Root

by A. Sparrow

  I tucked the urn under the eaves, with the lid off so it would catch the rain. Maybe it would make a place for something to live, even if it was only mosquitoes.

  It was so hard to leave. This was my house, and here I was—a stranger. I wanted to go inside and kick back on the couch with a bowl of ice cream. I wanted to watch football with Dad. I wanted Mom to make me waffles.

  My nose got so stuffed up, I couldn’t breathe. Tears warped my vision. I got back in the truck and drove to the Handi-Stor—my last stop.

  Gideon waved as I pulled in through the open gate. I figured I’d load up with whatever seemed worth hanging onto. My mattress, for sure. Maybe the little flat screen TV, and even some of mom’s knick-knacks, not that they were valuable or anything. But they would sure help whatever place I ended up feel a little more like home.

  I pulled up to the storage unit, unlocked it, heaved open the door and surveyed my legacy. I hauled out my old, battered twelve-speed with two flat tires and threw it in the truck. Next I grabbed the cherry night stand that had been in my bedroom ever since I could remember. I wondered what I could get from the rest of the furniture if I staged some impromptu roadside yard sale.

  The stuff was in poor shape: veneer peeling up from the bureau, the wicker seats of the kitchen chairs frayed on the edges. It was pure crapola viewed in the cold light of commercial value. But these were the things that had formed my earliest environment and made our home a home. No wonder I was reluctant to abandon it.

  A small grey car zipped around the corner and stopped at the end of the lane. It was the Honda from the night before. Jared hopped out, wearing a black bandanna and fingerless gloves.

  “Holy shit man, you got the truck! You still going to Ohio?”

  “Soon as I load up the truck.”

  “Whoa dude! If you can hold off a bit, I can make you some extra cash.”

  A queasy dread overtook me. What he would ask me to do was undoubtedly illegal, but I could really use the money. “How much and what would I need to do?”

  “How does a thousand grab you? Five hundred now and five hundred at the other end. All you gotta do is make a small delivery for us.”

  One thousand dollars grabbed me just fine. I only had a hundred bucks or so in my wallet, barely enough for the fuel and food I would need to get to Ohio.

  “So you want me to be a mule?”

  “Courier sounds better, don’t you think?”

  “What will I be carrying?”

  “You don’t even need to know. Just leave us your truck for a couple hours. We’ll set it up so you won’t even know the shit’s there.”

  A thousand bucks. What was the worst that could happen? The cops would catch me and lock me up in prison? A rival cartel might shoot me dead? Either outcome might be a step up from my current situation.

  “Deal,” I said.

  ***

  I probably should have mentioned something to Jared about the incident in the county lot. But if he knew the cops were looking for me, and that the truck wasn’t officially mine, the deal might be off the table.

  So I stayed mum. That thousand bucks was just too epic to miss out on

  Jared’s crew showed up in a big, black Escalade. They didn’t want me to watch, so I holed up in the storage unit. I pulled down the door, propped up the screens and stretched out on Dad’s old La-Z-Boy.

  As soon as the gates closed, I heard them spring into action. Overhead doors flew open. Reversible drills whined as they unscrewed the poly bed liner.

  Whatever I would be carrying would be stashed beneath, out of side. That was cool with me. That way, I wouldn’t have to deal with any packages.

  It could be meth I would be carrying, but it would most likely be cocaine. A ton of unprocessed blow came through Ft. Pierce. The place was a hub. Boats constantly brought in raw material via the Bahamas. Uncut, it served a higher class of clientele, but it was usually reprocessed into crack or cut with lactose into more of a street product.

  The drills went back to work, re-installing the bed liner. I heard clunks and thumps as they reloaded my junk.

  I settled back in the chair. A wash of fatigue settled deep into my bones. Every cell ached. A pair of Timberlands with overlong jeans bunched at the heels showed up under my door and sent a jolt through my heart.

  “Yo James, you in there?” Jared rapped his knuckles on the door.

  I hopped up, flung the door open, and he stood there smiling, Tampa Bay Bucs cap askew on his brow.

