More than mine, certainly.
Maybe, maybe not. But, see, when I thought it all out, suddenly it didn’t seem so bad, my life. I didn’t feel at all bothered by my failure to leave a mark on the world, leave behind a legacy.
I don’t like some of her phrases. Leaving a mark, leaving a legacy behind. There’s something final, or at least ominous, in those phrases.
All you’ve done is inhabit a body, I told myself, used up generations of living cells. But that was enough, see. The body may be wearing out faster than I’d like, my mark on the world might be less and less as time goes by, but I inhabited this body as best I could. Sort of like an artist. Here are the materials, the only ones you’ll get, use them however you can. Make a gigantic mural, stitch tiny flowers in needlepoint, paint flattering pictures of sad passing tourists. I really think I went beyond the limits of my materials, did a little better than I should have. Sure, by some standards, I didn’t succeed, didn’t follow a plan. I don’t have a collection of pretty things to show off, a work of art that anyone really wants to look at. But I did make something out of myself, did use the materials as well as I could. I made this out of myself—
In an eloquent gesture, she turns both hands toward herself.
I made this out of myself, whatever it is, whatever I am. I inhabited the body, used it up. If what some people believe is true, that perhaps wasn’t enough. You know, put a different emphasis on the words, and they begin to seem like a justification of apathy, complacence, violence even. Maybe if I’d been apathetic or violent, I’d agree. Anyway, sometimes I think all we ever do is inhabit a body, intrude ourselves on a small section of time. The point is, we almost always miss the point.
Seems kind of negative to me, Kay.
Maybe. But it really isn’t. See, I’m happy I tried. I may not have done much, but I did something and I tried. Whatever I believe, whatever the captain believes, whatever you believe, I made the effort. That’s all the meaning I need, and it’s not so negative.
I don’t know, I—
Look, Lee, I’m not saying there isn’t some sort of universal order, some God in the clouds, some reason to follow an ideal or a belief, I’m just saying I ain’t doin’ it. That’s it. You want me to do such-and-such with my life, but I ain’t doin’ it. You want me to adhere to a plan, I ain’t doin’ it. I just ain’t doin’ it. In my way I tried, I made the effort, and that’s it.
Her voice gets weaker as she tries to talk faster. All this talk isn’t doing her one bit of good right now.
The sky is getting much darker. The storm that’s been threatening for the last few hours seems about ready to pay off on its threats. I look up at the sky and say:
I better get on. I wish I could stay. No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not making that offer again. I’d just like to stick around a little bit longer, but as it is I’m going to have to hotpedal it back.
She nods and we get up. Scotty takes her hand and they walk me to the Mustang. The captain glances our way, does something odd in his voice-box and strides off into the woods. Handles just sits and watches us.
Bye Handles, I say, but he doesn’t answer, just looks sullen, as usual. I don’t want to push it, so I just wave to him and keep going toward my car. As I reach the door, a few sprinkles of rain fall, disturbing the upper layer of dust on the Mustang. I turn toward Kay.
I hope we meet again, I say to her.
She shrugs.
Never can tell.
As the rain starts to come down harder, I look for it to do something to the paleness of her face. I don’t know what exactly, reveal that the whiteness is cosmetic by stirring up some powder or at least bringing a flush to her face. She remains pale. I’m sure I’ll never see her again, and I’m goddamned mad about it.
I touch Scotty on his head.
Bye Scotty.
Bye Lee.
I’ll miss you.
Me too, I guess.
There’s nothing more to say. I get in and start the engine. The rain is really coming down now and, with an apologetic smile,
Kay turns herself and Scotty around. They run toward the woods. Handles stays where he is, standing in the rain and watching me.
I start the car moving, drive by Handles to say a properly sentimental goodbye, but he begins shouting at me.
Goddamn shitpisser. Turdhead. I’m gonna get out of this, you bastard, away from here. I’ll find you again and make teabags out of your balls. Fucker. Dirty rotten—
I accelerate, get out of range of his unpleasant voice. I look in the rear-view. He’s still there, his body tense, shouting at the back end of the Mustang.
