Last Stop on Dowling Street

by Scott William Carter

The brass knuckles, shiny with moisture, were still there. The leather glove was covered with hundreds of pin-sized holes. Simon had no idea what the guy was doing until the wheel moved to the right. Along this stretch, the pine trees grew awfully close to the road, and if he hit one of them at this speed . . .

  Slamming on the brakes was the most obvious thing to do, and he almost did it, but then he had a flash of insight.

  With his left hand, he grabbed the door handle and jerked the door open, putting his forearm behind it.

  It worked better than he expected. The door struck the motorcycle's handlebars, sending them careening in the other direction. The biker obviously hadn't expected this move; he held onto the steering wheel a split second too long. His weight was going one way, his bike the other, and the bike began to tilt.

  In the next instant the biker was gone. This time Simon did hear the sound of a wreck— a series of bangs and thuds. Swerving into the center of his lane, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw, through the smear of black and gray, a flickering headlight in middle of the road, receding behind him. Then he rounded the corner and was alone with the rain and the highway.

  In addition to his throbbing cheek, his whole body was trembling. Nobody could survive a crash like that. He had killed a man. He had actually killed. Dear, God . . . His life was over. Even if it was manslaughter, he'd go away for years. His wife . . . His daughter . . .

  He tasted bile. He clamped his hand over his mouth, and only through force of will did he keep from throwing up in the car. He descended a slight hill and, with fortunate timing, saw the sign for the Van Duzen National Forest Campground—and then another, Rest Area - 1 mile ahead. He'd stupidly left his cell phone at home, so a pay phone was his best bet.

  He could make it to the rest area.

  The rain sliced into his car, dampening his left arm. The highway widened, a lane appearing in the center for a turnoff to the left, for the campground, and another lane on the right, to the rest area. Still shaking, he turned to the right, slowing gently, turning into the gap in the trees.

  He'd never been to this particular rest stop. He'd passed it lots of times, even a few times when he had to take a leak, but by the time he reached it the pull of the casino had always carried him the last twenty miles. But this time he couldn't wait, and he was glad when he entered the pot-hole infested parking lot and saw no other cars. He didn't want anyone to see him in his present condition—or his smashed window. He still hadn't decided if he was going to go back and fess up to what he did.

  His mind raced, trying to understand how it all had happened. He had just wanted to pass. He didn't even see what he had done wrong. Honked the horn a few times, maybe. Had that really been enough for the guy to want to kill him?

  The rest stop was a lonely place, a few chipped picnic tables and a drab concrete box in a small clearing carved out of the forest; the pine trees, with their long, slender trunks and thick green branches high above, loomed a few dozen feet beyond a grassy area like a wall of spears. A single lamp shed its pale yellow light on the area. As he parked in front of the little building, the rain turned into a fierce downpour, and it sounded so much louder when he turned off his engine.

  He killed a man.

  Stomach clenching, he threw open the door and ran toward the building.

  The frigid rain instantly soaked his hair, cutting through his thin cotton shirt like icy needles. The wind whispered through the trees, stirring up the paper plates and cups on the ground near the overflowing garbage can. The phone booth was on the far side, near the women's door, but he couldn't wait. Dodging the puddles in the sidewalk, he sprinted to the green door marked Men. When he grabbed the cold metal handle, the door opened (thank God thank God) and he sprinted inside.

  The room was dank and cramped, smelling of piss and mold. A single amber light above the cracked mirror and the metal sink was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. There were two urinals to the left of the sink, two green stalls immediately to the left of the urinals. Gritty tile floor, lots of small white squares streaked with mud. Shoebox-sized vents near the ceiling. Stumbling into the first stall, he took it all in with a glance.

  He barely made it down to the bowl before the contents of his stomach surged out of his mouth. Again and again, he threw up, until there was nothing left but dry heaves and the horrible acid burn in his throat and his nose. He hugged the cold metal, his head bent into the bowl and all its foulness, sobbing now. The damp ground soaked through his pants and chilled his knees.

  The restroom door swung open.

  There was no creak, just the distinctive swoosh of the door and the increasing loudness of the rain. Simon froze. The stall door had shut behind him, but he knew whoever it was could see his knees. They would have seen his car. Might have seen the wreck. Maybe it was a policeman, already come to haul him away.