  “We’re just about done,” he said. “Here’s a phone.” He handed me a pre-paid disposable. “You don’t call no one but me on it. Got it? And never pick up unless you see it’s me.”

  My fingers trembled as I turned the phone over in my palm. Ironic. Here was my first cell phone and I wasn’t allowed to use it. Not that I had anyone to call.

  “You shaking?” said Jared. “Hey man, no need to be so nervous. Everything’s cool. Your registration’s current. You look clean and nerdy and white. Just don’t drive too crazy and you’ll be fine.”

  “So where do I bring this stuff?”

  “You just worry about getting your ass up to Ohio. Once you’re there, I’ll text you the details. Thing is, you can’t dawdle. These guys, they want this shit pronto. So no stopping off to see your Aunt Sue or whatever. Okay?”

  “No prob. I’m just gonna catch a few hours sleep and I’ll be good to go.”

  “Um … actually, we were thinking you could leave a little sooner. Like now?”

  “Now?”

  “Truck’s gassed and loaded.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Shit man, you’ve been laying around all afternoon. We did all the work. And this truck … like I said, it’s loaded. You can’t just leave it parked somewhere while you nap. Are you insane? Do you know how much—?”

  Jared’s eyes were getting wild. His spit was starting to fly.

  “Whoa! Calm down. It’s not a problem. I can leave now. I’m just saying I’m a little beat, is all.”

  Jared fished around his pocket. “Here.” He tossed me a snack-sized baggie with some little white pills. “Take a couple of these. They’ll keep you awake.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ritalin. Gives you a nice, mellow buzz that lasts. You’ll be like a laid-back Energizer Bunny.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  Jared stepped into the unit and peeked inside a box of old National Geographics. “Need help loading your crap? I can get the guys over here to help.”

  I looked around at all the other boxes stacked on the furniture in the back of the shed. There was plenty to be sentimental about: family albums, my old comic books. But I already had all the tokens of remembrance I needed. Might as well jettison the rest.

  “Nah, I’ve got everything I’m gonna take.” I worked the key to the storage unit off my key ring and handed it to him. “It’s all yours, if you want it. I ain’t coming back.”

  Jared looked a little startled, but he pocketed the key. He thrust out his hand. I thought he wanted a handshake, but his palm held a slender roll of hundreds bound with a rubber band.

  “Five hundred here,” he said. “Five hundred more on the other side. You got two days. Shouldn’t take more than one, even if you drive like a grandma, which I don’t recommend. I mean, don’t speed but going too slow’ll raise a trooper’s eyebrows just the same.”

  I followed him back around the corner. Jared’s friends all seemed quite a bit older than him, but they were oddly deferent, tossing their butts and straightening up on his arrival. Jared couldn’t be much more than nineteen. I knew he’d been held back at least a year. I wondered how a punk so young had ever garnered so much sway in a drug gang, if that’s what this was.

  Jared looked me in the eye. “Remember, these guys up north are serious about their timetables. They get jumpy when there’s major property in transit.” He slapped my back. “Key’s in the ignition. Happy trails, dude!”

  Chapter 16:
Mule

  There was something electric about pulling out of that Handi-Stor in Dad’s truck. My body thrummed with purpose and empowerment. Every contour and texture of that road passed through the steering column and into my fingers.

  My mysterious and lucrative cargo added to the vibe making me feel like a pirate, coursing through a sea filled with peril and opportunity. But the intrigue and those hundred-dollar bills in my pocket were just part of what fueled my excitement. I was leaving Florida, returning to my childhood home, starting a new life of professional landscaping, in snow country, no less.

  Yet, something felt hollow about the whole affair, like it was all a big bubble about to pop. Feeling hopeful in light of what had just happened to my family seemed inappropriate.

  But why not glory in such a glorious moment? I ignored the imps trying to gnaw away my fragile optimism.

  Instead of making a bee-line for the highway, I meandered around Ft. Pierce, in the darkening twilight, circling Dreamland Park, gathering a last glimpse of the place I used to hang out, the place where I met Jenny, for my memory banks.

