Dawn's Tale

by Nicholas Knight

  As the miscellaneous members of the press continued to bombard the city’s police department with questions that were impossible to answer, accusations that were too absurd to be founded, or allegations that were simply not grounded in reality, the distraught Uncle walked to his car and took off down the road, making his way to the state line.

  ***

  Seeing that her dashboard fuel gauge was pointing below the E level, she urgently pulled off onto the next Exit, off the Capital Beltway, just before crossing into Maryland and merging onto Interstate 270 North. Dawn pulled up into a Sunoco station, behind a white 1973 Pontiac Trans Am with a black and blue Firebird decal on the hood. As she used the newly converted self-service pump, she noticed that this particular gas station was conveniently equipped with a small store.

  Her eyelids had grown heavy, and she needed to stretch her legs. The rain had settled to a gentle mist, but the wind had replaced it and was considerably relentless. The wind had also made it increasingly difficult for Dawn to recover from the ruthless storm. While others around were pulling their knitted Beanie hats further down their heads, wore puffy gloves on their hands and enveloped themselves in their fur and wool coats, Dawn walked peacefully and comfortably toward the door.

  The Lynyrd Skynyrd song, Tuesday’s Gone, is playing overhead, as the wet but clean Dawn tugs on the shop door and steps inside. It’s cool in there, but Dawn feels relaxed and refreshed. The cream-colored cotton, poet-sleeved blouse that Dawn had inherited from Moonbeam’s luggage, was saturated with the rain, and therefore showed a clear view of her perky breasts and erect nipples. The doused top also revealed her unnatural body hair, which seemed to somehow go unnoticed. Dawn had no panties on either, but the hip-hugging bellbottoms did a better job at hiding what would otherwise be her camel toe.

  Fenton, who had been dragging his elbows on the counter, stood to attention and wasted no time in fantasizing about hitting on Dawn. She perceived that the college-age clerk was lusting after her, as she casually made her way to his counter. While she is out of breath, he is all but speechless, but for entirely different reasons. Fenton had been going to night school, but was suddenly grateful to have this mediocre gig during the day.

  “Do you have a restroom here that I could use?” she politely asked, while profusely dripping all over the floor of the establishment.

  “Uhh…we d-don’t really have a restroom for c-customers right now,” he replied, while slightly stuttering, “But you are welcome to use the one in the b-back. It’s reserved for employees, but you can use it, if you want? It’s…” he paused briefly, “probably cleaner.”

  “Sure,” she said with a friendly smile. “Thanks.”

  As he guided Dawn back behind the counter, he pointed her in the right direction and left her to do her business in the back room. He enjoyed watching her walk away, while taking mental photographs of her envied backside, so he had reference material for later. Dawn was ridiculously sensational, and the type of girl who would only be achievable in a fantasy or centerfold.

  “It’s just down there, to the right,” he told her. “Take your time. I’m sorry, I’d offer you a towel, but I don’t have one here in the shop,” he told her.

  “It’s fine!” she yelled back to him, already shutting the bathroom door behind her. Truth was, he was glad to not accommodate her in drying off, as he instantly grew fond of her drenched and braless look.

  Though turned on by the heavenly vision of her, she left behind an odor, which smelled like a wet dog. The gullible clerk sniffed the air, and then squeezed his nostrils with his fingers. He momentarily considered that it might be her, but realized that just didn’t add up.

  “Not possible,” he said pretentiously for his ears only. “No way a fox that fine could smell anything but divine,” he said with a grin on his face, while slowly nodding his head, as if deluding himself to think that he had a chance in Hell with a chick of that caliber.

  While Dawn had distracted his attention away from his dead-end job, three travelers from down South had strutted into the store, and were now browsing the rack with the comic books, road maps and various pornographic magazines. Duane had picked up the latest issue of Penthouse, and was avidly flipping through it. He had already slid a copy of Hustler down the front of his pants, concealing it under his heavy, red and black-checkered Woolrich hunting shirt. His friend was over in the candy isle, checking out the Topps’ Star Wars trading cards. Fenton saw the assault rifles strapped proudly to the men’s backs, which quickly replaced his lust with fear.

