by Ben Adams
The sun beat down on him, was absorbed by the extra melanin secreted into his skin, and John felt its warmth and smiled. For the first time, John didn’t have a detailed plan regarding his future. When he was younger he’d dreamed and plotted out his life, college, writing puzzles for The Denver Post, a book deal that put his genre-bending work in the hands of the next generation of enigmatologists, talk shows, his own panel at Comic-Con, an Oscar winning biopic, but those fantasies no longer mattered. John’s future was as open as the desert sandwiching the road. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him, what he’d become. He just knew that whatever awaited him in the centuries ahead, he didn’t want Louisa’s job, to secretly organize a colonization effort from a trailer park in New Mexico.
John didn’t share his thoughts with Sheriff Masters. Instead, they silently walked into town.
The old gas station on the edge of town, its perfect view of nothing, was a relic from an era before nationwide infrastructure, when two-lane highways were the thoroughfares for cross-country shipping or family trips. Propped on posts next to the highway, an arrow pointed to the station. A red awning with neon lights augmenting it sheltered the two gas pumps, their gauges rolling like slot machines. Tires were stacked next to the front door. Metal signs for cola, beer, and motor oil hung in the window. The signs were dented and rusted, corroding them with the nostalgic quality that John loved.
John dropped his last few dollars on the counter, not looking at the cashier, but out the window behind him. The sheriff was talking on a pay phone. Beyond him, lifeless desert. John stepped outside with two beers and a bag of sunflower seeds. He heard the sheriff yelling at somebody. The sheriff slammed the receiver, started cursing.
“Goddamn Jimmy!” he shouted. “Stupid sonuvabitch! He found the car in the desert, all shot up. Thinks I got killed. Now he’s got the NMBI out looking for me. What the hell am I going to tell everyone?”
“Tell them the truth, that we were abducted by aliens.”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said, “and instead of doing anal probes, they made us drink beer and eat hamburgers. They’ll think I’m off my goddamn rocker.”
“What? You think they’d believe we were anally probed?”
John handed the sheriff a beer, the opened bag of sunflower seeds. A red picnic table squatted in the sun next to the ice machine and, sipping his beer, the sheriff sat there. John straddled the bench seat and picked at peeling red paint.
“You know, they ransacked your room,” the sheriff said, propping his elbows on the table.
“I figured as much,” John said, popping a few sunflower seeds in his mouth.
“I guess they found Mrs. Morris’s address.” He sipped his beer. “She came home last night, found her place broken into. All her Elvis shit got destroyed. Made it look like teenagers. Jimmy was first on the scene, said there were broken plates and dildos everywhere. She’s claiming the Elvis painting, you know, the one with his cock out…”
“What? She’s got another one?”
“She’s claiming it was stolen.”
“Hollister’s probably got it hanging in his office.” John envisioned it hanging behind Colonel Hollister’s desk, his men suppressing their giggles when he’d order them to stand at attention.
“Goddamn Air Force. Worst part is, I can’t prove nothing either.”
“I think the world might be better off with one less painting of naked Elvis.”
“Jimmy impounded your car. Your belongings are in the evidence locker.”
“Everything?” John asked, pushing his sunflower seeds into a pyramid.
“Yup, including an envelope full of cash.”
“That’ll make Roof happy.” John sipped his beer, looked at the road, trying to see its end. “Who’s coming to get us?”
“Shirley. Should be here any minute.”
The sheriff finished his beer and walked to the back of the gas station. Old train tracks resting a hundred years were overrun with dried grass, almost buried.
“Hey, John, bet I can throw a bottle farther than you can.”
“You’re on.”
John hopped off the bench and trotted to where the sheriff stood. The sheriff dug the toe of his boot into the dirt. He took his bottle by the neck and tossed it at the tracks. John threw his, not waiting to see where the sheriff’s landed. The bottles burst a few feet from each other, spreading shattered glass across the tracks. They laughed and argued over whose went farther.
