley last summer. He remembered a buck that ran away with the arrow in his chest. He tracked him for an hour, until the deer fell dead. Neither of his friends, who lived there all their lives, had killed a buck with a crossbow. Gene steadied the gun, found the target and snapped back his index finger. A second after the trigger released, a hard crack sounded, and the men watched as the edge of the sign flapped in the sudden thrust of wind the bullet brought. Sponge was unscathed. Barely. Gene struck the northwest corner about a foot from the cartoon’s foamy heart. “Not bad. This might be a competition after all.” Randy laughed again, taking the whole wad of tobacco from his mouth and tossing it in the fire pit. Randy missed again. Gene’s next shot went through Sponge’s eye. He felt great. Suddenly, his day had been validated. He had a right to be this drunk at three in the afternoon. While Gene registered each silent epiphany, a smile sprouted from his lips, and he looked toward Randy, who had already loaded his gun on the rack in his truck. “Better luck next time. Loser retrieves the target and the prize.” Gene wasn’t the type of guy to rub victory in his competitor’s face. He kept it all for himself. While Randy cussed and kicked his way to the target, Gene thought about Arlene. He could stop along the interstate and pick some wildflowers. He’d buy a bottle from the bar for the two of them to split. On any other day, he’d go straight to her work, but the bartender at the VFW had promised a shot of Grey Goose to the winner. So he’d go, take the shot and dedicate the rest of the day to Arlene. Maybe they’d go dancing. Randy was ten yards away, dragging the sign like an angry mule pulling a plow. “You got lucky I had a bit more to drink. I started at my house this morning.” Gene didn’t even denounce Randy’s excuses. He was excited for the Grey Goose, for Arlene, for the flowers, for everything. Randy let the sign fall in the dirt. Gene examined his bullet holes. Beautiful. The sponge looked stunned, one plastic eye shattered and a tunnel through his head. Not exactly a cartoon ending for poor Sponge. He bent over and picked up the souvenir. Standing up, Randy hovered just above him. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s my daughter’s toy. You get the sign, not the sponge.” Randy was dead serious. “Come on man. Your daughter will have nightmares with that thing sleeping next to her. We named the stakes at the bar and this is what we decided.” Gene laughed a little, hoping Randy would realize the absurdity of the situation. But Randy grabbed the stuffed foam man like an alpha male cat. He may have well just pissed on the sign and Gene’s gun. “I may not be the best father, but I ain’t gonna watch a grown man walk away with one of her toys.” He threw it in the bed of his truck and jumped in the cab. “Okay. Goodnight Randy. Good shooting today.” Gene couldn’t resist. Randy turned up his radio and extended his middle finger, then cussed away into the twilight. The sign would have to do. Anyone could see the bullet holes. It was good enough. Loading it into his back, Gene tried to understand Randy. He couldn’t. Randy was Randy, a big dumb beast, with a hardass heart, ready for anything to get in his way. Almost beautiful, Gene thought. Close, but no cigar. Once he got back on the interstate, it started to rain. A freak shower, the sun still shining in its final hour. Gene didn’t look for it, but he knew there was probably a rainbow somewhere. It seemed appropriate, appropriate enough for Gene to guzzle the last of the bourbon he salvaged from the shooting site. He pulled up next to the VFW. It was still early enough, before happy hour so the bar would be empty. With the sign pinched between his hands, he dragged the thing into the open bar door. He felt the same happy pride he did when he dragged that buck back to camp, as his buddies hooped and hollered. Before he could say anything, Rhonda’s voice… “What the hell are you bringing this in for?” Gene didn’t reply. He brought the sign to the back of the bar on the stage and leaned it against the back wall. That way everybody would see it, and everybody would know the score. He skipped up to the bar. “One Grey Goose on the house, please. Make it one of them big gooses, all fat feathery.” He smiled. “You never answered my question,” Rhonda said bluntly, as she reached to the top shelf for the vodka. She wasn’t mad. “That there is proof of my convincing victory. Old Randy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, let alone that Texaco sign.” Rhonda laughed. She knew Randy. She knew he was probably livid right now. “To tell you the truth, you were the underdog in my brain. That said, congratulations.” Rhonda handed Gene the glass. He slugged it down in one swig and almost started for the door. “How ‘bout one more Bloody Mary, while I wait for Arlene to get off work?” Gene asked without really realizing it. Arlene. He’d forgotten the flowers. Still everything was okay. He’d buy a bottle on the way out, meet her after work. No, he’d go take a shower, put on that shirt she’d got him for Christmas, splash on some Happy’s and wait for her to come home. He’d light candles. Gene paid for his drink and found his regular stool. His newspaper was still there open to the classifieds. He sipped his drink, then shoved the whole thing down his throat. Through the glass, he saw forklift operator, hiring immediately, outlined in the bits of tomato juice left in the glass. Should he call from the bar? No, he was drunk. