Scott was beginning to boil, it wasn’t as though Denny’s crap was any less frivolous than Ashley’s, but he liked Ashley. To Scott, Denny’s voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Denny,” Scott said in a tone that shut Denny up instantly. “Denny, if you don’t shut the fuck up I am going to kick your ass all over the side of this road.”
Denny stared at Scott for a few moments, and then his lips slowly turned up. Scott was taken aback as Denny began to laugh, then, through his laughter he said, “Good one Scott.” He shrugged his shoulders and continued the story of how he persevered and beat the game. At the end of his tale he laughed, and laughed. It was an awful laugh.
Scott had reached his breaking point. He could no longer take Denny. He steered the car to the side of the road. The Charger fishtailed violently, coming to a stop, half on the grass beyond the shoulder. He got out of the car and ran to the passenger side. He pulled the door open and hauled Denny out in an adrenaline assisted fit of strength. Denny lay sprawled out on the grass fifteen feet away, tears welling up in his eyes. They were not tears of a child in pain, but of a man overtaken with fear. Scott glared down at him. His unshaven face glowed red. His chest heaved as each breath filled him with more rage.
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
Denny didn’t answer; he just looked up completely overwhelmed by what was happening to him.
Scott grabbed Denny’s pack from the backseat and threw it with the same force he had thrown Denny. The pack struck Denny hard in the face, then careened over his head. His face burned scarlet from the force of the blow. Blood poured from his nose, covering his shirt, yet he made no attempt to stop the flow. Scott took a step toward him and Denny whimpered weakly then looked down to his lap. He had wet himself and when he realized that he pulled his knees up tight to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and began to cry. Completely deflated, the young man buried his head in his lap, his nose still oozing blood and sobbed.
“You pathetic little pussy,” Scott said, then slammed the door he had just dragged the boy out of, walked around the car, got in and drove off in a spray of loose stones.
The 440’s throaty hum grew higher with each passing second. The speedometer passed fifty in mere seconds, then sixty, seventy; Scott was trance-like, almost a zombie as the landscape of Colorado passed in a blur. The car seemed to defy gravity as it continued to accelerate up a steep incline, overtaking an occasional RV or minivan towing a pop-up trailer. At the top of the hill, a truck loaded down with timber and heading for the sawmill was at a near standstill in the right lane. The driver blared his horn as the streak of red, motor city metal flew over the peak of the hill nearly leaving the pavement. Hitting the even steeper downgrade, the Charger’s suspension protested slightly then settled in for what must have seemed to Scott like a free-fall. Moments after blowing by the lumber hauler the needle was resting just past one-twenty.
Very slowly, Scott regained what remained of his sanity. A slight speed vibration had developed in the front end, and he gently eased off the accelerator. The speedometer was still maxed, but the ride smoothed the moment the car slowed. The grade leveled out and the needle retreated, a minute later the throaty drone had returned as the Charger cruised comfortably at seventy. Coming into view, a sign read, Wheeling 18 Miles. And perched on the sign was the crow, its head following the Charger as it passed. Scott’s eyes were drawn to the bird as though it were controlling his will. As he passed, Scott was sure the crow winked at him. He depressed the gas pedal and didn’t slow down until he found a filling station in Wheeling.
Wheeling was a small town very much like Staples, where he had lunch at Mollies, and gassed up at Stew’s Texaco. Wheeling was a one-horse town about three miles south of exit 375 off I-70. Scott went through the familiar song and dance with Josh at the Mobil station. He got advice on where to eat, asked Josh to fill his tank, and he used the restroom. Josh had little to say; he told Scott that his only choice for food was The Gold Nugget about a half mile up on the right.
The Gold Nugget looked oddly modern in a town that was a throwback to an earlier time. It had a façade of red brick and the large windows in front were flanked by white shutters. Inside scarlet walls were adorned with an assortment of Norman Rockwell prints, and the tables were covered with brown paper, the kind you would use to wrap boxes for parcel post. Scott sat at the table nearest the door and pulled the menu out from between the stainless steel napkin dispenser and the red plastic ketchup bottle.
