Running on Fumes

by Christian Guay-Poliquin

  He added that his friends had a clandestine bar not too far away. A small bar where you could have a bit of fun, even during catastrophes. Then seeing that I didn’t react, he raised his voice a little and offered to take the wheel. I glared at him for a moment in the rear-view mirror and, when I turned my eyes back to the road, I saw only the imprints of all the insects dead in mid-flight, shooting stars that ended their course on my windshield.

  The man asked me whether I was awake enough to react if, all of a sudden, the woman stretched her arm out and pulled on the wheel, the car careening into a deep river after smashing through a guardrail. Without waiting for my answer, he said that was how he’d met the love of his life. Returning from a party. Alcohol, speed, music. Heavy eyes. The wheel slipping through his fingers. Steel screaming. The car flipping over. The fall. The surface of water like concrete. The slow sinking towards the deep. Impossible to open the doors because of the pressure. Silence. Panic. Air running out. Water rising. Obscurity. Elbowing the window. Water flooding into the car like a torrent. The last air pocket. The interminable and painful swim to the dancing lights of the surface. Then the intoxication of survival, in each other’s arms.

  Weighing his words, the man offered to buy us a few drinks and find us a room where we might sleep. He also told me he could find gas. I turned my eyes towards the woman, who finished her beer. She gestured that we should continue. I shrugged.

  We were nearing an intersection. The man told me to turn right. I told myself again that if I hadn’t been so damn thirsty, I would have kept on driving. He told me to slow down, that it was right there. I waited, kept on driving, and pulled on the steering wheel at the last possible moment. The car skidded on the road and the man tumbled against the seat back. He straightened himself, not saying a word, and lit a cigarette. The woman chuckled. The smile on her lips gave me some satisfaction even though I’d scared myself. For an instant I saw myself smashing into a tree, the airbag deploying, and my beer exploding in my face.

  We were driving down a secondary road. Like everywhere else, there were no lights around us, except for the discreet glow of oil lamps in a few houses.

  The man told us he had story for us, the last one.

  Four in the morning, in the middle of summer. Two men went off to fish. The lake was covered in a quiet, oily fog. The sun was about to pull itself over the mountains. The catch had been particularly good in the few weeks prior. One man mechanically pulled on the oars while the other prepared his line. As their boat split the lake’s soft surface, something seemed to follow in their wake. The oarsman saw this shimmering from the corner of his eye, stopped moving, and concentrated on the water’s surface. An undulating and sinuous shape was headed for them. Alerted by his comrade’s shout, the other fisherman turned around and discerned the same strange thing. They barely had time to realize what it was when the silhouette disappeared underwater, only a few metres from their boat. Panicked, both men scanned the water. Nothing. Only the short lapping of wavelets against their boat broke the silence. Convinced they’d be flipped into the water from one moment to the next, both men watched for the immense shadow that was surely turning beneath them, preparing its attack. Each man picked up an oar and they sat back to back, as if to protect each other. As they adjusted their positions, however, one man lost his footing and, as he tried to regain his balance, their boat capsized. The two men immediately began swimming towards the shore, convinced that this was it for them. But they made it ashore and survived. And in the following days they told the town’s inhabitants about the lake monster, photographed a long time ago. He truly exists, they said. When the local media came asking questions, they had a perfectly forged story to tell. The monster hunted them. They were forced to abandon ship to avoid being swallowed whole by the beast. It was a miracle the beast let them live. A miracle and an honour! They appeared on the local news for a while, then were forgotten. But years later, on his deathbed, the man who’d taken the picture that had convinced so many across the globe that they were seeing indisputable proof of some prehistoric mystery admitted to his loved ones they shouldn’t be too gullible because, on this earth, a small lie can turn other honest men into liars.

  I told him to shut up. And when I raised my eyes to the rear-view mirror, I saw his eyes glow with the lucidity of inebriation. He told me to keep driving.