  Simon didn't make a sound. The restroom door swung shut, muting the storm. Only a dripping faucet broke the silence. After a few seconds, he heard footsteps, water dripping on the tiles, the rustle of heavy clothing. He half expected his stall door to swing open, but instead he saw a glistening black boot appear on the ground, only inches from his knee. The mud-coated toe pointed in the direction of the urinal Simon knew was right next to the stall.

  A black boot.

  Simon's despair was quickly washed away by an all-consuming dread. His breath caught in his throat. It couldn't be . . . The man could never have survived. It had to be someone else. It had to be.

  As Simon remained absolutely rigid, he heard a zipper, then the tinkle of fluid hitting the metal urinal.

  He felt himself relax slightly. It was just some traveler, stopping to relieve himself of his coffee. Maybe he hadn't even noticed Simon. If Simon just waited, maybe he would go away.

  But then Simon felt a splash of warm liquid hitting his knee, and he realized, with a shock, that the man was pissing on him. With a startled cry, he scooted away from the line of piss, which continued splashing against the tiles. His heart thundered in his ears. The piss dribbled to a stop, and then he heard the zipper. He saw the boot turn, two boots appearing, both facing his direction.

  Simon pressed his back against the other side of the stall, his body shaking. The boots didn't move for the longest time. Simon waited for a gloved fist to smash through the stall, right in the middle of all the Johnny+Suzie and For a Good Time Call messages scratched on the green metal. But instead, the boots turned away. As Simon sat rigidly, waiting for his stall door to bang open, he heard the footsteps move away. The restroom door swung open.

  Soon he heard nothing but the tinking faucet. Simon had no idea how long he knelt there, but it was a long time. Then, when he actually wanted to move, he found he couldn't. Would the biker be waiting outside? Or had it merely been mistake, pissing on him like that? Maybe it wasn't the biker. Maybe . . .

  The roar of an engine out in the parking lot made him jump. He knew the sound. It was the biker. He heard the screech of tires, and then the sound of the engine moving away. He breathed a sigh. The guy was just toying with him one last time.

  He was going away. It was over.

  Shakily, Simon rose. He flushed the toilet, washed his mouth in the sink, then used damp paper towels to wipe off the piss on his pants. Breathing a sigh, he pushed through the restroom door and out into the rain. He didn't mind the water drenching him—he wished he could be submerged in it, like jumping into the ocean. He walked toward the phone booth, and as he neared it, he saw that the metal cord had actually been severed. Had the biker cut it? The rain suddenly felt colder, and he turned, taking a few cautious steps down the sidewalk toward his car.

  Until that moment, he hadn't realized he was holding his breath. He took several long, shuddering gulps of air, then continued on to his car. Why would the biker cut the cord? Unless . . .

  That's when he heard a roar from the trees.

  He stopped. At first, he thought it was an animal, a mountain lion or a black bear, an
d he turned in the sound's direction. It was coming from somewhere in the forest beyond the asphalt. Then he caught a glint of metal, and he saw a black shadow emerge from the darkness. A wheel appeared. Chrome. And then he saw the biker rolling out of the trees, like an apparition of death itself.

  The rain created tiny white explosions on the blacktop between them. The biker, front tire poised at the curb, gunned his engine. His headlamp was smashed. Simon was halfway between his car and the restroom, and he knew this was exactly what the biker had wanted.

  He broke into a run, heading for his Miata.

  The biker gunned his engine, his back tire spitting up grass and dirt as he barreled into the parking lot.

  Simon was only a few steps away from his car. He was going to make it. Remembering he had left the door unlocked in his haste, he grabbed the door handle and pulled.

  But the door was locked.

  He didn't understand. As biker roared toward him, he fumbled for his key, but couldn't find it in either pocket. Then he remembered that he hadn't only left the door unlocked, he had left his key inside as well — and he realized, as he heard the sound of the biker's tires squealing, exactly who had it.

  No . . .

  Sensing he had no time to turn, he jumped toward the front of his car. The biker, his back end swinging around as he banked into the turn, smashed into the driver side door. Simon landed on the pavement, scraping his hands, but he was up instantly and running.