Moments later a plain looking, chunky young woman with a faded blue skirt and neatly ironed blouse approached, pen in one hand and notepad in the other. Before she had a chance to speak, Scott announced that he would have a steak sandwich, fries and a Coke.
She smiled, and was gone as quickly and quietly as she had come. He put the menu back and looked around the room. A few tables to his right a grubby looking man in a soiled plaid short sleeve shirt and a Yankees cap was scarfing down a burger with the grace of a pit bull. Through the window behind the Yankees fan, a gleaming Volvo truck sat, no doubt waiting for the Yankee.
The only other table was occupied by a pretty young girl in her late teens or maybe early twenties, sipping from a coffee cup. She was sitting alone. The same waitress who took Scott’s order cleared two empty plates from her table.
Movement at the far end of the room caught Scott’s eye. It was him, that bum. This was the first time Scott had seen him while other people were present. This was the time to confront him. This was the time to end it for good. As Scott stood to face him, the waitress set his Coke down on the table. Scott looked at her, then back to the bum, but he was gone. In his place, a young man, tall and gangly, with short reddish hair walked toward the pretty girl.
“The restroom is over there, sir,” said the waitress.
“Sorry?” Scott replied.
“I said the bathrooms are over there. It looked like you were looking for the bathroom.”
“I’m fine,” Scott replied in a far off voice.
He stared at the young couple as they crossed the room toward the exit. As if the young man felt the penetration of Scott’s gaze, he turned and locked into Scott’s eyes. The two men seemed to connect on another level. A Twilight Zone level.
The young girl nudged her boyfriend and said, “Hey Vermont, let’s go already. He turned and they walked out the door.
Scott sat, head in hands until his meal arrived. His head had ached since waking to see the bum in the rear seat singing. Now it felt as though there was a bass drum pounding out the back rhythm for the Army Drum Corp. He tried to eat, picking at his food until it was cold.
“Is there something wrong with your food, sir?”
Scott looked up and shook his head, “Just not feeling great.” He looked toward the door as if to make sure the coast was clear. “Is there a place nearby where I can get a room for the night?”
“Well, if you want to stay in a nice hotel you might want to get back on the interstate until you get to Grand Junction, maybe an hour and a half should get you there. If you don’t feel up to that you could try Annie’s.”
“What’s Annie’s?”
“Annie isn’t a what. She has a couple of spare rooms. She rents them out when she feels like it. They ain’t much, but at least you won’t have to drive if you don’t feel well.”
“Where is Annie?” Scott asked with a grimace as a searing pain shot through his head.
The waitress scribbled something on her pad, tore off the page and handed it to Scott. “It’s just up the road on the right, number 18. You tell Annie that Teresa sent you.”
Scott thanked her, dug a twenty out of his pocket, left it on the table and went to his car.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Scott stood in front of the car just after 7:00. Another restless night of bizarre dreams and fitful sleep combined with too much time sitting in a driver’s seat had Scott dreading the inside of the vehicle. He was not up to getting back in the car,
but he was less apt to enjoy a day in the town of Butthole, smack dab in the center of the less than great state of Nowhere.
His eyes looked a bit hollow and his face just a tad gaunt, but otherwise, he had showered, shaved and was wearing a somewhat wrinkle free golf shirt and shorts. His reflection in the mirror had given him a bit of a fright before he showered, but now that he was ready to hit the road, he felt a bit better.
Outside, the air had lost that mountain freshness. A weather front overnight had ushered in a dank pocket of humid still air. The temperature was in the low seventies but Scott broke a sweat before he had placed his bag in the trunk and slid into the Charger. Remembering his CDs were still in the trunk, he climbed back out to retrieve them. Then the all too familiar squawk from atop Annie’s house, a large crow, THE large crow, sat like royalty on Annie’s chimney. As always, a long worm dangled from its shiny black beak.
