by Jeff Strand
He lowers his hand. "C'mon, man, give me a ride."
"I can't."
"I'd do the same for you. You don't see me judging you because your lip is all swollen up, so why can't you get past the fact that I'm an amputee?"
"It has nothing to do with your hand," I say. "But you keep mentioning heads in boxes, and I'll be honest with you, that's kind of a deal-breaker."
"But I'm saying it from the perspective that you think I'm going to cut off your head just because I'm missing a hand, and I'm trying to convey the message that you're making ridiculous assumptions based on my physical appearance. What I'm saying is that I'm not going to cut off anybody's head and that it's wrong of you to have thought that in the first place."
"I understood your point. I'm just saying that if somebody keeps talking about heads in boxes, even if they're saying they won't cut off your head and put it in a box, you don't want them in your car. If I kept saying that I didn't have any explosives on me, just kept saying it over and over, would you give me a ride?"
"Here's the thing," says Eddie. "You wouldn't have had to insist that you didn't have any explosives, because I wouldn't have immediately looked at you with distrust. I would have seen you as a fellow human being in need, instead of a psycho killer."
"I don't see you as a psycho killer."
"You do. And the next time you stop your car, I guarantee you're going to check the door handle to make sure my hook-hand isn't dangling from it."
"I'm not going to do that."
"I lost my hand in the service of my country. The doctors didn't give me some high-tech prosthetic hand with fingers and flesh-color; they gave me this hook-thing." He opens and closes the pincers. "Somehow this makes me sinister, huh? Somehow this means that I'm going to do you harm. You know, your hands aren't immune to injury. Someday you could lose one, just like me, and people will refuse to give you rides."
I glance over at Amy. She gives a very tiny shake of her head.
"It's not the hook-hands," I insist.
"Then what is it?"
"I already said. The heads in a box."
"And I already said--"
"Also, you're kind of belligerent."
"Oh, I'm belligerent?"
"Extremely. Even if you had hand-model hands, I wouldn't give you a ride."
Eddie frowns. "I'm sorry, man," he says, sounding genuine. "I'm just sensitive about these things. I'd get on some meds, but then people would say 'Oh, look, it's a drugged-up vet with a hook-hand!' and I'd be even worse off."
"Well, you know, a small amount of meds might not be so bad."
"You sure I can't have a ride? You'd really be helping me out."
I pull my wallet out of my pocket and take out a twenty-dollar bill. "Here," I say. "We can't give you a ride, but maybe you can use this to pay for gas if somebody else gives you a ride."
Eddie plucks the bill out of my hand with his pincers. "Thanks. A ride would be better, but I appreciate this."
"We have to get going," says Amy, taking me by the arm.
"Excuse me! Sir?" I hadn't noticed this, but a woman in her thirties has been standing off to the side, observing our conversation. She's beautiful but looks exhausted, probably because she's seven or eight months pregnant. An eleven or twelve-year-old girl with pink streaks in her hair stands with her. They walk over to us.
"This is my dad," says the pregnant woman. "He can be kind of intense. But we really need a lift."
"Hold on," says Amy. "He was trying to get a ride for all three of you?"
The woman nods.
"I'm not an expert on this kind of bait-and-switch," Amy admits, "but wouldn't it have been better strategy to use the pregnant woman and the little girl as your representative?"
"That shouldn't be necessary!" says Eddie. "I shouldn't have to trot out my knocked-up daughter to get sympathy! A truly decent human being would--"
"Enough, Dad," says the pregnant woman. She holds out her hand to Amy, who shakes it. "My name's Bonnie and this is my daughter Lynsie. L-Y-N-S-I-E. We're trying to get to my mom's house in New Jersey, but our car broke down and we've been hitchhiking. We could really use your help."
"I'll throw in twenty bucks for gas," says Eddie.
Bonnie glares at him. "I promise we'll keep him quiet."
