Running on Fumes

by Christian Guay-Poliquin

  KILOMETRE 623

  As the car skimmed the kilometres, I began feeling the weight of the afternoon. When I lifted my eyes towards the sky, I saw black birds flying overhead. When I looked around me, there was nothing but wheat fields begging for rain and lifeless oil pumps like iron ravens.

  I tried various ways of holding the wheel. My hands moved like needles on a strange dial, finding no comfortable place to rest.

  I passed a few cars going the other way, and several trucks. Each meeting lasting no longer than a car crash. But nobody overtook me, and I overtook no one. The pavement lay before me, lasciviously. I drove in the opposite direction of migratory birds. And then, in the distance, a wailing siren. I looked ahead, but there was nothing. Instead, in my rear-view mirror I saw a fire truck and two police cars. I barely had time to move onto the shoulder; they passed me with authoritative urgency. The blast of wind that followed shook my car and I had difficulty staying on the road. Then the red and blue lights began to fade in the distance, getting smaller, before finally succumbing to the horizon. I was alone again, or almost, with only vapours rising over the asphalt.

  On the side of the road, truck stops hemmed in by semi-trailers like wrecks around which sleepwalkers prowled. My stomach tightened in a knot. Hunger pulled at my face. I had been driving for a while now, my head full, my stomach empty and, as I kept moving on, waves of fatigue washed over me. But I couldn’t flinch, not yet. I was tied to my wheel like a ferryman to his oars. Far behind, I saw the thin line of the foothills forming in the distance. It wouldn’t be too hard to believe that I was seeing a mass of clouds, floating away. Or coming nearer.

  Before me everything was flat, like the sea.

  KILOMETRE 803

  The road was long and the ashtray filled itself. From time to time, among the endless flat lines all around me, a combine harvester could be seen, sleeping until autumn.

  I also saw a number of old barns folded up by time, blackened by sun and abandoned by men. Structures straight out of another time, stitched with rusted nails and drafts of air. With vaulted backs, scrawny shoulders, and skin made of cedar shingles raised up by seasons of winds. Buildings that waited for – with the patience of wood fibre – the great gust that would finally blow them into the brambles and couch grass.

  A type of barn that didn’t exist in my father’s village. A village too far north to be able to grow anything, too focused on what lay in the earth’s guts to think of anything but money, and too young, in any case, to have a history of its own. Thirty years of dust, and already bereft of life. Mining towns opening and closing like carnivorous plants.

  Along the road, a few signs warned of livestock crossings. The herds grazed the grassy shoulder in the sun, watching me pass. They chewed slowly, oblivious to the numerous slaughterhouses in the area.

  When I had reached the age when you think you’re no longer a child, my father would often tell me, as if it were his duty, the story of the first time he used a firearm. During the economic crisis early in the previous century, he had lived on a farm. His family raised bison. At the time, they were exotic beasts, and few people had heard of them. In winter, the large snow-covered beasts steamed, whether they were running about or standing still, and scared the children witless. Each morning, my father had to feed the bison, against his will. One day, as breakfast was being served, he still hadn’t come back from pasture. Irritated, my grandfather stepped outside, calling after him. He’d barely opened the door when he heard shouts. He ran towards the pen. My father was lying face down in the mud. A bison was standing next to him, foaming at the mouth, though not advancing yet. It was a young bull, no more than two and a half years old. The dominant male was farther away, with the rest of the herd. My grandfather was scared of nothing. He climbed the fence and walked towards his son. The bison huffed through his nose. My grandfather raised his voice, gestur­ing wildly, trying to scare the animal away. He knew what to do in a crisis, my grandfather, that he did. But this time, the bison charged at him. My grandfather and father were out of commission the whole winter. From bed to couch, from couch to bed. For months, my grandmother worked alone, day and night to care for the injured, her children, and the farm. By spring, my grandfather could still barely walk. My father, more robust and younger, was practically restored. As soon as he felt he had the strength, he took the rifle and several bullets and made his way to the field. It was raining, but he quickly recognized the young bison, apart from the herd. He took his time aiming at its vitals, then shot, repeatedly. The animal fell to the ground, panting, while the rest of the herd stampeded, mad with fear. My father slowly, very slowly, walked towards the animal. The enormous bison had its eyes closed. My father brought the weapon to his shoulder and shot again. The animal didn’t react, but a few moments later its eyes opened again, empty and already cold. Each time my father told me the story, he always said he had trudged back home in the pouring rain, walking at first, then starting at a run, until he reached his father’s bedside. It’s done, it’s done, he told him, it’s done.