  I found myself turning down 32nd—Marianne’s street. I slowed down as I went approached her place. I felt like a stalker, even though that wasn’t my motivation at all. I just felt bad for being so rude to her and Jenny at Mom’s funeral party. I’m sure they had cut me some slack considering the circumstances, but that didn’t make it right.

  There was a light on in her house, someone in the kitchen. What would it take to park the truck, run up the walk, ring the doorbell? A quick apology, maybe give her Uncle Ed’s address or phone number, whatever, and then I could be on my way.

  What would it take? Apparently, a lot more courage than I could muster. I kept the truck rolling, right past her house, right up to the stop sign at Boston Avenue.

  I sat there a good few minutes, trying to gather something that couldn’t be gathered. It was futile, like trying to herd wisps of smoke. And then I powered across the intersection all the way to Orange Avenue.

  I turned left, towards the freeway. It was getting pretty dark. I followed Orange Avenue in a daze as it split and widened. The bloom on my excitement had already faded. I was dreading the night ahead of me, all alone on that road.

  I signaled right at the entrance ramp to 95 North, but there was a car there, all dark, on the grassy verge. It was a Crown Vic, the kind cops use to go semi-incognito, with no bank of lights on the roof.

  I freaked and couldn’t bring myself to turn. I kept going straight, all the way out to King’s Highway, where I headed north, figuring I’d keep on the local roads until I got a little farther out of town.

  My heart was thumping like a sack of squirrels. Was this going to happen to me every time I saw a cop? No way would I ever survive the scrutiny of a routine traffic stop. Every twitch of my body announced my guilt.

  I turned on the radio and tried to drown out my anxiety with some loud and jangly alternative rock.

  ***

  I finally made my way onto 95 North somewhere near Vero Beach. I was almost shocked to have made it that far without getting pulled over. Maybe I was being overly paranoid.

  Two hours later, I was approaching Jacksonville. It had taken almost that long to calm down, and once I did, I started to feel drowsy. I had those pills Jared had given me, but I was grimy and hungry. Every motel and fast food billboard taunted me. I needed a shower and a meal.

  I booked a room at a Motel 6 just outside of Jax for forty-two bucks a night, practically a month’s rental at the Handi-Stor. But what the hell. I was feeling pretty flush for a change.

  I didn’t wash up right away, I was too dang famished. I found a Pizza Hut down the road and ordered a large anchovy and artichoke pizza for myself, and almost managed to eat the whole thing. And I had room for dessert—an Oreo CheeseQuake Blizzard from DQ.

  Back in my room, I took a glorious shower. I must have stood under that stream a half hour, purging the grime from every pore, steaming up the place. I put on the fresh undies and T-shirt I’d been saving, hopped into bed, and watched TV for the first time in weeks.

  My morale rallied from the depths. Life was becoming a damned rollercoaster ride. I felt a little weirded out about blowing so much cash in just a couple hours. I tried convincing myself that I deserved a treat, but I had been dumpster diving so long, it had become my identity.

  It had actually felt painful handing over that money and seeing that crisp hundred dollar bill rendered into change. But before my self-doubt could set its teeth too deep, sleep settled over me like a merciful succubus.

  ***

  I awoke with the TV still blaring and a musky, mushroom-like smell lingering in my nostrils. The early morning news had something about a mass killing in Acapulco. Drug wars. Not the thing I needed to greet me this morning of all mornings.

  That smell. It wasn’t the mildew in the bathroom. It had to be Root. Could I have been visited and not remembered it? It didn’t seem likely. All of my previous visitations had been so vivid.

  The only dream I remembered was some stupid thing about wandering around a mall with no pants on, looking for Mom and Dad while trying to replace my missing jeans. I had been having recurring dreams like that one for years. God knows what it symbolized, but seeing Mom and Dad interacting again was kind of bittersweet.

  That odor was already fading. I wondered if Root lurked someplace near, just beyond the scope of my vision, waiting for an opportunity to come see me. That was not an unpleasant thought.