Amy gives me a questioning look. I think she's trying to say Which one of us is going to be the bad guy here? but I don't know that for sure. I was fine being cold-hearted when it was just Eddie. I'm much less okay turning away a mother-to-be. I kind of want to ask her to lift her shirt so I can verify that it's a baby belly and not a hidden cache of weapons, but I don't think that would be well received.
"Is it okay if I talk to my friend for a moment?" I ask.
Without waiting to receive official permission, Amy and I take a few steps away. I wonder if we can sprint to the car and speed off before they catch us. There are other people in the rest area, so Eddie is unlikely to leap onto the car and break through the rear windshield with his hook.
"What do you think?" I ask.
"We can't just leave them."
"Well, I mean, we can. It wouldn't be that hard."
"She's pregnant."
"I know," I say. "That bites."
"I think that if he was a serial killer, it would be difficult to actually hunt prey with your granddaughter and pregnant daughter around. I mean, if things got tense, how tough would it really be for us to use one of them as a hostage?"
"Okay, to me, once this has reached a point where we're talking about taking pregnant women and little girls hostage, it's time to remove ourselves from the situation."
"I just don't think we'd be in any danger," Amy says.
"I think we might be."
"I think the level of danger is below the level of feeling like a horrible person if we don't help them."
"He was talking about heads in boxes."
"Right, but he was saying that he wouldn't put our heads in a box."
"I understand that. He made the same point. I feel, though, that if I had said, hey, Amy, we should go to Rhode Island together, and, oh, don't worry, I won't chop off your head anytime during those twenty-two hours, we wouldn't be on this trip right now. Do you disagree?"
"No, I agree."
"Good."
"What if we find out that something happened to them?"
"I'd feel awful. But what if we find out that something happened to the people who gave them a ride?"
"We can't live our whole lives in fear."
"No, but we can live a small part of them in fear. A tiny little percentage of smart fear."
"Do you really, truly believe that Eddie is a serial killer?"
"No. That doesn't mean we couldn't be his first victims."
"You're being silly."
I sigh. She's right. "Can we at least tell them that if we don't show up at our destination by a certain time, a letter will automatically go out to the authorities?"
"Sure. Let's get on the road."
* * *
I'm sitting in the back, on the right side. The back seat of this car is spacious and comfortable...unless one is seated behind a pregnant woman who has her seat slid back and reclined down to your knees. Then it's a bit less comfy. But I insisted that she do it, so I can't really complain.
Lynsie is next to me, engrossed in a thick fantasy novel. I'd asked her if she read a lot, and her curt response indicated that she preferred the act of reading to talking to boring adults about reading.
Eddie is on the other side of Lynsie. He doesn't smell fantastic. Though it's not a gag-inducing Air! For the love of God, I need fresh air! aroma, he smells like a mix of cigarette smoke, body odor, and wet pug. I have no idea how I am able to narrow the dog scent down to "pug."
I don't want to be a whiner, but the trip is somewhat less enjoyable now.
Fortunately, after about fifteen minutes or so I stopped worrying that we were in danger. Eddie's hook-hand isn't sharp or anything, and when you really
think about it (which I have) it's actually less dangerous than a regular hand. It would require an immense amount of strength to jab it through my skull. It might leave a bruise, but that's about it. And if he did have psychopathic intentions toward me, he almost certainly would not have placed his granddaughter between us.
Even at my most paranoid, I don't think Lynsie is a threat. Hopefully that won't be my downfall.
"So what're you doing in Rhode Island?" Eddie asks me. "Visiting family?"
I shake my head. "Sightseeing." I'm not ashamed that we're driving all the way up there just for a hot dog, but I don't feel like saying it out loud.
"Beautiful place," Eddie says.
"We're hoping so."
"Smallest state in the union."
"That's what I've heard."
"And not an actual island."
"Nope."
Eddie lets out a wistful sigh. "I could go for a big bowl of clam chowder right now."
"Gross," Lynsie says, not looking up from her book.
"What do you mean, gross?" Eddie asks.
"Clams are gross."
"No, they aren't."
"They're all slimy and gooky."
"Have you ever had clam chowder?"
"No way."