  The afternoon wore on, ceaselessly, and the sun pounded down on the body of my car. It was a valiant old pile of iron. Except for a small oil leak. Nothing important. The car moved through the prairie’s thin air like an old workhorse pulling its plough.

  I saw vehicles passing a car that had broken down on the opposite shoulder. A classic scene: a small, powerful sports car, its hood up, white smoke pouring out. A man waved his cellphone towards the heavens while a woman pulled large suitcases from the trunk. Two young children with worried eyes held each other by the hand on the side of the road. Reaching them, I hesitated a little, but I didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. I had a long way to go; someone else would help them.

  Before me, valleys looked like waves. The plains made me think of a landlocked sea whose salt came more from dripping sweat than gushing water. A penned-in space whose froth was not the product of waves but of the thirst gaining ground on the corner of my lips. I could see cars in the distance coming from the other direction, dancing with the horizon, misshapen by heat.

  KILOMETRE 866

  I landed in a small town. Two rows of houses lined the main road. It was the middle of the afternoon. Quite a few people were out, on sidewalks and balconies. Watching the cars go by. Like they had nothing better to do.

  I needed to eat. I stopped in front of a grocery store. In the parking lot, a woman dragged two shopping carts behind her, packed like mules. I got out of the car and observed her as she methodically placed the paper bags in her trunk.

  I walked into the store. There was no electricity here either, but the bay window let in enough light. The clerk told me they only accepted cash. I nodded and walked along the shelves. They were particularly empty. Cardboard boxes scattered in messy rows. It seemed as though dozens of grasping hands, hurried and clumsy, had passed through.

  Skirting by people busy filling their own carts, I found a few sardine cans, a bag of sliced bread, some sort of dried sausage, mustard, and a pack of chocolate bars. There was no peanut butter left, or dairy products, or water bottles. I picked up a few cans of soda instead.

  When I reached the cash register, I asked the clerk what was happening. She told me it had been three days since the last delivery truck had been through. I raised my eyebrows and placed my things on the counter. She said that with the power going out in the middle of a heat wave, they’d lost most of their refrigerated products. What’s more, increasingly worried customers were beginning to stock up on supplies. As I paid, she told me that two days ago, she had heard on the radio that everything would be back to normal soon, tomorrow, well, soon anyway, and that it was a small problem, a computer glitch or something, and that important infrastructure hadn’t been affected. We shouldn’t worry.

  Outside, I noticed several people standing in front of what looked like a post office. Eyes darkened by the heat, they stared in my direction. As if I had in m
y possession some sort of clue. They seemed to be keeping an eye on comings and goings. Or getting ready to do something. I quickly hid myself in my car and drove off. Passing in front of them I raised my hand to wave. No one waved back.

  KILOMETRE 875

  As I gobbled up three slices of white bread with bits of dry sausage I realized that my hands no longer smelled of gasoline. That was rare. I’d gotten so used to the smell of gasoline over the years that by now I’d grown fond of it. Despite all the hours spent in the half-light of garages, the smell of gas reminded me of a drink at the end of the work day.

