by A.R. Rivera
On a hunch that he wouldn’t be able to find his way through the subdivision, I decided to wait in the lot. It’s late in the afternoon by the time Daemon shows up. I’ve been hiding near the dumpster behind the liquor store for nearly two hours.
“You look better today,” he notes, flipping a coin in the air as he walks, wearing the same dirty trench coat. “I thought we were meeting at your home.”
I shrug, indifferent. “I thought you’d come earlier.”
“Are you ready to go back?”
I can’t take another minute of this farce. “If you know they way, then let’s get out of here.”
“I think I have a way.” He waves for me to follow.
We walk around, towards the front on the far side of the strip mall and come out at a busy intersection.
“What’s your plan?”
“That,” he points towards a used car lot across the street.
“The crosswalk is over there.” I start off towards the corner but notice he’s not following.
“Not the place. The cars,” he says. “Trucks would be better,” He’s mumbling and I can’t quite make out the words.
“I don’t follow.”
“We came here by accident, yes?”
“Literally. Yes.”
“Is it not reasonable to think that the door leading inside must also lead outside?” His odd lilt stresses each syllable. I think I hear traces of African inflections at first, but by the end of his question, it’s gone.
I look to the car lot and back to him. “Wait, you want to steal a car and wreck it?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“I have tons of better ideas. Therapy: there’s one!”
“That will not wake us.”
“Neither will committing suicide. There has to be another way.”
“Then find one.” He challenges.
I think for a minute. “The trouble is, you don’t know if you have the right answer until after you test it and this,” I point at the shining cars across the road, “there’s no ‘after’ if we’re wrong.”
“Of course there is,” he scoffs, adjusting his slouchy beanie. “Look, up there.”
I turn to see where he’s pointing. It’s a slope near a freeway overpass.
“Let us go there to see what we see. It is better to do something than nothing.”
“Yeah, walking helps me think,” and I definitely do not need to be spotted on a street corner in broad day light with this weird cat. Though his appearance blends seamlessly into modern day Los Angeles, here he sticks out like a sore thumb. A tall, hairy thumb with giant plugs in his ears. People probably think he’s a flasher with that trench coat. All you can see beneath it are bare calves and combat boots.
“Start thinking, Gerry.” He walks briskly.
“I am, Daemon.” He picks up on the patronizing and glares. “Give me time.” I clarify, trying to keep up.
Not to imply that there wouldn’t be a measure of justice in my dying right now. At this point, all there is for me is death and jail.
“It does not have to be like before, only enough to take us from this. I have no one here. Do you?”
“No, nothing.”
“If you have nothing then what is there to lose?”
“Nothing but everything.” I say quietly.
“Are you afraid?”
“I don’t know about where you come from, but in my culture dying is something most people are afraid of.”
“Fear should never keep a man from doing what he must do.” He walks ahead at a quick pace. “Are you not a man, Gerry?”
That kind of question should piss me off. It deserves a response. One that I’m in no condition to give. Besides, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of me—that’s what my dad would say. People’s opinions don’t matter. It’s what you think about yourself that makes the difference. Right now, I think I deserve every criticism the people have to offer and then some and so I keep my mouth shut.
Ahead is an access road with an embankment that leads up to the overpass. I walk past him, heading for the area we agreed on, and then reconsider. Something about him makes me think it might be better to keep him in my sights. I slow a little to walk shoulder to shoulder. Almost. When we start climbing, I try to keep up but his legs are longer than mine. He leads the way up the man-made hill, clomping over the tangled roots and shrubs.
“What exactly are you planning to do? Do you even know how to hot wire a car? You have to consider other people, too. You can’t just plow into someone.”
By the time we’re half way up, I’m panting and he’s a good yard ahead. He’s twice my size, wearing a heavy jacket, and hasn’t even broken a sweat.
“Two moving objects create a greater impact, which means more energy.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I huff, “it’s not like I’m chicken or anything, but ‘impact’?” I’m way too uncomfortable with that word. “If our lives were in danger—if we had no choice . . . that might be different. But we only get one life. Why waste it?”