The way up the hill is treacherous, even with the short time it’s been raining. The Mustang slips and slides, almost slaloms back to the valley. But I finally reach the top and the good road. I look back. Handles is still in the middle of the clearing, the rain pouring off his matted hair and soaked clothes. He’s still shouting at me. I roll down my window and shout back even though I know he can’t possibly hear me.
Give ’em hell, Handles!
It’s almost like talking to myself.
— 10 —
I drive out of the storm a few miles from my destination, a small junction town that Chuck’s taking the train to before scouting up another raid. In the distance dark clouds hover over the hills, another storm ahead. I try to enjoy the splendid sunlit California countryside for as long as it’s to be available, even if it is somewhat distorted by the pockets and streaks of mud that the heavy rain has left on my windshield.
The road along this stretch’s in bad shape. The Mustang absorbs some pretty tough jolts and nearly takes up residence in one of the splendid sunlit California potholes. There are a lot of noises in the car’s engine that I don’t recall hearing before. I’m a little scared for the Mustang, out here a whole continent away from the Mech. I should have tried to learn something about maintenance and repair, become apprentice to the Mech or something. Who am I kidding? I could spend four years at a mechanics university and come out without a notion of what dark forces propel an automobile.
I can’t get Kay out of my mind. I wonder what’s wrong with her, what makes her so pale. I find I don’t want to speculate on that. Too many possibilities are too frightening. Still, I’d like to have stayed with her and her group, even Handles and Cap’n Chickenwings. In the back of my mind, where she hangs around on streetcorners, Cora is laughing at me. Idiot, she is saying, you don’t really want to be with them for any good reasons. You just want someone to tell you what to do, take care of you, give you hot soup, homilies, and road directions. Just look close at what you say you want. A woman older than you, and her son. Home cooking and a family. Everything but a suburban home. Why don’t you just take your ass back to mama? She and whatsisname’ll take you in. For about five minutes. Give up, Lee. Nobody wants to take you in. And don’t ask, what about you, Cora, ’cause I’m not about to punish you any more, I promised myself remember?
I get glimpses of railroad track from time to time, laid across flatland in a depression beside the road. It’s probably the same track Chuck’s train has already used to get to the rendezvous point. God, L hope he waited for me. All I need now is to be stranded here in a god-benighted section of the west, my car rattling like a dying snake, and myself pained and bruised forever from the two blows Cap’n Chickenwings landed on me. I’ve forgotten how to scrounge. I’m not sure I could survive.
The track curves away and proceeds downhill as I head up a rather steep grade. Cresting the top of the hill, I see quite a bit of smoke up ahead, beside the road. I better check this out, in case anybody needs help.
It’s lucky I pull off the road slowly, since I drive onto an overhang whose guard rails have mysteriously disappeared. The post holes are there, but there’s no sign of the guard rails themselves. There’s just a rusty anti-littering sign between me and the steep cliffside.
Somewhere down below, where the smoke is coming from, there’s also one hell of a lo
t of noise drifting upward. I walk to the edge of the overhang to take a look. My first impression is that this would be a fine spot for one of those marked scenic overlooks along a road. Across the way trees seem crocheted into the side of rolling hills. In the distance, shape-changing in heat waves, is a small section of the ocean. It looks ethereal, as if it’s hanging in the sky.
The smoke is off to my right, several thin wisps rising slowly from the band of railroad tracks, which now run directly below where I’m standing. At first the smoke obscures the scene below. I hear sounds of people shouting, sharp cracks that might be gunfire. Some of the smoke clears and I see a train, our train, stopped behind a pile of logs and garbage and other shit which have been thrown on the tracks with the obvious intention of ambush. I see figures moving about beside the tracks, but at this distance and with all the cliffside foliage obscuring my view, I can’t see what exactly is happening. The smoke seems to be coming from a fire in one of the freight cars where we store supplies. Somebodv’s fighting with somebody on top of one of the other cars. There’s a lot of activity all around the train and bursts of smoke in the bushes beside the tracks that probably come from rifles. Fire is being returned from the train.