  I brushed the crumbs off my jeans and swallowed a chocolate bar. It felt good, I was famished. I was hot. The sun arched over my windshield, like a bird of prey floating on high winds. The salt of sweat stuck to my skin. I felt thirsty as well. I should have realized: soft drinks wouldn’t do the trick. I was sick of this nice weather following me, chasing after me. I was thirsty. And the sweet liquid only made me nauseous. Without really admitting it, I hoped the black clouds would catch me, cover the sky and discharge their weight for forty days and forty nights. But for now, in the rear-view mirror, all I could see was a whirlwind of dust following the car, like a laughing madman.

  The small town was already far behind. The cat hadn’t made a sound in a while now. With the heat, he was probably sleeping. Unless he’d died. I tried to find a radio station but got nothing but static like gnashing teeth. I returned to the silence of the car interior. My foot on the gas pedal, I waited for the hours to pass. I stuck my hand in the gutted bag, looking for cigarettes.

  Until very recently, I had confused the dust dancing in sunbeams with thousands of birds, taking flight. But now, at the helm of my car, the dotted line remained fixed on the road, the only thread to guide me.

  KILOMETRE 1023

  I continued driving as the clock’s hands went about their business, unable to count the hours that passed. I had too many kilometres left to go to begin counting now. Two days and three nights to go. Before arriving home. Seeing my father. I was driving, but still too few numbers accumulated on the odometer. Not enough horsepower roiling through my old pile of iron and rubber. Even if driving for so long sometimes gave me the sensation of flying, I felt like something was catching up with me, following me. And no matter what I hoped to do, I was nailed to my seat, between wheel and gas pedal, at eye-level with the long grass and trash littering the edge of the ditch.

  I would have loved to travel at the speed of thought. I’d be sitting next to my father right then, allaying his fears, and mine. We would speak a little. Or stay silent, there’d be no difference. I would look through the window and trust him when he told me how high the trees had grown behind my childhood home.

  My house. The house that I grew up in until childhood changed its name. The house that had suddenly become too big after the death of my mother. A few years before my father shouted that I should leave and never come home. Never.

  The funeral had been simple. My mother lay there, in front of everyone, her body cold, hands crossed. I remembered it well. The makeup. Eyes closed. Lips sewn. And the murmur of a crowd covering her like a second shroud. I was sixteen. Standing as straight as a cedar post. I couldn’t move. Around me, there were too many people. A lot of neighbours. A lot of handshakes. And a lot of whys. Each of them, in low voices, outraged at the thinness of the thread of life. My father was seated, his back straight, a bit farther away. Some were smoking outside, one, two, three cigarettes despite the cold, delaying their return to the flower-filled room. The townspeople came to pay their respects before leaving. Then one of my aunts made her way to the front of the room to speak a few words that her eyes refused to admit. A work colleague whom my mother had struck with her kindness followed. Then my father was invited to speak, but he refused with a gesture of his hand. Soon after, well-dressed men closed the casket and everyone found themselves sitting in the church pews. Outside, a storm had raged for three days.

  In the weeks that followed, my father kept repeating that it was impossible, that it couldn’t be mechanical failure. That he’d just repaired the car. That he knew my mother’s car well. That it had been fine. That it had been in good shape. That it was impossible. That no, no.

  In the curve just before the long hill, a few kilometres out of town, the car changed direction and hit a tree at full speed, without slowing. By the time help arrived, my mother had her neck bent over the wheel and was no longer breathing. Traces left by wheels on the asphalt led them to believe that she’d tried to avoid something by pulling on the wheel. Snow had begun to fall. Heavy snowflakes, filled with silence. Not long after, nothing at all was left on the asphalt. The police were never able to identify what she might have been trying to avoid. That was the first snow. It melted only later, much later, when spring returned.

  A few days after the funeral, my father returned to work. We told him he should rest. He told us to mind our own business. In the half-light of the garage, lying under the car, hands black from motor oil, he fought against his own darkness. A little later, he started drinking again, that clear liquid that tore at his throat and his voice when he said that life had to go on, after all.