"Bonnie, why hasn't my granddaughter ever had clam chowder?"
"I don't know."
"That's outrageous. Never had clam chowder. After you two get all settled in with Gramma, I'm going to take you out and we're all going to have a bowl."
"Gross."
"Have you ever had escargot?" Amy asks her.
"No."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Snails."
"Right. It's fancy."
"Gross."
Eddie ruffles Lynsie's hair. "The only reason people eat escargot is because it's socially unacceptable to just drink a cup of garlic butter."
"I've drank a cup of garlic butter before," Lynsie says.
"Have you ever had a kumquat?" Amy asks.
"What's that?"
"A kind of fruit."
"Is it really?" I ask.
"You've never heard of a kumquat?"
"I've heard of them. I just didn't know what they were."
Is the definition of kumquat common knowledge? Is this something I should have been embarrassed to admit, like the fact that I wasn't one hundred percent sure if Rhode Island was a real island?
"They sort of look like really tiny oranges," Amy says.
"Okay, I've probably seen those. Or maybe I was looking at really tiny oranges."
Eddie reaches over and ruffles my hair as well, which is more than a little unnerving, though at least he doesn't use his hook. "It's all right. I didn't know what a kumquat was, either."
Bonnie sits up and turns around to look at him. "You didn't know what a kumquat was?"
"No. Why would I?"
"Because you're sixty-one."
"I apologize for never having crossed paths with a kumquat. I'm like Todd: I've heard of them, I just didn't know what they were."
"What did you think they were?"
"I don't know."
"An animal?"
"Nah, maybe a plant. So I wasn't too far off."
"Can you believe this?" Bonnie asks Amy.
"Nope."
"I disagree with you two trying to shame us," I say. "I think a kumquat is an obscure reference."
"It's really not," says Amy. "They might not be a first-tier fruit like apples or bananas, but people know what they are."
"Would you say they're more obscure than a pomegranate?"
"Maybe. But people should know what a pomegranate is, too."
"It might be a cultural thing," I say. "Do you know what vegemite is?"
"Yeah, it's a food spread they use in Australia."
"Okay, you do know."
"And the 'cultural thing' excuse doesn't work if you're from Florida. We have kumquats there."
"I guess I had the flu when we had the annual Kumquat Parade," I say.
"Maybe I have had kumquats before," says Eddie. "Are they really sweet?"
"No," says Bonnie. "They're kind of bitter."
"Oh. I'm thinking of something else, then."
"Kumquats aren't bitter," Amy says. "They're really sour."
"Kumquats?"
"Yeah."
"I don't think so."
"They are."
"Those little things that look like oranges?"
"Yep."
"Shaped like olives?"
"Yep."
"They're sour?"
"Yep."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Maybe I'm not thinking of kumquats, then."
Lynsie has returned to her fantasy novel.
"If we pass a grocery store," says Amy, "we'll get some kumquats and make sure that everybody is fully educated."
Everybody stops talking about kumquats for a while. Talk of food, even obscure sour fruit, has made me kind of hungry, but I'd like to get Eddie, Bonnie, and Lynsie to New Jersey with as few delays as possible so Amy and I can resume our regularly scheduled vacation.
Eddie and I sit in the back, mostly being quiet, while Amy and Bonnie talk about various things. Bonnie asks her about our relationship, and Amy says that we're "great new friends." Bonnie looks back at me and gives me a wink, implying that her definition of "great new friends" means "banging each other's brains out," but she is discreet enough not to say this out loud.
Amy asks about the baby's father. Bonnie starts to explain the whereabouts of her baby daddy, but is interrupted by Eddie, who says that she knows he hates the term "baby daddy." She asks if she should say "sperm donor," and he says that no, she should not use that term, either, and asks what's wrong with simply calling him the "father." Bonnie says that there's nothing wrong with that, and if "baby daddy" bugs him so much she'll stop using it, and Eddie says that she already knows perfectly well that he hates that term, and yet she continues to use it. This goes on for a while. Anyway, he's in jail for drugs.