  We entered a deserted village. While the man gave me directions, I heard the fingers of the woman tapping against the window, the coughing of the engine, and the clinking of empty beer bottles. We crossed a bridge and followed a river and only the foam of the water’s eddies seemed to illuminate our surroundings.

  KILOMETRE 3945

  We arrived at a two-storey building tucked away in the forest. The light of a bare bulb over the entrance illuminated the place. We exited the car one after the other. I unfolded myself with difficulty, thinking of the jaws of life. There were several vehicles in the parking lot, and the ground was marked with deep ruts. A few silhouettes moved here and there in the deeper dark, in the shadow of the moonless, starless night. In the distance, I heard the rumbling of the river. The man offered me a cigarette, and told me I was being foolish. That it was the sound of the generator. He turned and tried to caress the woman’s cheek, but she backed up a few steps. He grabbed his hockey bag, his guitar case, and his beers, knocked on the hood of the car, crossed the small group amassed at the entrance, and disappeared inside.

  When the door to the bar swung open, we heard music. The woman asked whether I really wanted to go inside. I told her the man had promised he’d find gasoline for us. Perhaps we’d learn more about what was going on. We wouldn’t stay long at all, there was still too much road left before us. She looked at the ground for a moment and then, as if she’d suddenly dug deep and found a reserve of strength, pulled me by the hand towards the strange establishment.

  KILOMETRE 3945

  I leaned against the bar in front of a mirror that doubled images of the bottles of hard alcohol, my beer, and my face. The woman was standing by my side. The place was noisy. Voices losing their way, glasses clinking, people looking at each other, bodies moving against one another. Through the thick fog of cigarette smoke floating at eye level, everything seemed normal. As if the past few days had all been a dream.

  At the far end of the smoke-filled room, a few formerly purple couches where a few bodies had settled. The walls were covered with old posters surrounded by neon lights and dusty hunting trophies. We numbered about forty or so, nonchalantly gauging one another, halfway between a beer and a cigarette.

  But our road companion wasn’t among us.

  I sensed that the woman wanted me to talk to her. Tell her some fun story. I couldn’t tell a story for the life of me, and I wasn’t in the right mood, anyway. I thought about my father, prisoner to his failing memory. His panicked voice over the phone. The power outage that seemed so far from where we were.

  I stared at the ashtray as if something would emerge from it. But nothing. Seeing my empty beer, the barman stopped his back-and-forth in front of me.

  Same thing? Sure, same thing, twice.

  A bit farther up the counter, a mustachioed man curved over his glass as if he wanted to protect it. His lips moved without sound. His hollow cheeks and tight face were sculpted with precision. I observed him, thinking that I might end up like him. The barman returned and gave me two beers.

  Here. You know where I might make a phone call? A phone call! Forget about it, you’ll have more luck with smoke signals.

  The mustachioed man turned towards us saying that landlines were out in most cases, but that cellphones still worked. I looked at the barman.

  That’s true? Yeah, it’s true. Do you have one? Maybe, do you have money? Maybe. Follow me.

  I told the woman to wait for me for a moment. I wouldn’t be long. The barman led me into a small room at the back. And closed the door behind me.

  Thr
ee men were seated at a low table. One of them asked me what they could do to help.

  I’d like to make a phone call. It’s important? Yes, it’s important. You have what’s needed? How much do you want?

  They glanced at each other.

  Two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars! Take it or leave it.

  KILOMETRE 3945

  I staggered back to the bar as if I’d just taken a punch to the face. The woman asked me what was wrong. I swallowed a mouthful of beer and told her I’d just wasted my time and money. That you couldn’t trust anyone anymore. And that I was far too naive. She said I shouldn’t worry and suggested that we return to the road soon, without paying, before the man came back. His promises were worth nothing. Then I felt her soft black eyes over my body. And her hand on the back of my neck.

  And then her fingers walking across my back, delicately tracing the contours of my vertebrae.