From up here I can’t get a clue to who’s attacking the train, but it’s definitely an ambush. And here am I, a spectator, hundreds of feet above the attack, with no way down. Not a path, a trail, a parachute drop. I’m tempted to just jump and see where I land.
There’s a dirt road running along the other side of the tracks. Maybe I can find my way to it with the Mustang.
* * * * *
God, it’s like running a maze in a dream. I can hear the blasts of gunfire and people shouting and sometimes it all seems very close. First off to my left, then later to my right, then front, then rear. I can’t get a good fix on it. Maybe some natural phenomenon in this goddamned forest is misdirecting the sound. Whatever turn in the roads I take, whatever new road I take the car down, I just come to another road. They’ve got roads down here that don’t go anywhere, roads that have no purpose, roads that have no community planning logic to them. I’ve driven across overpasses twice and actually seen the goddamned track without finding a goddamned way down to it. I’ve edged the Mustang along roads so narrow they might be footpaths, probably are footpaths. I’ve lost all sense of direction. I’m lost. The gunfire sounds fainter. I might be driving away from the train now. I probably am.
I stop the car. No sense in wasting gas just wandering around this area. Also, it’s getting dark fast. I don’t want to be stranded all night among a bunch of evil-looking trees that look like they plan to come alive and walk at sunset. I get out of the Mustang to see if, by being outside the car, I can get a better idea of where the sounds are coming from.
I still hear the gunfire. Now it doesn’t sound so far away. I also hear something else. A voice, almost a voice. A phantom. I’m already being haunted and it’s not even sunset. No, wait. It’s a human voice. Groaning. Somebody’s hurt.
The groaning stops and then comes a strong clear voice that seems to surround me:
Damn it, that’s it. I’ve had it. I’m going to buy a tacky suburban home, keep all my guns in the cellar, and I’ll have a workshop. Yeah, good, a workshop. I’ll make uncomfortable furniture for all my friends, tables that need matchbooks underneath one leg, yeah, that’s—ouch, damn it to hell.
It’s a deep voice, resonant. Its pronunciation is precise, every syllable pronounced like in a diction lesson. I almost ask the voice if it’s talking to me, but it begins again and I can tell it’s not talking to me.
Jesus, this is the last time I play vigilante with the guys. What do I care, a bunch of punk kids out stealing automobiles. Let them, I say. Why not? I say. Please take my Volkswagen, I say. Junk it like all those cars they junk. Just let me run my lathe, is that the right word, a lathe? Just let me run my lathe. Maybe I can make a candlestick out of driftwood. Can you do that? Driftwood candlestick, sounds great to—goddamn the pain. This is the last time. The last time I get shot.
He starts to laugh.
Yeah, he says, I don’t want to get shot any more. The fun has gone out of getting shot. I am retiring. No doubt about—damn it, damn it, damn damn damn damn.
The voice slips back into groaning. It’s coming from behind a tree just off to my left. I can see a grey-suited shoulder almost merging with the greying bark of the tree.
The groaning stops for a moment. I watch the shoulder for a sign of movement. Then the man coughs.
Oh God, blood. I’m coughing blood now. Oh great. Oh wonderful, terrific. I’m not even going to get the tacky suburban home now, am I? Damn. This is the last time I play vigilante, last time I play mercenary. God, it hurts. Oh, damn damn.
Taking my steps carefully, I walk toward the tree. I can almost reach out and touch his shoulder now. The man groans. I step backward and my foot comes down on something hard and slippery. I can’t get my legs to work. I fall.
What? the voice says. What was that?
I look down at my feet, and see what I’ve tripped over A gun. One of those automatic rifles with the clotheshanger stock.
Is there somebody out there? the voice says.
Yes, I say, just me.
Just you, who the hell are—oh god damn it! Jesus, I can’t stand it.
