Finally I begin to feel free, and I floor the accelerator pedal. The Mustang springs forward without any argument, the way I like it. We pick up speed, the cool wind gusts in through my open vent-window, the rumble of the motor is mellower than it’s ever been. If the speedometer worked, I’m sure it’d reveal Musty’s highest speed. Everything flies by. I have not felt this good, so at-one (a favorite expression of roadrunners I have known) with my machine. It’s all illusion, I know that, but I love it. I want to cry, I am so happy. Then I want to cry because I am so sad, knowing the happiness is phony. I’m not free, I’ve just managed to drive away a few miles. But I’ve got to keep up the illusion, it’s important. Why the goddamned hell did Cora have to show up at the Savarin? It wasn’t right, it cast a pall over the whole goddamned trip. Hell with that, I’m going to keep this goddamned car moving. It’ll get me somewhere.
That night I stop the car, take a blanket out of the back seat, stretch it out, and sleep under the stars. No, that’s part of the fantasy. I can’t see any stars, but I know they’re there, and I sleep.
In my dream Cora and I make love in front of a penny-arcade mirror. The images of our bodies in the mirror, hers especially, are elongated and wavery. She is tender with me, the way she was when she wasn’t telling me off or throwing sarcastic remarks my way. Like in that abandoned motel, or when she was in the afterglow of driving the car. We both lose interest in lovemaking and become more fascinated with the mirror. She asks what right have I got using conventional mirror imagery in my dreams. I say I have no control over it and like conventional imagery anyway. She says I am a dumb shit, always was. She says I don’t amount to diddly-squat on the wall. I say, forget the mirror and let’s screw again. She laughs. I recognize the laugh as the same one she laughed the night she finally admitted she was splitting with me, when she simply said it was all off and walked out the door as if on a quick errand. I realize that laugh is stored in my brain and so it comes into my dream easily. She turns toward me and begins caressing my face with the back of her hand, the way she often did when she didn’t think me such a dumb shit. Then her expression changes to a deep-furrowed frown. She pulls her hand abruptly from my face, stares at the back of her fingers. They are now smeared with blotches of white. I look toward the mirror, expecting to see myself in a clown getup. But my face is normal, except where Cora’s been touching it, where there is now a dark patch. As I stare into the mirror she puts her hand on my face, rubs it around. With each of her strokes an area of my white skin comes away. I look back at her, at the white now all over her fingers. In a troubled gesture, she rubs the hand on her own face. The white comes off on her skin. She now has a light patch to balance my dark one. She begins working on my face in earnest, taking my whiteness away, smearing it on her face. Soon her face is white and we both look into the mirror again. Cora is now a white woman, and it looks right on her. She looks smashing. I am a black man. A rather odd-looking black man, but I kind of like it anyway. Cora screams. Both her hands go to her face and she tries furiously to remove the white. I know she wants to smear it back onto me. But she can’t remove it. She starts tearing at her skin, as if she wants to pull all the layers off. As I wake up, it begins to look like she might be successful at it.
* * * * *
Next morning I wake sore as hell but feeling wonderful. I tramp around a little, working out the body cramps, exercising a few muscles. What strikes me best is I don’t see much litter. One or two rusty cans, crushed. A pizza carton, grease-spotted. Some old wrappers, that sort of thing. But nothing big, no old tires or car seats or cars. No rusty or disintegrating monuments to the decline of the road in the last decades of the twentieth century. Perhaps I am in a new land. It starts to rain and I return to the Mustang.