  Then the mine closed. Within a few months, several families were gone. Though the number of homes on the market kept increasing, with each new week came a fresh set of false hopes. Rumours of economic renewal regularly burned though town. The company would be bought out. Mining would begin anew. Then elections were held. And months buried weeks and each, in its own way, stayed as far as possible from any sort of promise.

  Our home became empty. And cold. There wasn’t always someone to put wood in the stove. At supper time, we said nothing, or barely anything, as if we no longer spoke the same language. Only the movement of our forks forced us to open our mouths.

  I’d been driving too fast for a while now. And I remembered that there were a lot of cops in this part of the country. And that strangers weren’t particularly welcome. Especially those driving around in cars as old as mine. Perhaps I should slow down? But what would be the point? My car kept going. Propelled by mechanical black magic that I knew like the back of my hand.

  Despite it all, each time I drew my eyebrows down and forced a bit more gas into the cylinders, I kept my ear on each small explosion, each combustion – as a worried man listens to the sound of his beating heart.

  KILOMETRE 1126

  The sun-covered asphalt unravelled beneath my car’s used tires. As I reached my first time zone shift, the kilometres per hour became heavier and reminded me that speed was a gale that withered more than it fortified.

  My back was bent towards the vehicles coming in the opposite direction. It was easy to believe that it was the first day of summer vacation. Cars, vans, caravans. All packed to the roof. It seemed like I was the only one who no longer wanted to win the west. When I glanced in my rear-view mirror, I could see only the slightly reddened whites of my eyes, burst veins like a thousand criss-crossing roads. My sleepless night followed me and the last time I had truly slept was even further behind. But there were no rest stops on the road. Only a flat horizon, without borders. The shoulder wasn’t wide enough. And the ditches seemed deep. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. I didn’t have the time.

  I wanted to see my father. To take him in my arms. To hold him tight. Speak with him. Even if after all these years I had the impression of no longer having anything to say to him. We could cover the basics, maybe. Lost love. Work. Alcohol. My story was bland. Ordinary. Diffuse. Faraway already. A mask of anonymity had stretched over my skin for so long that I’d forgotten my own features, except perhaps the dark rings under my eyes, losing their battle to wrinkles. When I finally got there, standing in the doorway, I was sure we’d gaze at one another like two men who no longer recognized the other. Me, tired, used up by road and distance. Him, aged, sour, and quaking. His hair thinning. Bones as fragile as paper. Memory eroded by illness.
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  The plains I drove across had nothing to offer but ploughed earth, wheat, beef, and a telephone line. The short conversations I’d had with my father over the past few years had all passed through this thin black wire, perched halfway between earth and sky.

  Hi, how are you. I’m okay, I’m okay. Everything’s fine? Yes, everything’s fine. What’s new? Not much, and you? A new job. Again? Yes.

  In fact, even if, with time, I learned to read augurs, to reveal meaning in coincidences, to converse with my purlieu, this dialogue with the world never managed to diminish the opacity of my solitude. And I was never able to truly name this entanglement of days, geographic hammering, this vaporous path that was mine. Explanations always eluded me. And when it came time to speak, I always preferred to stay silent and listen to the ruined voices that shout in the heads of shipwrecked souls. Conversations with my father were always brief and always the same. We renewed the same promises knowing that they served only to thin the heavy silence we shared so well.

  When will you come and visit? We’ve talked about it already. Ah, right, yes, true, soon. Exactly, soon, maybe soon. You always say that. Yes, and you know why.

  KILOMETRE 1134

  Along the road, through the drab mosaic of fields, several grain elevators awaited the harvest. Normally, at this time of the year, tractors should have been everywhere. It was time to bring in the hay and barley. But the fields were deserted. I could see only a cargo train in the distance. It sat unmoving, as if it had suddenly stopped in its tracks, in the middle of nowhere.