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Arlene’s face would light up if he told her he had an interview. That’s what he’d do. He’d call tomorrow for sure. Gene got up from his stool and studied the sign. He fingered the bullet holes. He had won. Gene was back. Back and ready for anything that might get in his way. Trotting like a movie star in some triumphant scene, Gene approached Rhonda and bought her nicest bottle of wine. On his way to the door, he blurted, “I’m back. In the saddle again.” © Copyright, Dennis Arlo Voorhees The West was built on the pioneering spirit and people not afraid to pack up and go at the sign of a better prospect. I was a ghost of that spirit, passing unseen through the countryside, seeking to set something right so that I could be at peace… Into The West Brian J. Eckert Day 1: The Danger of the Mission Becomes Apparent
10/5 The drive appealed to me in a primitive way. While dangerous, it brought the thrill of the hunt. Men use the same skills to drive as they once used to kill wild beasts. Hand-eye coordination. Stealth. Cunning. Aggression. I would need these to survive in the Blacktop Jungle. My adrenaline flowed. I was in a fight for my life. The highway is a grave foe. I quickly realized I would need both physical and mental resolve to overcome it. I fought the discomfort of sitting at a ninety degree angle for several hours. My legs cramped. My back ached. My mind wandered. I focused on the pain. I admired the scenery. During the early stage of the drive, I looked over my shoulder and saw my stuff piled high in the back seat. For a moment, I questioned what I was doing. I couldn’t decide if I was a man of destiny or a slacker dodging reality. I lost focus. I tried to hone in on the road but my mind eventually wandered. Many times I jerked out of a daydream and had no memory of the last several minutes of the drive. The flashing white lines hypnotized me. I operated by some primitive autonomic response during these periods; a subconscious auto-pilot. I questioned its reliability but knew I would have to depend on it. Mistakes are sudden and often fatal on the interstate. One moment of lapsed concentration would bring my journey to an end. I could have fallen into a trance, only to awaken to the squeal of brakes and a face full of glass. Flesh and bone are no match for steel, asphalt, and the grim physics of a high-speed collision Interstates are maintained by crude men who work with metal cages in rapid motion around them, always a split second from disaster. They wear bright orange vests, sunglasses, hardhats, work boots and a layer of road grime. Their faces are rough and prematurely wrinkled from years of smoking and physical labor. They have a well-earned reputation for standing around on the job, consolation for doing such coarse and dangerous work. Like most of the working class they don’t particularly care for their job, but take pride in what they do. They stand dignified and unflinching as cars and trucks breeze by at high speeds. They don’t give up ground. This is their turf. It is also the realm of truckers and their giant rigs. They are the cells of America, transporting materials to and from major areas. The interstate is their home. It belongs to them. Truck drivers are to the interstate what sailors are to the sea. They are living, working knowledge of it. At a certain point the two are inseparable, each a part of the other. Eighteen wheelers rule the road. All other vehicles give way to the giants or pay the price. They go where they want, when they want. If one is in the rearview, speed up or give way. When passing one, get it over with quickly. I became nervous every time I pulled along side one of the big trucks. They threatened to swallow me up at any second. Truck drivers are a strange and mysterious lot. They are inexplicably drawn to the open road; compelled to follow it. They are descendants of gypsies, not content to stay in one place for long. They are drifters in self-imposed exile. There are rumors that the sexual habits of truckers are similar to prisoners and sailors. Certain rest areas are meeting places for their raunchy late night encounters. I stopped for lunch at one highway exit and found a picture of a naked man holding his partially swollen member in one hand. I had stumbled into one of their sordid rendezvous. I gazed at the photo with equal parts revulsion and fascination. It was a relic of the seedy trucker underworld. . While deadly and full of sinister characters, the open road is also symbolic of freedom. It is the call of the wild. I felt savage and untamed. All I could do was turn up the music, slide on a pair of shades, and set the auto pilot for the other shining sea, stopping only when I ran smack into the Rocky Mountains. Perhaps I was no better than the truckers who eloped in their truck cabins. I had my own perverted motives. Days 2 & 3: A Temporary Relapse into Sanity