The rain continues all morning. It is a misty rain, annoying because it makes me drive slow and carefully. I can only see a few feet in front of me and have to maneuver around all the cracks and potholes in the concrete. Once I have to stop altogether. There’s a wide crack bisecting most of the road. I wonder what the drivers along this way must be like, to let a crack like this go unrepaired and unmarked. It really pisses me off. Back in my own territory we always put up signs warning others against road hazards. Chuck, when he was in charge, regularly inspected our stretch of Expressway. Cora and I made regular runs putting up signs based on the information he and his crew brought back. Sometimes the fuzz came and took them down, but we kept pretty good track. No sign before this monster of a gap, I’m sure. If I’d hit it with any speed, I might have totalled my wheels. Damn drivers—but what drivers? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any cars in some time. My temptation is to attribute this to the miserable day, although rain never discouraged any roadrunners I’ve known. Ah, well, no tragedy. I maneuver the Mustang onto the soft shoulder and it tiptoes by the obstruction. Back on the road, I drive even slower. I don’t know what might be coming up next. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a Minotaur blocking my way. Or superintending a rotting tollbooth.
For many miles the road is clear. The rain stops. I begin to relax, settle into driving. I lean back against the bucket seat, enjoy the kinetic sensation of the car moving along. God, this is the life. The road, the Mustang, me, the horizon ahead. Nobody in sight, haven’t seen another car in over an hour. I get the feeling, at least for a moment, that all the highways are mine.
— 4 —
I approach a rest area beside the road. I’m tempted to get out and stretch my legs for a minute but, hell, I’ll never get out west if I take rest stops all over the place, so I decide to drive on. As I pass the area, I see quick movement there, near what used to be an information building. Somebody throwing something at somebody else. I can only get a quick look because trees then obstruct my view. I slow down a little, cruise along on the edge of the rest area, try to see what’s happening through the trees. They’re too thick, too clumped, can’t see a thing. Soon I’m at the exit road. Going past it, I look over my shoulder. Somebody’s running along a sidewalk, but I can’t see much else because there’s this huge shack of a comfort station in my way. The running person falls, there’s a scream, and I hear the zooming sound of what is unmistakably somebody gunning a motorcycle engine. I slow down to a crawl. The exit road is a few feet behind me and I can only see the shabby roof of the comfort station above a new set of trees. At first I tell myself to drive on. Whatever it is, it does not need my investigating of it. Nevertheless, my quick glimpses have caught major details, and I can’t ignore them. I stop the Mustang, put it in reverse, and slowly back it to the exit road. I can’t see anything now, but I can hear what sounds like an argument, interrupted irregularly by derisive taunting laughter. Nothing I can do but take a look. First I ease the Mustang onto the exit road and slowly drive up its gravelly surface. My shoulders cringe each time a stone clangs against the car’s underside. But the argument and laughter continue, so nobody up there must be hearing it. I come to a one-way sign bent over and across about half the road. There’s something of a ditch on the other side of the road, so I have to pass by the sign with care. As I come near the comfort station, I can see movement on the other side. I stop the Mustang, not knowing what I can or should do. Best thing would be to approach on foot. Whoever they are, they might get distracted by a passing car. I want to be able to get back into the Mustang if I’m in a hurry, so I leave the keys in the ignition and the car doors open on both sides.
I edge along the side of the comfort station, compulsively reading several of the obscene slogans scrawled all over its splintered surface. Reaching the corner, I take a careful peek around it. What I see looks like a ritual. A bunch of guys in a semicircle around another figure. I wonder if it’s some kind of occult ceremony, like I’ve seen in movies. Some motorcycles are parked along the driveway leading to the abandoned information center. Something tells me it’s not smart to fool with cycle jockeys, and I consider slinking back to the Mustang and driving gently away. But, no. Motorcycle gangs are not exactly th
e high society of the road, never have been, and if this particularly repellent group of bikers is gathered around somebody, that somebody is in trouble. I got to help. I don’t want to, but life has its prerequisites. One of mine is, if I don’t do something, I worry a lot afterward. I can’t allow bad things to happen. I am not heroic, but I must respond to the needs of my fellow man, even if it means going up against a half-dozen mean bikers. I am insane, is what I am.
I crawl around the comfort station corner, crouching low behind a foul-smelling leafless set of bushes. Anybody looking my way could easily see me there, but they are all intent on the ritual. Hell, it’s no ritual, it is business. They are stalking. Their object is turned away from me, but she seems to be a slim-hipped and tall young lady, in a flower-patterned dress with a long skirt. Long blond hair and fairly broad shoulders. I am impressed with what I see of her from the back and wish she’d turn around.