  “Look, Duane, they got ‘em some Star Wars cards. It says there’s a stick of gum in the package too! Ain’t that some shit?” Wayne told his buck-toothed partner, too easily amused and with a thick, good ol’ boy drawl.

  “Wayne, you about as useless as tits on a bull,” Bodean insulted his blind follower, ashamed to even be associated with him.

  “That Star Wars shit is unrealistic,” Duane added. “How you reckon you tell me that aliens exist up there, when there’s barely any intelligent life down here?” said one of the poster boy’s for ignorance. “It just don’t make no sense.”

  The music selection changed to disco, and Shaun Cassidy’s new hit single, Da Doo Run Run, began to play on the wall speaker.

  Another customer in the store, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, began to jive and swing to the song, right there in the open. He was dressed in a hot pink tracksuit. His hair was feathered, shoulder-length, and neatly parted in the middle. He was clearly effeminate. This didn’t go unnoticed by the three country bigots.

  “Hey, boys,” Bodean said, “Check it out. Nancy boy over there is having a good ol’ time dancing with himself.” Bodean was a gruff man, burly in size, and was obviously the domineering one in the bunch. He was bald on the top of his head, and wore a backwards NRA ball cap and a heavy camouflage coat.

  “This is the same dude that sings that song, Hey Deanie…you know…Deanie…like your name? It’s off his new album, Born Late.”

  “I swear, boy, if you don’t shut the fuck up real quick, I’m gonna see to it that you’re dead early.” Bodean threatened. “How the fuck do you know who this is, anyway? You listenin’ to this faggity music behind my back?”

  “No, Bo,” Duane lied, nervously. “I just caught a bit of his stuff by accident, while tuning the radio to George Jones and Mickey Gilley.”

  “Yeah, I better not catch you listening to anything other than down home Country-Western, or so help me God, I’m gonna hit you so hard, you’ll be dancing with that queer-bait over there.”

  Bo quickly turned his attention back to what he saw as a dancing queen. “You need some help bringing some of them Ho Hos up to the check-out, retard? It must be tough, boy, trying to hold anything with that limp wrist.”

  Bo’s friends joined him in laughing at the kid, while Wayne ran over and grabbed a box of the Hostess snack cakes, and pelted it at the back of his head. The cowardly cashier slumped down and hunched over, looking at the counter to avoid eye contact with the homophobe bullies.

  “He probably can’t hear you, Bo,” Wayne said. “He got them ears muffled up by that long hair.”

  The innocent customer had grown weary of the unwarranted attacks, and decided to leave. As he attempted to make his way to the exit, Duane stuck his leg out and tripped him. The gay pacifist was able to catch himself from falling flat on his face, but lost control of his balance and incidentally collided into Bodean, which only made matters worse.

  “Oh no you didn’t,” Bodean said, aggressively grabbing the guy by his zippered top, as his gross intolerance had reached its boil. “I know you didn’t just get all those sissy germs on me.” The frightened young man looked Bodean in the eyes, which only further infuriated the proud supremacist. Bodean spit on the young man, nailing him right on his mustache. Bo lifted him at least six inches off the floor, and threw him violently into the ICEE machine, causing the defenseless homosexual to bang the side of his head on the rigid counter a
nd then the even harder floor.

  Bodean stepped up to the checkout counter, to devote a moment to harassing the spectating clerk. “Why don’t you get a haircut?” he asked rhetorically, pathetically offended by Fenton’s long hair. “Are you a faggot too?”

  Dawn was squatting over the toilet, careful not to actually let her luscious ass touch the seat. As she peed, she stuck her hands in her urine stream, rubbing them together to better clean the gore and grime off her hands and from underneath her fingernails.

  Wayne had been looking at some leftover Halloween masks that were still for sale, and picked one up that was supposed to be Pocahontas. The mask was made of cheap, thin plastic, with holes cut out for the eyes. He pulled the string of elastic back and fit the mask over his face.

  “Hey, look at me guys,” Wayne said. “I’m a little Indian brave,” he said, as he pranced around the store, skipping along while mimicking the stereotypical Indian chant with his hand. “Hiya-ya-ya. Hi-ya-ya-ya.”