“Did you wake up when they were beating you?” He stretches his leg up over a mess of tumbleweeds.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask, walking around the obstruction.
“Sometimes fear will wake you from a dream, but this is not an ordinary dream.”
He’s at the top of the ridge, on the narrow dirt path that connects the embankment to the strip of road that leads to the overpass. I crawl up to the top, avoiding the offer of his hand even though my legs are burning from the steep climb.
“I’m only saying that the ends should justify the means. Creating a crash isn’t hit, miss, and try again. It’s do and die.”
He shakes his head. “I did not say anything about creating accidents. How could I when I do not even have a car? I only suggest we come up here to hope for better ideas.”
I relax a little, content that he’s supposing rather than making plans. We step onto the thin strip of cement meant to be a pedestrian walkway to cross over the freeway. “You know, in a few years this whole thing will be enclosed. Some guy jumps off the side on Christmas Eve and ends up in pieces down there.” Shuddering, I remember. That night I was on my way to Dad’s house when I drove past a shoe that still had a leg in it.
“Where were you going?” he asks, staring out at the traffic below.
“When?”
“That day on the city bus.”
“To see my dad.” Not exactly true, but he doesn’t need to know all my business.
“Tell me about him. Do you miss him?”
“Yeah.” More than anything.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I see him staring into the distance, interested in something far off.
I try to follow with my eyes and clear my throat. “Nope.” The word catches in my throat and I clear it. “It’s just me and my dad. What about you?”
His stare intensifies. “Who were those people across your street?”
The crumpled, teary faces of my mother and younger-self flash before me. My dad. Carrie. “I have no idea.”
“It is difficult being alone all the time.”
“Who says I’m alone?”
“There!” He points down to the freeway, suddenly excited. “This way,” he presses me towards the center of the overpass, pushing and pointing. “Do you see that truck down there—the large one with the red letters on the side?” I look down, scanning the distance. “It is exactly straight ahead.” He points again about a half-mile out.
“What about it?” The wind from the cars whips at our backs. “I’m not jumping in front of that thing.” I caution.
“That would be very stupid,” he grins, taps my shoulder, pointing back to the truck. “Look closely, what does it say on the side?”
“I don’t know. It’s too far out.”
“I know a man who works for a lumber yard outside the city. He’s supposed to be driving through today. I have looked for him a
long time. Please, tell me what the driver looks like. If it is him, he will help us.”
I crouch down hanging tight to the railing. “He’s your friend, why don’t you do it?”
“I am near-sighted and afraid of heights, please.” He turns his back to the traffic below, watching the cars behind us.
I roll my eyes, staring at the low approaching vehicle. So much for his manly-man talk. “Alright, what am I looking for?”
“Tell me the moment you can clearly see his face and describe it.”
The lanes are moving steadily as various vehicles of all shapes and sizes travel down the long road. Traffic slows as it always does in the LA freeway. The diesel rolls closer and I squint, concentrating on the approaching windshield. The wind from speeding traffic rushes below and behind, spraying dirt and fumes all over us.
“Can you clearly see him?”
“There’s a glare. Wait! He’s we—”
I’m trying to tell him the guy is wearing sunglasses, a Cardinals cap, and a plaid shirt. I think he might have brown hair. But I don’t get it out.
A slam from behind has me listing forward, slowly at first, then picking up speed as I tilt further out into the open air. The iron guardrail proves too short for my abrupt momentum. Over the side I go, heading straight for the road below. I can only watch the broken concrete of the everyday artery rush at me.
In an instant, it disappears beneath a blur. There’s a great resounding thud as I smack into . . . fabric. It’s taught, cradling me long enough to be thankful that I’m not road kill before the tearing sound. I roll into the second part of the fall, ineptly flopping into the lumber truck. The highest planks wobble with my impact. My teeth crunch together. Half the poorly stacked boards tumble to the floor of the half empty trailer with me. A few pieces fall onto the road. Horns honk in reaction.
Landing close beside, nearly on top of me, is Daemon and more wood. He catches himself on his feet and falls back to his butt, laughing.
Laughing!
Once I’m sure nothing is broken, I reach over, take him by the shirt collar and shove. “What the hell was that?!”