  I told her I’d like to be somewhere else. That I’d love to flee, far away. With her. Far from this bar. Far from this interminable road. Far from the damn car. I told her all we needed to do was to steal a truckload of wood, then go build ourselves a cabin in the woods, far away. On the shore of a lake. She turned her head slightly, smiled, and whispered that it was a good idea.

  A few tables away from us, two young men spoke, gesticulating. The woman listened attentively to the words coming out of their mouths. She asked whether I understood what they were saying. I answered that people were in their words what they weren’t in their silences. She laughed. She laughed and fatigue, which had been chasing us through the empty bottles, flamed for a moment before receding again.

  I finished my beer. My heart was pumping clear blood. I felt lighter. I signalled to the barman. He took the two empty bottles, telling me I drank for two. I answered he hadn’t seen anything yet.

  The woman asked for a cigarette. I was looking for my cigarettes when we saw our passenger making his way towards us, holding his pack. His cheeks were red, his smile yellow, and his eyes gleaming. He asked for a beer and lit a cigarette. The woman got up and told me it was time to go. The man suggested she shouldn’t go too far, that they had to settle first. He then glanced at me and put his arm around my shoulders. He thanked me and asked the bartender to bring me another beer. He warned me they wouldn’t be long. And that it would be best for me if I stayed out of it. Getting up, he slipped a fifty-dollar bill into my shirt pocket and wished me luck. The woman made me understand I shouldn’t make anything of it. Then the man led her towards the far end of the bar.

  I stayed alone at the bar, watching them from the corner of my eye. But the music was too loud and there were too many people for me to understand what they were saying. Or understand what was happening. I drank, and beer evaporated from my bottle as people around me laughed and talked. Behind me, the two young men were still talking. Talking. Smoking. They were getting louder. Words one on top of the other. Louder and more aggressive. Then they stopped talking. And they drank.

  I could feel the barman watching me, as if suspicious. But as long as he picked up my empty bottles and brought me back full ones, I didn’t care.

  The woman and the man were still in the corner of the room. I couldn’t look away from them, except to take a swig of beer. Abruptly, the man pushed the woman towards the door. They went outside. I quickly got up and made my way after them. Walking down the stairs, I heard them bellowing at each other like two vultures fighting over roadkill. The man pointed his finger at me and shouted that this didn’t concern me at all. The woman nodded and told me she’d prefer it if I went back in.

  I turned around and made my way back to the bar. I drank. And as always, it helped. But it didn’t turn anything off.

  On the wall, a large moose head looked back at me with its glassy eyes. Around me, the whole roomful of people seemed stuffed. It had nothing to do with the power outage, I knew; it was just the way people moved at this time of night. I easily recognized the fatigue that clung to their eyes, dragging down the lines of their faces into the hollowness of their cheeks, on the corner of their lips. The same features I saw in the mirror.

  The woman hadn’t come back yet. I asked the barman whether he knew the man. He answered that he had no idea who I was talking about. I emptied my beer. Enough. It was time to go.

  I got up too quickly and stumbled, my foot catching on the stool. I leaned against the table of the two young men behind me and, as I tried to regain my balance, the table folded under me and I crashed with it to the ground.

  I opened my eyes. The barman’s face was perched over mine. I told him that everything was fine and got to my knees as well as I could among the pieces of broken glass, spilt beer, and cigarette butts. He took me by the arm. I told him to leave me alone. I heard the two young men making fun of me. My head hurt. There was blood on the ground. The barman pulled me to my feet. I pushed him back and I told everyone to fuck off. Then I fought to find my composure, stood straighter, and walked to the bathroom, leaning against the wall.

  Red streaks on the sink’s white enamel. I lifted my head and looked myself straight in the eyes. My beard was already long, my eyes deeply bagged, and blood ran from my scalp to my chin.

  What am I doing here?