A lone car on the road. The sheriff nudged John and started walking to the front of the gas station. A maroon station wagon with fake wood paneling pulled into the gravel parking lot, a ghost town stagecoach, a gray dust cloud in its wake.
“Lee, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick,” Shirley said when they opened the car doors. She was older, the sheriff’s age. A floral print sprouted across her suit jacket. Freshly cut gray hair dangled around her ears. John slid into the backseat, next to boxes full of files that Shirley had taken home from the police station. John moved a box over, realizing that it was Shirley who kept the station from toppling.
“Yeah, I know” the sheriff said, grinning. “I’ll explain everything at the station.”
Shirley drove them back to the motel, scolding them like they were teenagers caught smoking behind the gym. The sheriff smiled at John, as if to say, ‘Isn’t she something?’
The motel parking lot was empty. From the outside, everything looked normal. The sheriff’s car was untouched. An open sign hung in the lobby window. The door to John’s room was closed, like he was out for the day exploring the town’s historical landmarks.
“Lee,” Shirley said, “you better get straight back to the station if you know what’s good for you. And you, Mr. Abernathy, it was nice meeting you, but next time you come to town, leave the trouble in Denver.”
“Yes, ma’am,” John said, not wanting to tell her that the trouble was already here, and would probably remain after he left.
“So, that’s Shirley?” John asked as she drove out of the parking lot.
“Yup. That’s the Missus. Twenty-four years this June. What you saw is tame compared to what I’m gonna get when I get home. Whew, be glad you’re not married.”
“Yeah, it must suck having someone who cares enough to worry,” John said, thinking about Rosa and doubting he would ever experience that particular joy.
“You know it, buddy.” Sheriff Masters slapped John’s arm and watched Shirley drive away, smiling slightly, content.
“Don’t worry about your stuff, now,” the sheriff said. “I’ll bring it over tonight. You want to get a beer later?”
“Sounds good, but I’m leaving soon.”
“So, your job’s done then, huh?” The sheriff put one of his keys under his thumbnail, cleaned out some dirt.
“Yeah, gotta get back. Take care of my mom.”
“Your car’s all shot up?”
“I figure I’ll take the bus. It won’t take me long to get back, probably a day and a half.” John grinned at the sheriff, hoping he caught his joke about slow bus travel. Instead, the sheriff looked at the ground, silent.
“Well,” the sheriff said. He moved a small pebble with the toe of his boot. It rolled away and he looked up, smiling. “I better get back to the station. Jimmy’s probably got everything turned all back-asswards by now.”
They shook hands, John thinking it was the last time he’d see the sheriff. He wondered, after all they’d been through, what Sheriff Masters thought of him. He didn’t try to read his mind, leaving him his privacy. Instead, he just nodded, the sheriff nodding back. John hoped that after he’d left and the sheriff returned to his station and the quiet routine of his small town, that Sheriff Masters would still consider him a friend.
The sheriff got in his car, promised to stop by with John’s things, again.
“Hey, check this out,” the sheriff said, grinning.
He turned on his siren and sped down the street like he was heading t
o a bank robbery. John shook his head, chuckled.
When the sirens were a whisper, John pulled out his motel room key and stood in front of the door for a moment. He held the key by the thin part, tapped the fat end against his hand, feeling his palm withstand the key’s weight. There was something inside the room, waiting for him, something he had to deal with.
He put the key in the lock and opened the door. The room had been cleaned. The bed was made, the carpet vacuumed. John smelled bleach and ammonia and pine perfume.
And he smelled himself, the stink of the activity of the past several days. He wondered if it would ever wash off. In the bathroom, John took off his shirt and splashed sink water on his face and chest. Jimmy had confiscated his luggage, his clothes, and John had to continue wearing his filthy jeans and sweat-soaked, comic book t-shirt.
On the table was something that hadn’t been appropriated, his pad of graph paper. The barely-begun crossword puzzle. Blue, horizontal and vertical lines bisected on the pad. Words had been erased, written over, their letters sitting in the cells the lines created, imprisoned by John’s misdirected imagination.