“I jumped, too!” He shakes with laughter. Thankfully, the wind speed leaves the sound of his cackle behind us.
“Jumped? You could have killed us both!” I’ve miraculously managed to survive two deadly accidents, two fist-fights—one in the last twenty four hours which left me bruised and beaten with a board, kicked, concussed and almost killed. Even cats only get nine lives. “I didn’t jump!”
This truck has to stop some time and when it does, I’m gone. I have no idea what I was thinking. Whatever reason I had for wasting time with this shit-house nut doesn’t seem good enough anymore.
“So, what now?”
“It is a matter of time.” He grins, removing the loose knit beanie. The giant, crudely tattooed snake head that covers his scalp has bright red eyes.
A strong feeling stretches over me—like the kind that comes after eating a questionable oyster. There’s dread and regret, some stomach churning nausea and intentions to vomit in the nearest trash receptacle. Yeah, I’m experiencing something very close to that right now.
This guy, I don’t know if he’s simply too strange for me to relate to, or if he’s plain bad news. Considering he just pushed me from an overpass into the back of a moving diesel, I’m leaning towards the latter. As we whiz down the freeway, illegal passengers in the back of a giant and thankfully nearly empty wood-framed truck that smells like it was recently used to haul cattle, Daemon grins. Something about it makes me sick to my stomach.
“Having fun?” I ask, as he rubs his bald head, relishing the feeling of the wind.
He ignores me and digs around in his bag. I adjust the straps of mine, making sure they’re nice and tight in case we slow down enough for me to jump. He’s pretty big but I’m sure I can outrun him if I need to. See that, G? I ask myself. My instincts say I need to run—run and expect Daemon to give chase. That, in and of itself, is unsettling and I’m pissed for not having thought it before.
Purposely picking at stray slivers of wood intermingled with bits of bark clinging to my sweatshirt I pretend not to notice what he’s doing. Shifting my gaze straight ahead over the high top of the truck cab, I stay focused on his form in the corner of my eye. Daemon pulls out a pair of goggles and slips them on. Then he takes out a bike helmet, placing it over his tattooed head and shoves in a mouth guard.
“What’s with the get up?”
He stands, holding onto a post on the side of the trailer and leans towards me, yelling. “No sense in taking unnecessary risks, is there Gerry?”
I wasn’t really comfortable with my situation to start with, but by the end of this one bland sentence, several other things are bothering me. The one I notice first—his accent is gone. Not flattened but completely gone, like it was never there to begin with. Second, his vague choice of words and monotone imply a warning. Then, there are his eyes. The shift in them is subtle but they’re definitely different. They’ve changed from friend to foe with a twitch.
“No reason whatsoever.” I answer with the same vague tone. Yep. Definitely in for trouble.
The veiled threat settles in my stomach like the unseen eyes that watched me. Then and now, I feel like I’m missing something important. Like a lightning bolt it hits, shocking and obvious, and I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it before. The other night, when I was half-conscious, he said my full name. When we made our introductions, I said, ‘my name is Gerry,’ and later, he addressed me by my first and last.
The first time I saw him, I knew. Why did I change my mind? Daemon is the Terrorist and I am an idiot.
He swings his leg out beyond the taught tarp wall of the trailer that keeps us corralled.
“What are you doing?” I yell into the whipping wind.
He looks in my direction and waves in a gesture that instructs me to follow. I shake my head. If he wants to crawl on the outside of a moving vehicle speeding down the interstate he’s welcome to it, but there’s nothing that says I have to go with him. Maybe he’ll do us both a favor and get himself killed.
As I’m hoping for a stroke of luck, Daemon disappears with a leap . . . and I know I must be seeing things.
I have to be seeing things because there is no way in the natural world that I just saw Daemon jump from the trailer to the top of the diesel, against the speeding wind. I’m sure my concussion is making me think he climbed up and down the wall just as easily as he slinks across the outside of the speeding trucks’ cab.
I make my way to the edge of the trailer to the spot where he disappeared and peer over the side as half of Daemon, who’s perched on the top of the truck cab, disappears as he bends down the side over the drivers’ door.