  By now I should have been with my father. In the mirror, I could barely recognize his face in my own. Did he have, at my age, that balding forehead, too-thick eyebrows, and hair the colour of ash? A face made of bags under the eyes and prominent veins, supported by a neck that knew how to discreetly swallow saliva? That washed-out air, held together by a jaw muscled from holding in so many yawns? Probably. But I couldn’t remember. That was why I wanted to see him. Now. I didn’t want to be just a name on the other side of the world. He needed me, I knew that. Even if he had always been stubborn, he would never be able to make it on his own, now. Especially with the outage. His memory was no longer anything but chalk on a blackboard. And I needed him as well. To make sure I looked as little like him as possible.

  Someone was heading for the urinals. I steeled myself and turned on the tap, but no water came out. I soaked up the blood on my face as best I could with a paper towel. It was going to be okay.

  I pushed the bathroom door open and the buzzing of music filled me again. The barman counted his bills and watched me from the corner of his eye. I slowly made my way to the exit. Passing by the bar, I noticed that the man was seated at my old stool. I walked up to him and asked him where the woman was. The barman stopped counting his bills. The man told me he didn’t know. He was taunting me. I advised him to make an effort before I helped him remember. He jumped off the stool, warning me that I looked like I had drunk too much. I said he had no idea what he was talking about. And that he was terrible at telling stories. He took a drag of his cigarette and told me softly that was nothing, that I had never met his father. He said that I was still bloody, right there, under the temple.

  Where is she?

  The barman asked me whether I was talking to him. I shook my head and stared straight at my passenger.

  Where is she?

  The man said that she’d probably left without me. That sometimes life was sad, but that’s just how it was. I stepped towards him. He dropped his cigarette butt to the ground. I tightened my fist. I threw myself at him. He dropped. My knuckles split open against the bar. I shouted. People turned and stared. I got back up and tried to hit him again. But he dodged one more time. Then the two young men jumped me, threw me to the ground, hit me, shouted that I was crazy. The barman came up and asked me what my problem was. As they dragged me to the back door, I raised my head and took a last look at the bar. The woman wasn’t there, and the man had disappeared.

  I was thrown out onto pavement. Through the insults, I could hear a voice ordering me never to come back here and another telling me that I should count myself lucky. That they’d gotten real mad for lesser offences. Then nothing at all, except the sound of a m
etal lock turning and the steady rumbling of the generator.

  KILOMETRE 3945

  A clammy wetness shook me from my inertia. I shivered. My ears were ringing. Used to noise as I might be, used to the strident bark of tools, to tinnitus, last night’s music played in a continuous loop in my skull like a broken record. It was morning. Very early. I had slept. I slept curled up there, among the garbage bags and wet cardboard.

  I struggled to my feet and slowly made my way around the deserted building. It was still before sunrise. Behind me, the couch grass grew to the edge of a forest strewn with automobile carcasses. I listened closely. The generator was no longer working but I could still hear shouting from inside the bar. I’d better leave.

  The woman.

  She must have run away. I walked to my car. Unless she was hiding somewhere. The thickness in my mouth gave me nausea, but it would pass, everything would be okay. Or perhaps she’d left with the man after all?

  No.

  I stopped near my car, inspecting it quickly. Nobody had slashed the tires, broken a window, or stolen the luggage tied to the roof. No one had put sugar in my gas tank either. I hoped.

  Leaning towards the door, I saw her, she was there. Hugging her knees and sleeping on the car seat, in one of my work vests. I opened the door. She woke up, startled, and asked where I’d been. I raised an eyebrow and told her I needed a coffee. She moved over to the passenger seat, staring at me the whole time. As soon as I sat down, I saw the state of my face in the rear-view mirror. She asked what had happened. I pushed away the hand she stretched towards me and told her it was nothing, that I’d seen worse. I turned the key and the engine started without hesitation.

  We got back on the road. The sky was covered. The clouds low. And we passed no one. Perfect conditions. I thought about last night. The detour had cost me a lot. There were still too many kilometres to go. I would need to make sure I still had enough money left. But that could wait.