  Just then, the three pranksters simultaneously spotted Dawn, who had been silently watching from behind the counter.

  “Oh baby, looks like the Great Spirit outdid himself with this one,” Duane complimented her remarkable beauty.

  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Bodean said. “We got ourselves a feathered piece of tail up in here. What do you say, youngun? You want to come over here and smoke on my peace pipe?”

  “I hear that! My totem pole is pitching a teepee right now,” Wayne boasted.

  “Sorry,” Dawn said calmly but firmly, “I don’t date hicks. You’re not my type.”

  “You have quite the little mouth on you, don’t you honey? Would you like something to put in it?” Bodean asked as he grabbed his bulge through his soiled and stained blue jeans, while his friends snickered and chuckled.

  Dawn suddenly fell into a trance, as if time had frozen still. She found herself trapped in a daydream where she indulged in a violent fantasy. She imagined herself throwing all caution to the wind and recklessly letting loose on this chauvinist redneck. She envisioned herself making him reap her whirlwind of wrath, as she literally ripped him to shreds. As everyone around her screamed in unfathomable terror, she used Bodean’s blood as war paint on her face. She yanked his femur bone out of his open thigh, and held it up above her head. She howled out a victory roar, while shaking the bigot’s bone like a tomahawk.

  As Dawn relished in this dazed state, she began to feel the tiny hairs on her arms stand at attention, as she felt a presence brush by her that was chilling...but not physically, just spiritually. She began to hear tribal-like drumbeats, which were subtle at first, but got louder. Her flesh had goose bumps, but not from being cold. Once she decided against acting on her impulse of rage, the unidentified presence subsided and disappeared.

  As tempting as this vivid pre-meditation was, she knew she couldn’t risk the consequences. Her priority needed to be one of self-preservation. She was a fox on the run, and no gun-obsessed hick was going to spoil that.

  When she came out of her mirage, she had been scratching her face, furiously but subconsciously. The three hillbillies had been watching her while she had been stuck in her spell. They had even thrown some things at her, which just bounced off her face and chest. They couldn't snap her out of it, while she was still trapped inside her own head.

  “Psycho," Bodean said, looking her up and down with disdain and disgust, while the young cashier still ogled her perfectly shaped ass. "Look-see here, boys. We have a daydream believer on our hands."

  “I'd like to have her in my hands,” Duane said, as Fenton nodded his head in silent agreement, while doing what he could to help the violated customer who had been knocked out cold.

  “I’m sure one of your potbellied country queers can help you out,” she said boldly, resisting the urge to act on her impulse to make the world a better place by ridding it of such white trash.

  “Look, bitch,” Bo began, “You stink like a varmint, but you’re also hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch.” He was so close that Dawn could smell his rancid breath, as his breathing got much heavier. “I’m fixin’ to rip those britches right off you, and make you one of my kin.”

  “If you’re hoping to intimidate me, you’re going to be sadly disappointed,” she said, staring back at him without a flinch.

  “Grab her titty, Bo!” one of his friends shouted cheerfully, egging him on toward sexual assault.

  “You do,” Dawn warned, “And you’ll leave here with one less hand. So, I strongly suggest if you value your life, to turn around, walk out, and go suck off one of your toothless friends.”

  Bo looked deep into her eyes, with the intention of giving her one final chance at surrendering her will, before he raped her right there in the store. However, when he saw the volatile darkness in her eyes, his sinister agenda swiftly backfired.

  “What are you?” Bo asked her, now taking a step back and changing his tone, suddenly missing his promiscuous wife and three kids who secretly weren’t even his.

  “Leave,” Dawn said again, “or the three of you will find out.”

  Dawn watched through the glass door, as the redneck trio got in their 1975 Ford Ranger F250 pickup and boastfully revved their engine a few times, before high tailing out of there. Dawn looked down and observed the Mississippi vanity plate on the rear of the truck, which read BUMKIN.

  Dawn resumed to browsing, as if nothing had happened. She came across a box of glazed donuts, which reminded her of how Reuben had felt inside her, as if she ever needed reminding.