“What are you looking at?” Scott called to the bird, almost as if he expected it to answer.
The bird did answer, in a way. It took flight, dropping its breakfast, like a trained WWII bombardier. The worm came to rest, draped over Scott’s shoulder, still squirming. Scott muttered a weak, “Ick.” Swiped the thing off his shirt, then stood, mesmerized as it slithered toward the grass at the edge of the drive, the full length of its progress preserved by a milky slime trial. Scott looked from the worm back to the spot on his shirt where it had been, at least there was no sign of it on his shirt. When he returned his attention to the stone path that was Annie’s driveway, the worm was gone, and with it the slime trail.
He got back in the car, forgetting his CDs and quickly fed the key into the ignition, the Charger’s huge engine fired up instantly. The rear wheels began to spin on the damp stones as Scott depressed the gas pedal.
On the road the Charger fishtailed slightly when he accelerated, leaving two black snakelike streaks on the pavement. Not really feeling hungry, but not wanting to have to stop after getting started he returned to the Golden Nugget for breakfast. He sat at the same table as he had the night before. A tall heavy man with dark hair, streaked with gray, wearing a grease-stained white apron trudged up to his table and sat in the chair opposite. He filled the coffee cups in front of him, set the pot down on the table and asked, “What can I get you?”
“Eggs, bacon,” Scott answered not bothering to engage him more than that.
“How do you want your eggs?”
“Scrambled.”
“White or wheat?”
“Sorry, what?”
“What kind of toast would you like, white or wheat?”
“White, thanks.”
“Okie-dokie then,” he said and before he noticed that Scott had finally looked at him, he had left for the kitchen.
First, the dive bomber crow, now the okie-dokie monster is back. Scott was longing for the rude bustle of LA. If he had to deal with one more perky waitress, greasy cook, one more pleasant gas station attendant, or most of all, one more worm-toting crow, he was either going to go mad or puke. Maybe puke then go mad.
A few minutes later the cook returned to set a large plate in front of him. On it was a mountain of scrambled eggs, flanked by toast, bacon and a healthy helping of home fries.
“There you go, sport,” he said. Then, as though he was trying to set him off, he clicked his tongue while pointing a finger at him like a pistol.
Scott stared at him as he turned and went to greet an old man dressed in denim overalls and a John Deere cap. Scott picked up his fork and poked his food, moving his eggs around on his plate. What little appetite he had, had diminished at the utterance of ”okie-dokie”. Then it had been completely squashed when the greasy fry-cook clicked and pointed the same way the bum had a few days ago.
He felt queasy, wanted to leave but he was sure he would vomit if he got up. So, he sat, poking his slightly runny scrambled eggs. Oddly, it appeared that the more he poked them the runnier they got. They began to wiggle and ooze, turning his queasiness to nausea. He looked away hoping to regain some control, and when he looked back his eggs were a brown squirming mass. His bacon was gone, the toast was gone, and the eggs were no longer eggs. He sat, horrified at the sight of a wriggling plate of nightcrawlers.
Gathering all that was left of his sanity he jumped to his feet, his thighs banging the underside of the table, sending his plate and coffee crashing to the floor. He bolted for the door.
The cook hollered, “Hey, sport, what do you think you are doing?”
Scott stopped at the door, looked back to him, then to the upset table he had just fled. There, on the floor beside the table, was a scattering of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. As the apron clad man started toward him, he took some cash from his pocket, peeled off a twenty, tossed it in his direction and dashed out the door.
The cook picked up the money, shook his head at the mess on the floor and announced, “They just keep getting nuttier every year.”
Back on the road, he steered the Charger along the pavement by instinct. It was like his most basic brain functions, the ones that control fear, or maybe the ones that preserve survival had taken control. Those brain functions that prevent you from going too near the edge of the pier if you cannot swim, or tell you to stop the car at a red light even though your attention has been distracted and you didn’t really notice the light change.