He picked up a pen, clicked it a couple of times, extending then retracting the ballpoint, like each click was a retort in some internal debate. But the argument was already over. It was won before he left with Leadbelly for the desert. John sighed. He clicked the pen one last time and, with two pen strokes, freely crossed out the puzzle.
He set his gun on the table. Relieved of the weight, John collapsed on the bed, the frayed plastic stitching from the polyester comforter poking him in the back, and quickly fell asleep.
* * * *
Later in the afternoon someone knocked on the door, waking John.
He opened it, drowsy, a little disoriented. Sheriff Masters stood in the late afternoon sun, his hands in his back pockets. Behind him, Jimmy and the motel manager, Ernesto, waited.
“I hope you don’t mind, John,” the sheriff said. “I told Ernie you were checking out. Asked him to come down here and handle it.”
“I don’t get it,” John said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “What’s going on?”
Ernesto held the receipt close to his face, reading it, his forefinger guiding him. “Just sign here,” he said, a smile wrinkling his tan face, handing John the receipt and pen. “Don’t worry about the mess in the room, young fella. Carmilta’s my cousin. She told me about your friend. We try to take care of our celebrity guests.”
“Well,” John winked at Ernesto, like it was their inside joke, “my friend said Carmilta took very good care of him.”
“Good. I’ll put it in her quarterly review.”
“I think that’s where Leadbelly put it, too.”
“I brought all your stuff,” the sheriff said. “It’s out in the car.”
John looked over the sheriff’s shoulder at the squad car.
“The other car.” The sheriff held out his hand. A set of car keys dangled from his fingers, augmented by a medallion with the Pontiac logo.
“Jimmy felt bad about overreacting. So, he decided to loan you his car for your trip home. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?” Sheriff Masters glared at his nephew.
“Uh, yeah, bro. I’m real sorry,” Jimmy said, looking at the ground like a little kid caught stealing change to buy Foreigner tickets. He wore a yellow t-shirt with a faded decal of a surfer. The sleeves were cut off. Wrap-around sunglass rested on his head backwards, like they were shading him from hindsight.
The car, a large, black two-seater with a flaming eagle painted on the hood. A custom license plate said ‘Bandit’. It looked like something from John’s history elective, Matchbox Cars of the 1980’s 102.
“You’re kidding me?” John said. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Dude,” Jimmy said, his smile bright as fog lights, “that’s a vintage 1977 Trans-Am. Like what Burt Reynolds drove in Smokey and the Bandit. Check it out, bro.”
Jimmy showed John one of his exposed arms. Near his shoulder was a tattoo of Burt Reynolds’s face with the collar of a red shirt and tan cowboy hat. A black Trans-Am was inked underneath.
Art school had prepared John for this level of obsession, his classmates dedicating their lives to an artist, band, or song. This fixation was embodied in a student exhibit comprised of trash from a famous rapper’s hotel room. The highlight of the show was a piece made out of Chinese take-out boxes and hemorrhoid cream. John couldn’t watch the rapper’s videos, featuring bouncing cars, without laughing.
“So, I take it you like the movie?” John asked.
“Bro, this movie is my life. This car, dude, it’s like a piece of American history.”
“You don’t need American history to go to Walgreens,” the sheriff said.
Jimmy turned away from his uncle and toward the parking lot. He crossed his arms, making the tattoo of Burt Reynolds’s face pout.
“Jimmy,” John said, feeling sorry for him, “thanks for letting me borrow your car. It’s really cool of you.”
“Ah, no worries, bro,” Jimmy said, sticking his fist out, waiting for a bump. “I’m just glad someone around here appreciates the classics.”
John rolled his eyes, then gave Jimmy a fist bump.
“Just take it easy with her, okay. This bitch has a turbo-charged V8. You gotta watch her, bro, or she’ll get away from you.”
“So, no street racing?”
“No. Hey.” Jimmy started laughing. “Dude, you almost got me.”
“I’ll get it back to you soon. A couple of days. A week at the most.”