  Meanwhile, Fenton hears a government-issued transmission that interferes with the station that had been providing the in-store music:

  “We bring you this emergency bulletin to warn the citizens of the East Coast that Dawn Moon, an 18-year-old Native American, is wanted for questioning in connection with the massacre that happened at a psychiatric ward in Falls Church, Virginia. We at WDCE-FM have been tasked with broadcasting this over the air, in hopes that somebody somewhere will see this potentially dangerous suspect, and immediately contact the FBI. I’m told that if this Dawn Moon does not voluntarily turn herself in to the authorities within the next 24 hours, the FBI will conduct a nationwide manhunt, using all their resources and manpower to expedite the effort. Highway perimeters are already being put into action. Please be careful and proceed with extreme caution.”

  The young cashier, who had left his counter to rush to the injured customer’s aid, pulls up on his turtleneck collar, as if that would somehow help shield him from the alleged maniac in his store. He knew it was her that they were talking about, and swallowed heavily as she approached the counter.

  “You want to ring me up?” she asked him, acting as if she hadn’t just heard that radio broadcast, and pretended to not be worried about leaving loose ends.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Fenton told her. “It’s on me.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked for verification.

  “Yeah,” he paused briefly. “It’s cool.”

  “Thank you,” Dawn said smiling, “I appreciate that.”

  “No,” he corrected her, “Thank you.” Fenton moved his eyes down to her feet and noticed her clogs. They had been the only article of clothing that she had overlooked, and therefore she had seen no need to change. The light colored clogs were stained with blood.

  As she began to walk away, he called out to her. “Hey, Dawn…I think you’re a groovy chick,” the quivering employee said nervously, trying to fake some level of confidence and courage. “I don’t know what you’ve done or why,” Fenton said, as she was halfway out the door, but could still hear him. “But, whatever you do, don’t go back there. Run, run as far as your feet will carry you.”

  Dawn just glanced back at him warmly, and smiled in gratitude, before walking out the door to do just that.

  Fenton held the young man in his arms, who was still unresponsive. The stranger’s head was bleeding profusely, and Fenton prayed that the guy would
miraculously survive until the cops arrived. As he rocked the victim back and forth, he thought of his family and how he regretted not having appreciated them more. His father was a rodeo cowboy, and had competed in the Hesston National Finals in 1975.

  After an unfortunate falling out with his father, about the debatable war in Vietnam, Fenton had run away, leaving his life in Oklahoma behind him. He had gone to great lengths to evade the Draft, and his father didn’t find that to be honorable, which sparked the argument that would estrange their relationship. But after witnessing the deplorable display of so-called ‘Southern charm’ in his store, he realized that his father wasn’t so bad. Though he didn’t see eye to eye with his conservative father on many issues, particularly about the American condition, Fenton took comfort in knowing that his parents would never treat fellow human beings this way, which made him proud of his very different Southern heritage.

  “We’re not all like that,” Fenton said, as his eyes flooded with salty tears, looking down at the dead face he still cradled in his arms. “We’re not all like that,” he repeated, though the flamboyant fatality couldn’t hear his heartfelt words of reassurance.

  As Dawn moved on down Interstate 270, she was struck with a case of the munchies. Reaching back behind her, she grabbed one of the bags of snacks that she had gotten from the convenient store. She opened the Nabisco box of Zu Zu Ginger Snaps, and took a handful to nibble on while she drove. She found the wafers to be tasteless. She then opened the glass bottle of her Sun-Rise orange soda, but once again couldn’t taste any flavor.

  “Well, fuck it. They wouldn’t call it junk food if it wasn’t meant to be thrown away,” she said aloud to herself, as she rolled down the window and threw the soda pop out of the moving vehicle.

  Dawn continued to drive the Chevy Townsman Wagon as fast as she could without risking police intervention, going just above 55mph. She knew that she would inevitably encounter obstruction interference, but she would cross that bridge much sooner than expected. Hearing a siren, as if it had come out of nowhere, she looked in the rearview mirror and saw a police cruiser tailgating her. Not wishing to draw more attention to herself, she obediently complied and pulled off to the left shoulder. When she stopped the car, she hit the brakes hard and sudden.