  I had little appetite for breakfast after gorging so much the night before, so I just lay there in bed, letting the Today show shine its faux cheer and fluff news all over me. Checkout was at eleven. I stayed put until the last possible minute before getting up and dressing. I wanted my full money’s worth. I even considered taking another shower, but I made do with just brushing my teeth.

  I was back on the road by noon, after grabbing a quick bite at a Waffle House. I set the truck on cruise control, right at the speed limit—sixty-five—and planted myself in the right lane, riding the bumper of a moving van like a pilot fish on the ass end of a shark.

  I had one tense moment near the border when a state trooper came screaming up behind me with his lights flashing. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” I was hyperventilating and already veering into the breakdown lane, ready to be cuffed and booked, but he blew right past me, his sights set on a little black Mercedes that must have been doing ninety-five.

  When I passed them pulled over in the breakdown lane, I tweaked my speed up to sixty-eight. I had been getting passed like nobody’s business so I figured there was no harm in quickening up my pace. I remembered what Jared had said about sticking out going too slow.

  I made good time across Georgia. I listened to some talk radio but turned it off when this tea party guy and his brainless callers couldn’t stop blaming people like Mom and Dad for losing their own homes. It was Freddie Mac this and Fannie Mae that. I couldn’t decide whether they were really that stupid, or just evil.

  I hated politics, I really did. I couldn’t see a whole lot of difference between the two sides. It seemed just a matter of degree. How do you like your soup, Mr. Moody? Cold or too damned cold? Maybe I was an anarchist at heart?

  It was a shame, really. Now that I was old enough to vote, voting in this country had become irrelevant to me.

  I stopped for an early dinner at a Subway in Richmond Hill, getting a foot-long meatball sub to go. There was a Super 8 hotel across the street, but it was way too early to stop. I was thinking of driving straight through to Cleveland from here on, counting on Jared’s Ritalin to get me through the night. That would save a few bucks and ease my anxiety about getting there on time.

  The truck chortled and spewed out a blue cloud of smoke when I tried to start it up. That was a bit disconcerting. It had never done that before. Dad had bought the truck new in 2003. He had babied it all its life, though there were a hundred-fifty thousand miles on the odometer.

 
; I got out and checked the oil, finding it a little low, but not too bad. Just a little seepage around the pistons, nothing to be too concerned about.

  I topped up the oil, turned the engine over and everything seemed okay. I filled the tank at a Sunoco and got back on the road. One more fill-up after this and I would be cruising into Ohio.

  The incident sent my nerves jangling again. But the truck accelerated just fine up the ramp. I presumed it was just some fleeting thing. Once I was back on the road, the whole affair shifted off my front burner.

  I tweaked the cruise control to a hair above seventy, which was still only barely keeping up traffic. Dad’s Ron Paul bumper sticker would probably confer a little bit of immunity to the state cops. My out of state plates made me stick out a little bit, but it could have been worse. Mom’s car had a Darwin fish.

  Halfway across South Carolina, I got onto Route 26 and made a quick stop at the next exit for a Snapple and an ice cream sandwich. Before I knew it, I was in Columbia, leaving 26 for Route 77, chewing up the miles like a winged demon.

  At this rate, I’d be crossing into North Carolina by midnight. I was well ahead of schedule. I’d make it to Cleveland with a twelve hour cushion. I might even have time to catch a nap at Uncle Ed’s before meeting up with Jared’s buddies.

  Ten miles from Rock Hill, I was bopping to some college station punk, feeling calm, confident and even cocky about my prospects, when steam began spewing from the seams along the edge of my hood. Before I could even react, something exploded beneath the hood. Frothy, green sludge splattered against the windshield and the world disappeared from view.

  Chapter 17: Hosed

  The glass turned opaque with slimy, green foam. Turning on the wipers only smeared the gunk around and made things worse.

  I strayed off the passing lane onto the rumble strip. I jerked the wheel right and nearly clipped a van. A car whizzed by, its horn bellowing.

  I slammed on the brakes. My tires hopped a curb. I skidded to a halt on a patch of sand and scrubby grass. Heart thumping, I sat there, my hands still gripping the wheel.