John’s cooler sat on the Trans-Am’s front seat, his bag on the floor. John unzipped his bag and started going through it. Everything was still there, even his cash.
John opened the cooler.
“Shirley made you some sandwiches,” Sheriff Masters said. “And we packed you a couple of sodas.”
John closed the cooler, caught the reflection of neon in the side mirror. When they arrived at the hotel that morning, the neon sign was off, but now it was dusk and the sign shone like it did when he’d checked into The Sagittarius Inn, arrived in Las Vegas, New Mexico, a town unmolested by coincidences.
“Ernesto, that sign, where’d you get it?” John asked, thumbing over his shoulder to the neon centaur.
“Oh, that thing,” Ernesto said, pointing at it with his whole hand, fingers fused together by age. “It came with the place. I was gonna change it but it cost too much. Plus, the fella I bought the motel from said it’d attract a lotta good customers.”
“You remember his name? the guy you bought it from?”
“Not really. That was a long time ago, back in ’73. He was an Indian fella, I can tell you that much.”
“Wasn’t Jonathon Deerfoot, was it?”
“Yup,” Ernesto nodded. “That’s it. How’d you know?”
“I have family that knew him.”
John thanked Ernesto for his hospitality, and thanked Jimmy again for letting him borrow his car.
“John, let me walk you to that car a Jimmy’s,” Sheriff Masters said. They walked to the driver’s side, out of earshot of the other two. “I went by Professor Gentry’s place this afternoon. The tire wall had been knocked down, the trailer was burned out.”
“Meth lab. I knew it,” John said, smirking. “He’s out at the trailer park with his new girlfriend. I’ll get word to him somehow, tell him to hide out for a while.”
“Hey,” the sheriff smiled, “when you get back from Denver, why don’t you work for me. It’s just a matter a time before Jimmy shoots himself in the foot.”
“Thanks, but I think there’s already plenty of work for me to do.”
“Alright. Well, it’s a standing offer. Just be safe driving home, okay?”
John got in the car. The windows were already rolled down and Sheriff Masters closed the door for him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” John said, putting the gun under the driver’s seat.
“Alright. Hey, give me a call in a co
uple a days, when you figure out when you’re coming back.”
John turned the key. The engine of the 1977 Trans-Am vibrated underneath him, roaring like a defiant memory. It was why Jimmy liked the car. When it was dormant, the car looked like the punch line to a joke about New Jersey, but it hid a power only hinted at by the gold phoenix painted on the black hood.
John drove to the edge of the road and stopped and stuck his hand out the window, flipped them off. He stepped on the brakes and the gas at the same. The tires spun and smoked. Jimmy shouted something, but the squealing tires muffled his protest. Finally, John took his foot off the brake. The car fishtailed a little and John sped out of the parking lot, leaving two black streaks on the Las Vegas street.
The road was empty, except for the occasional semi. The car roared under John and Jimmy’s Judas Priest tape flipped sides as he sped past fence posts. A hawk circled above a field, searching for something invisible to John. He turned up the music, hoping thundering drums, crunching guitars, and a bird-like male falsetto would infuse him with a sense of badassery, make him feel aggressive and invincible. Driving away from the motel, watching the sheriff wave, seemed to drain him of his energy, and he began to yearn for Las Vegas, New Mexico in a way that he never longed for Denver, or Boulder, like it was where he really belonged, home. Everywhere he had lived, he felt out of place, whether it was growing up in Denver, going to art school, or working for Rooftop. John had assumed it was because he didn’t have a father, even though his mom and Rooftop tried to compensate. But the reason he felt isolated was because he truly wasn’t like anyone else. During late night dorm room sessions, ten kids piled into a room, passing a bong, the conversation constantly returned to how they always felt different from the other kids at their high school. In those moments, John felt a greater distance between them. Because, unlike the girl who blew glass vampires, or the guy who sculpted a clay Bob Costas with boobs, John truly was all the lonely and alienating adjectives his friends used to characterize themselves. He just didn’t know how extraordinary he was.