I take a position behind the wooden panels that form a two-sided protection against anyone spying on the ladies room. Nobody notices my move there. They’re intent on their prey, don’t expect an intruder. An intruder! Great, just how am I going to intrude on six brawny tattooed ugly slobs, each with a weapon in his thick hand? One of the men is pointing a gun at the girl. Jesus. All I need is to get a bullet through the heart, just when I am on the verge of finding the west. On the other hand, the girl is in real trouble. It looks like they’re going to do all the numbers bikers are famous for. Beating, clubbing, shooting, raping.
Backing away from them, the girl stumbles, falls. A biker helps her up with mock politeness and she springs away from him, staggers a few steps backward, toward my watching-post. I still don’t get a good look at her face.
The bikers regroup around her helper, who is apparently their leader. They face the girl. The leader’s about ready to say it’s time. I don’t know what to do. The girl falls again, crouches. She shouts to the leader of the pack. She tells him she’ll rip his balls off. She sounds like she can do it. I wonder if she is going to need me. Her voice is hoarse, as if this isn’t the first insult she’s screamed at them. The leader shows no reaction, makes a gesture with his gun hand to one of the other men, who is wrapping a tire chain around his hand ostentatiously. The tire chain looks like a locket chain in his beefy hand. They’re about to make their move. I have to do something. I can’t think of anything to do.
Hey you guys! I say, stepping out from my shelter. Stop that!
Some great thing to say. I think I startle them with the girlishness of my voice. They look toward me, all six of them. Not a single one would weigh in under 180. That’s at least 1080 pounds if they all decided to jump me at once. Shit.
A bit delayed in her reaction, the girl looks at me, too. Even though I’m scared, I am also stunned by her looks. It is the right kind of face to go with long blond hair and a tall slim body. Healthy, red-cheeked, long. She has a pointed chin, strong, makes her look like a tennis-player mannequin. She smiles.
Who the fuck are you? she says.
I am not ready for that question from her. Fortunately the bikers, dumbstruck, are not ready for me. They are obviously not afraid of me, just not ready.
I got three buddies in the car, fellas, I say (gesturing backward toward the Mustang which they probably can’t see), and each one of us’s got a piece. I suggest you stand right where you are.
I try to sound as anti-gun-control square as I can. I can see they are not quite ready to doubt me. A couple of them take steps backward. The leader stays where he is, but is no longer as poised for action as before.
Okay, young lady, I say, ma’am, uh, you—
Well, um, she says, you can call me Vicki.
Okay, Vicki.
Wait a minute, the leader of the pack says. Vicki stands up and begins walking toward me.
Okay, Vicki, I say.
The leader takes a step forward.
He ain’t got no piece. He’s a fuckin’—
Okay, Vicki, I say. Run!
And I rush back to the Mustang without looking around to see if anyone is following. I nearly trip on a bush as I turn the comfort station corner. Vicki keeps pace with me. I zip around the open door and somehow make it into the driver’s seat. Vicki scrambles in the passenger side, does not think to shut the door behind her. Her head knocks against my shoulder as she tries to swivel around in her seat. As I press down on the accelerator pedal with all the force that my somewhat less than 180 pounds can muster, one of the bikers rounds the car on her side, his body crouched, apparently to take a jump at the car. The open door hits him right in the face.
Shut the goddamn door! I yell at Vicki.
Reacting quickly she pulls it shut. At the same moment there is a sickening thump on my side. I look that way over my shoulder and see a falling biker hurling curses at me. The leader of the pack is rushing toward his cycle as I speed past him. In the rear-view mirror I can see two of the bikers running after us, waving their clenched fists at the car. One of the casualties is sitting on the ground, holding onto his leg and rocking. I pat the Mustang dashboard, glad the car responded so quickly.