The radio was on, Scott was only vaguely aware of it. A caller had phoned to discuss the bald eagle that had taken roost in a nearby radio tower. The local media had named the bird Clair, after the woman who first sighted the bird. The crew assigned to maintain the radio tower was tasked with removing Clair. They claimed they were doing it not only to prevent possible corrosion of the metal where the eagles’ nest sat, but also to protect the bird. They claimed that Clair was at great risk of lightning strikes up there.
The caller, who said her name was Trudy, argued that only the tower was of concern to the crew, not Clair. That bird is a national symbol and should be left alone. She urged people to meet in the mall parking lot to sign a petition, blah-blah-blah. The radio host repeated Trudy’s message, then chuckled and said, “Okie-dokie.”
A commercial started, but all Scott could hear was okie-dokie, drumming in his head over and over again, like a base drum in a marching band, okie-dokie, boom-boom-boom, okie-dokie-okie-dokie. Soon the words took on the voice of the bum from Detroit. Scott’s head throbbed, the drum’s constant booming, he felt nauseous, fevered, cold, then hot, then cold again.
The Charger ate up the pavement, not going anywhere in particular. Scott was guiding it between the lines, keeping it on the road, but not navigating its progress. The odometer clicked off mile after mile, up steep inclines, around sharp bends, and s-turns, bypassing stunning views of towering trees and rock walls, all the while Scott’s heart continued to race, and sweat beaded his face. The sky was a pale blue against the charcoal gray peaks that climbed through the trees. An occasional cloud briefly hovered near the summits, before being whisked away by the stiff currents of the upper atmosphere. The air rushing in through the open windows of the car smelled of pine and would have been pleasant were it not for the overpowering humidity.
The landscape could have been the painted backdrop of a movie set, except for the slight sway of the trees in the unseen wind, the scene was motionless. Scott didn’t notice the highway was empty. The Charger cutting a path through the hot mountain air was the only hint of life. It was as if the whole of Colorado had closed after he entered. The only evidence of civilization was this paved strip winding through the mountains. He had not seen most of the signs at the highway’s edge. Destination signs, signs advising trucks of steep grades, signs that gave warning of traffic merging from scenic viewing areas. Signs sparingly placed along the edge of the road zipped by on the Charger’s right, unnoticed by Scott Randall.
The sign that did get his attention was an electronic radar sign. As the Charger approached the sign, a big red eighty-nine began to flash, followed by the
words, PLEASE SLOW DOWN.
Scott took his foot completely off the accelerator and coasted, eighty-two, seventy-six, sixty-nine, sixty-five. Two hundred yards beyond the first electronic sign, a second sign lit up. Fifty-nine, TOO FAST, Scott continued to coast, the sign flashed again, fifty-three, then in the same big red letters, OKIE-DOKIE. With all his force, Scott jammed his right foot on the brake pedal. Blue smoke streamed out from beneath the scorching rubber, the pungent smell of the burning tires flooded the inside of the car. When the car came to a full stop he closed his eyes so tight starbursts began to explode from his optic nerve to his brain.
Apprehensively he opened his eyes; the sign was flashing TOO FAST. TOO FAST, but he was not moving at all. Then a loud squealing of a horn startled him back to where he was, parked in the right lane of a four lane highway. A white streak of a passing car, a high performance four banger whined in concert with the pitchy squeal of its foreign horn. The car was going too fast for Scott to identify the make.
The sign went black again and Scott resumed his course through Colorado. It was mid-afternoon and the Charger was sucking fumes. He settled into a steady fifty-five and squinted into the distance hoping to find an exit sign. Twenty minutes later, he was eating Fritos and drinking a Coke in a one-horse town just over the New Mexico border. He felt focused as he mapped out a plan to end this nightmare. He would drive through to Albuquerque tonight come hell or high water. Get up early; do lunch in Flagstaff, dinner in Phoenix. He would stay in a nice hotel in Phoenix and be home the day after.
It was a good plan, but sometimes, a plan doesn’t always come together.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Nightcrawler Page 21