10/6 It was difficult to think of anything other than the 1700 miles of open road awaiting me. The frantic pace of the interstate had kept me focused on the drive, but now there was time to ponder my plan and have doubts. A comfortable bed and high-definition television blunted my wild edge. The journey seemed pointless. I was driving into uncertainty and away from prudence. The uncertainty led to fear. Fear began building inside me. It lurked within, threatening to rush to the surface and consume me. I felt it in brief surges. A cold tingle at the base of my spine. Paranoia. Disintegration of sense of purpose. Sensory failure. Panic. It rained as I looked out the window at suburban Pennsylvania. The rain brought out the smell of the land. Foliage was nearly peak. The drops of water fell at a steady, soaking pace. They beaded up on my freshly polished car and streamed down the side. The view was much the same as from my bedroom window in New Hampshire. For a moment, I thought I was still there. The past two days had been a daydream. I barely left the house my whole stay. I was just in another box in a different part of the woods. It was like flying into an airport and waiting for a connecting flight. I only saw the inside of a terminal. There was no real affirmation that I had changed location. I sat hunched over a steering wheel for 6 hours and watched the landscape go by, and then I was somewhere new. My primitive brain struggled with the concept. My emotional state made for a painstaking stay. I was glad to be with family, but the weight of the journey loomed overhead, consumed me, and I was anxious to move on. A rambler is not content for long. It is difficult for him to commit to one place. His mind is usually elsewhere—the next destination, the next road, the next safe haven. As a result he has trouble existing in the moment, and must take extra time and energy to do so. 10/8 I looked over a map at the names of the places I would be passing through: Joliet, Illinois; Portage, Indiana; Aurora, Nebraska. I would mean nothing to any of the people in any of these places. I would meet nobody, probably not so much as exchange pleasantries with a store clerk. I wouldn’t meet any interesting people or hear their stories. And they would never hear my tales, or know me, or what drives a man to pack up his car and speed off across the country. In part it's because I don't care about Brookville, Pennsylvania or Delta, Ohio. I'm afraid to make it happen in Gary, Indiana. I could meet a fresh, corn-fed blonde outside Des Moines, build docks on the banks of Lake Eerie, or teach school children in suburban Indiana. I could start a new life in any place. But for the moment, they existed only as romantic fantasies to distract me as I closed in on Denver. My new life in a new place awaited me there. All I could do was gun the engine up to 85 and blaze through the countryside, a shooting star in the night. Somebody would see me, car overstuffed with worldly possessions, way-out-of-state plates, riding along in a puff of blue smoke. I would be a momentary flash of light; a brief source of wonder. And then I’d be gone, another memory lost to the ages. The West was built on the pioneering spirit and people not afraid to pack up and go at the sign of a better prospect. I was a ghost of that spirit, passing unseen through the countryside, seeking to set something right so that I could be at peace. Day 4: A Ghost Story of the Open Road
10/9 I felt carefree and fresh for the first 500 miles of the day. Nothing could stop me. The rolling, misty hill country of East Pennsylvania leveled off as I made it through the western part of the state and into Ohio. I passed through the sprawling tributaries of the Ohio River Valley. I enjoyed the scenic view while it lasted. I was melancholy about the potential experiences off of each exit ramp. But by now I had given up such fantasies. The mission was paramount. I was a crusading warrior. There was nothing for me here or at any of these places. This cheesy sentimental crap could endanger the mission. With my sights aimed forward, progress seemed imminent, whether one second, one breath, one thought, or one 1/10 of a mile. The agricultural doldrums of the Great Plains loomed on the horizon. I stopped at a Subway in a small town. I devoured half a sandwich and stretched out in the parking lot. I sat on the curb and watched traffic go by. The view of the small downtown could have been from any town in America. This was a chance to fulfill my longing for spontaneous adventure in a random stop off the highway. The people were all around me, their stories waiting to be told. I could grab a local paper, find a job and an apartment and hunker down for the winter. The good times were waiting to be had. But now they didn’t seem so ideal. The place was ordinary and sad like any town. I was stalling. I knew the next leg of the journey would not be easy. Once I stopped I began to lose my edge, and I still had at least 350 miles to reach my goal for the day. The clarity of daylight faded, and with it my confidence. The dangerous, unpredictable night approached. I had my work cut out for me. The first tingle of fear crept up my spine. |