It's obvious that the relationship between Eddie and Bonnie's mother is a touchy subject, which does not stop Amy from asking about it. The marriage ended badly many years ago, and apparently Eddie will be swallowing a great deal of pride upon their arrival.
The imprisoned baby daddy is not the same man who fathered Lynsie. There are two possible candidates for that honor, though Bonnie does not know the names of either one. She is not unnecessarily graphic, but she does explain that her inability to narrow it down to a single father is compromised by the fact that the child was conceived during a threesome. This is not an adventure that I, personally, would share with strangers when my father and daughter were in the vehicle, but Eddie and Lynsie seem nonplussed. They've heard the story before.
I have no good answer when Bonnie asks me why guys feel the need to high-five each other in this situation.
Amy asks if she has a suspicion on the father's identity, based on Lynsie's physical appearance, and Bonnie explains that they were twin brothers. Amy stares at Bonnie for a moment, then the women high-five.
I unsuccessfully try to change the subject back to kumquats.
"Would it be rude if I got some sleep?" Bonnie asks. Nobody in the car is so morally abhorrent that they would deny sleep to a pregnant woman, so we all assure her that it's totally fine, and she's asleep within fifteen seconds. A few minutes later, Eddie is asleep as well. Lynsie continues to read.
Amy and I try to talk quietly, but Bonnie opens her eyes and turns her head, and though she doesn't actually say "Do you mind?" the message is clear. I lean back in my seat, and we drive for the next couple of hours in silence.
* * *
When they wake up, Amy takes the next exit and pulls into the parking lot of a McDonalds. We all get out of the car, and I let out an involuntary moan of pleasure as I stretch. My legs were in agony. Lynsie gets out of the car and immediately shoves her face back into the book.
I'm not sure wha
t the social etiquette is regarding feeding hitchhikers. Are we obligated to pay for their meal? Is it Dutch treat? Would it be tacky to buy food for Bonnie and Lynsie and leave Eddie to fend for himself?
It doesn't matter. It's just fast food. I've got a big wad of cash in my wallet, and...
Now that I'm standing up and my butt is no longer quite as numb, it doesn't feel like I've got a big wad of cash in my wallet. I take it out of my pocket, open it, and see that I've only got a couple of twenties.
And then, to my dismay, I suddenly discover that I've become the kind of person who would say the f-word in front of an impressionable little girl.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"And...the Nazis have just won World War I. I mean II. Shit."
--Exit Red, Season 3, Episode 13 [Outtake]
"What's wrong?" Eddie asks.
"Oh, like you don't know!" I'm so mad that my hands are shaking, and if Eddie was an adorable little puppy I'd drop-kick him.
"I assume that there's an issue with your wallet."
"Hey, good guess! Great guess!" I want to punch him. I'm not a violent person, but, damn, I want to punch him right in the mouth. However, he'd probably hold up his hook-hand to block the punch, which would not work out well for me, so it's better that I don't.
"What's going on?" Amy asks.
"It's gone! My money's gone!"
Eddie looks me straight in the eye. "I think you should calm down before you do something foolish like accuse me of stealing your money."
"Foolish, huh?" I ask. "Foolish? Foolish? I had eleven hundred dollars and now I don't! You basically force yourself into our car, messing up our vacation, and you're rude, smelly, and unnerving! And now my money's gone! How do you explain that, huh?"
"I didn't take your money."
"Oh, really? Really? Really? Where did it go, then?"
"That's something we'll have to figure out."
"Yeah, it's a huge mystery! Wow! What possible explanation could there be for money disappearing out of my wallet? So many reasons! If this was the point in time where we split off into alternate universes for each possibility, the branches would be infinite! Infinite!" I stretch out my arms, miming the concept of infinity.
I don't like that Amy is seeing me this enraged, but my fury is justified. I almost want him to take a swing at me with his hook so I can bash him into the side of the car. "Almost" is a crucial word, though. I'm not quite there yet, and at my current level of fury I'd prefer that he not take the swing.