He coughs again. A small abrupt cough that sounds more like clearing his throat. Then his shoulder slumps and he gradually slips sideways, toward me. His head hits the ground hard, just next to the rifle. He’s dead, I know that right away. There’s blood all over him. The blood and the darkness keep me from seeing his face well. His hair is almost all grey, so he’s probably on in years. Was on in years. I don’t want to know what he looks like. I just want to get away.
I pick up the rifle, it’s lighter than I expected. I was going to take it with me but, now that I’ve touched it, I realize I can’t. I don’t want to feel its oily cold surface, don’t want to feel its weight. I hurl it away, listen to it break through leaves, hit a branch, and fall, not all that far away.
I return to the Mustang. At first it won’t start. Nothing seems to respond to the turning of the ignition key. Then suddenly the motor kicks in and I almost stand on the gas pedal to get it going. It does not respond well. It moves but there’s not much speed or power. There’s enough to get me away from the corpse, but the car crawls like a snail down the road. I start breathing again.
* * * * *
The battle’s just about over by the time I finally find the train. I come around a curve in the dirt road and am suddenly, miraculously it seems, alongside the tracks. I can see smoke up ahead, and hear a couple of gunshots. They are almost reluctant. Afterthoughts.
The car now barely moving, I creep along the road. In a couple of minutes I see the train. Some members of the gang are putting out fires in two freight cars. Others mill about, stare at the hillside looking for signs of ambushers returning. I see Link, climbing on the engine, doing some task I can’t figure out from this distance.
As I pull alongside the barrier of garbage and other debris, I feel the Mustang gradually losing the remainder of its power. Just as it rolls to a stop, I hear the sound of gunshots from the other side of the barrier. I duck. At the same time I feel the right side front of the car begin to sink. A shot has hit the tire. Great, wonderful, terrific, damn, I think, fully aware I am echoing the words of the dead vigilante. What the hell, he did have a few points in what he said.
I just want to go to sleep.
Are you all right? says Link. He is leaning in the driver’s side window. You’re not hit?
I start to laugh.
No, I'm not hit, I say. I’m not hit at all.
Then what’s the blood on your forehead?
I reach up and touch the blood on my forehead.
God, I am hit, I say.
I stare at the blood on my fingers for a short time, then the fingers start to fade out. Everything fades out.
* * * * *
&n
bsp; I wake up suddenly but don’t open my eyes. Someone’s talking near me. It’s Link. Link and who?
Well, frankly, Link I don’t think there’s any real hope.
It’s Chuck. What is he saying? I feel all right. I don’t feel shot.
Is there anything we can do? Link says.
He doesn’t sound very sad. C’mon, Link, I want to shout. I thought I was your buddy. Get a little emotional, will you?
I’m afraid not, Chuck says. We’re simply not equipped for that kind of salvation work. Needs a specialist.
Specialist? I think. Salvation work, what does that mean? What kind of salvation do they mean?
What do you suggest? Link asks.
The scrap heap, I’m afraid.
I see myself thrown onto a pyre with a bunch of stolen automobiles. I see Chuck lighting the pyre and the flames enveloping my body. I see my face melting.
Is there anything we can do? I don’t think Lee’s going to care for the idea of the scrap heap one iota.
You’re goddamn right about that, I say and open my eyes. You’re not throwing me on any goddamned scrap heap.
Chuck and Link exchange puzzled glances and then begin to laugh hysterically. I’m confused but at least it’s clear I’ve jumped to a wrong conclusion. I’m all right, they’ve been talking about something else.
Everybody needs a little Abbott and Costello in their lives, Chuck says.
Whatever that means.
How are you, Lee? Link says.
Okay I guess, for somebody’s been shot.
Link laughs again, unfeeling bastard.
You weren’t shot, he says. I don’t know where that blood came from, but it apparently wasn’t yours.
I remember the corpse by the tree. When he fell, some of his blood must have sprayed onto me. I never felt it.
Link sits beside me, a suggestion of compassion on his distorted face.
A Set Of Wheels Page 26