  He headed for narrow line of trees separating the rest area from the highway. Through the darkness and the rain, he saw glimpses of the road, like a giant black serpent.

  He would cross the road. Get to the campground on the other side. Find someone. It was his only chance.

  He made it up over the sidewalk and onto the soggy grass, but then the roar was right behind him and something struck his shoulder. As he went sprawling, the biker thundered past, spinning around, his back tire carving a brown half-circle on the grass. Simon struggled to his feet, but a searing pain lanced through his right knee, and he collapsed onto the wet earth again.

  He heard the engine die, the kickstand pop down; he raised his head to see the biker dismount. Simon rolled onto his back and scrambled backwards, the moisture soaking through the seat of his pants. Rain ran into his eyes, blurring his vision. The biker loomed over him like a black shadow. Gloves descended, grabbed his shirt, pulled him off the ground.

  Blinking away the water in his eyes, he looked up at the faceplate inches from the end of his nose.

  The black helmet now bore a jagged silver scratch on the right side. Simon tried to peer beyond the mirror, but he saw only his own face reflected back at him: his left eye purple and swollen, a line of blood dribbling from his bottom lip across his chin, his soaked hair plastered against his scalp. It was the face of a small and frightened man. It was the face of a man Simon didn't know.

  "Please," he begged. "Please . . . I have a wife . . . a daughter."

  The biker's grip on his shirt tightened. For the longest time, he held Simon there, the faceplate so close Simon's breath fogged the glass. He got whiffs of motor oil and leather. The rain lessened, a gust of wind shaking the trees, starting as a whisper and ending as a low moan.

  Finally, the biker released him. He fell hard on his backside, and looked up, too scared to move. The biker looked down at him another moment, then reached into his pocket and tossed a pair of keys between Simon's legs.

  As if he was in a dream, Simon watched the man turn and walk back to his bike, a bike Simon now noticed was scratched, the fuselage dented, one of the handle bars twisted. He watched as the man started the engine and, without so much as a glance in Simon's direction, drive away.

  Exhausted, Simon lay his head on the grass, listening as the roar of the biker's engine moved beyond the rest area, out into the road, and then blended with the storm. He lay there for a long time, then finally rose, retrieved his keys, and made his way back to his car.

  As if he was floating outside his body, he watched as he put the key in the door, climbed inside, started the engine, and drove his car toward the exit. He thought the moisture on his face was rain until he tasted the tears on his lips.

  With his car idling at the entrance to the highway, the road stretching into darkness on both sides, he knew he had a choice.

  To the right lay the casino, where a group of strangers waited around a green felt table, the dimly lit room hazy with smoke. In his mind's eye he saw an empty chair, a stack of chips in front of it, five cards face down. He saw himself sit, pick up the cards, and toss his ante into the pot. The pull was there. Even with his bloodied face and aching chest, he felt it. He wanted to go there. He wanted to join that table. There was still time. Nobody would care how he looked. Nobody.

  But to the left, somewhere beyond the shadowy hill, he saw something else: his daughter's dark room, the streetlamp in the parking lot breaking through the gaps in the blinds. It was as if he was standing there in the doorway, his clothes still dripping. The room smelled so much different than the casino—no smoke, but instead the faint stench from her soiled diapers, an odor her diaper pail couldn't quite contain. It didn't smell bad to him, though. It smelled wonderful. He saw himself move quietly into the room, navigating around dolls and blocks and board books littering the floor. He saw himself ease down in the glider across from her bed, cringing when it squeaked. He saw his trembling hand reach for her sleeping form, his fingers inches from her hair.

  He closed his eyes. He saw her so much more vividly this way. If he concentrated, he could almost feel his fingers brushing against her hair. Soft, like the finest silk. If he thought about how it felt, if he didn't allow himself to think about anything else, not even for a second, the feeling could save him. He knew it could. It had power. All he had to do was surrender himself to it. All he had to do was turn his hands to the left.

  It should be so simple.

  It should be so easy.

  And yet, as he opened his eyes, and with a last convulsive shudder forced the wheel to the left, he knew it was the both the hardest and the greatest thing he had ever done.