I have to make a wide turn out of the rest-area access road, in order to head west again. A biker, apparently taking a shortcut through the trees, emerges at the side of the highway, but too late. In the rear-view I see the leader of the pack, leaning over the handlebars of his cycle, taking the wide turn from the entranceway and starting his pursuit. His cohort, oblivious to the approach of his noble leader, runs onto the road, as if he thinks he can catch me on foot. The leader has to swerve to avoid him. His cycle skids and he and it slide down into a depression in the median. The other biker runs toward him. They are both soon out of sight.
Beside me, Vicki is twisted around on the seat watching. I look over at her. Her face is quite pretty, although the look of healthiness is due to artful makeup. Rather too much lipstick. I glance down at her chest. She is like Cora, in that I can’t quite detect tits, although there is a suggestive roundedness.
I return my attention to the road ahead, letting my elation sweep through my body. Here I am heading west, freedom in my soul and a rescued maiden at my side.
Jesus Christ, Vicki says, can’t you get this crate going any faster? They’re souped up, the bikes, they can catch us.
I push the Mustang to its limit. We are now flying down the road, but Vicki is still nervous.
This may be fast enough, she says, maybe. Don’t see any sign of them. Just keep it up, sweetheart. Keep your balls in gear and we’ll get outta this yet.
I notice a small protesting sound from the Mustang’s engine. I think we should slow up a bit, but I’m afraid of upsetting Vicki. I’ll keep it up for a few miles, then gradually decelerate. Vicki turns in her seat and stares straight ahead. I am a bit annoyed at her—she has yet to say anything grateful to me. A small sweetly muttered thank you would be sufficient, but she just stares ahead and smooths out ruffles in her skirt. The hand I can see has short stubby fingers on it. Each finger has a jewelled ring.
They looked like a mean bunch, I say. The guys that were attacking you.
Mean, yeah. They abducted me. Hurtled into town on their filthy machines and fucking abducted me. They’re monsters, is what they are.
What town?
What?
The town you live in, where they abducted you.
Jesus, I didn’t live in that creepy place. I don’t know what its name was. Truth is, way the town was, it was preferable to be abducted.
Well, Vicki, I guess it’s good I came along when I did. Looked to me they meant business.
Business?
Well, at least they looked like they were gonna rape you any minute.
Vicki laughs.
Look, rape they coulda had for free. I woulda been glad to take on any of them. No, it’s murder that I couldn’t cotton to, frankly.
Well, yes, Vicki but—
Look, it takes a minute to get my head together. I know you think you’re Lochinvar and all t
hat, sweetheart, but one thing I think you gotta know right off.
What’s that, Vicki?
It’s the Vicki business. Well, I do call myself Vicki from time to time, and it seemed natural to be Vicki when you showed up with your armor shining in the haze and all. But, Jesus Christ, I always feel ridiculous when I have to say this—but my name isn’t really Vicki except for fantasy purposes.
Well, names…
I’m Victor. Victor Whelan.
Victor.
Look, man, I’m a transvestite. Let’s not make anything out of it, okay? I like to dress up and wear makeup, and that’s that. I can’t help it. My psychiatrist couldn’t help it. He liked evening gowns.
I look over at him, try to imagine him without the pretty clothes, the makeup, the blond wig. He still looks very beautiful.
Okay, Vicki—Victor. Vic. I mean, I’m tolerant. I been on the road a long time, know all kinds of folk. Some of your kind, too, and—
Don’t be so fucking condescending. All right, you knew some gays. Good. But I’m not gay. Some gays like to dress up, yes, but a transvestite is not automatically gay, get it?
Oh, sure. I wasn’t saying that you were at all when—
You were saying then that you run into transvestites regularly?
Well, no—
Then shut up till you know what you’re talking about.
But—
Anyway, I hate fags.
The sun is shining now and the glare begins to hurt my eyes. I find myself edging away from Victor, leaning against the door. He doesn’t notice. He just keeps smoothing out his skirt, adjusting his wig.
We drive fast for a long time. Finally I have to slow down, for the good of the car. Victor doesn’t seem to care now. There are no signs of any bikers behind us. I haven’t even seen a car in hours.
A Set Of Wheels Page 11