“What are you doing?”
The question is stolen by the speeding wind so I don’t wait for an answer, but inch my way further over to see for myself being careful to keep my hands clenched onto the poled corner of the container while stepping up on one of the crossbeams. The freezing airstream is like blades of ice cutting my face as I lean out to watch what the lunatic is doing.
The drivers’ door to the truck is flapping in the wind and Daemon has his head stuck inside. I think he’s messing with the driver.
My suspicions are confirmed with a quick swerve followed by a plaid blur floating past. Horns honk and cars veer off as I gasp, shocked at the unnatural sight of a human body bouncing along the road in our wake. That evil laugh howls like the wind in my ears. Daemon’s not there on top of the cab anymore and the trucks engine roars. The new driver is pushing faster.
I have to make a choice. Stay and die, jump and die, or crawl into the cab and hope to talk Daemon out of doing what he’s intending and possibly still die. It seems the lesser of the two evils is to get out of the open space. Inside I’ll have a seatbelt. And if I fall on the way . . . well, I am dead no matter what happens, aren’t I?
I swallow the abhorrence, ignoring the screaming juxtaposition which clearly shows I’m willing to risk a child’s innocent life before my own pride and the lives of countless others so I can cling to the slim hope of going home.
It isn’t real, I tell myself. Awake, asleep, or dead. Fear doesn’t matter because it isn’t real. This place isn’t real.
The bitter airstream has my hands tingling. Soon, they may not be able to hold anything. On the other side of my corner post there’s nothing between me and the cab. The far corner that would put me closest to the passenger side is blocked by one of the three solid sides of the trailer. I climb to the middle, navigating my way over the tarp that broke my fall. Luckily, the corners are still tied down. At the front, I use the space between wooden crossbeams as footholds.
Lines of evening commuters surround us on both sides, obvious shock on their faces. I’m dazed by the speeding asphalt in the grand canyon-like gap between the trailer and the cab. Its five feet if it’s an inch—and he jumped. Jumped!
With eyes firmly closed to avoid further nausea and nerves tightly wound, I work my way down the outside, onto the giant trailer hitch mounted on a greasy plate littered with coiled cords and cables. The full force of the wind is metered here, but it’s still strong and cold, still pressing me back as I shove forward. One hand stays glued to the outer railing while the other gropes for the long silver handle mounted on the back corner of the cab. Extending my arms as far as I can, my fingertips brush the plated metal but cannot grip it. The truck sways, forcing me back to the trailer.
Craning my neck, I can barely make out the path ahead through watering, icy eyes. Goggles. He had goggles with him. The road appears straight for the next mile or so. I shouldn’t have to worry about falling off the side. At least, not until I actually get to it.
When I extend both arms out once more, the frame of the cab is just outside my reach, only an inch or two. Carefully avoiding the larger patches of grease, I take one more step towards the mounted handle and gather courage.
Nothing to it, I coach myself. And then lunge.
For one split-second, I’m flying.
The metal handle is icy-cold and fits wonderfully inside my grasp—I almost want to kiss it. I’m at the corner of the cab now, looking out at the world zipping by and knowing I’m crazy. Absolutely crazy. There’s no other explanation for why I’m doing this.
Concentrating on the bumps of grated metal beneath the slicked soles of my sneakers, I feel my way along the outside heading for the passenger door. Clinging to the ledge, I extend myself as far as I can without compromising my footing and touch the door handle. As luck would have it, it doesn’t budge. I reach higher and knock on the glass. The force of cold and impact feels like knives in my knuckles. I close my eyes against the wind and pain.
After a moment of focused concentration, I think I hear something. A sound like a high keening cry or a whistle. Squinting now, I can just make out the flashing red and blue lights that match the resonant blare of sirens. It’s a cacophony of police cars and fire trucks weaving through traffic behind and beside us. Ones on the opposite side of the road kick up a line of clouds, swerving into the dirt divider.
I lock eyes with a man driving the nearest black and white. His stern visage gives a command to cease and desist. I shoot back a questioning look.
What does he think I’m doing out here?
Refocusing, I stretch up again, trying to knock on the glass but can’t feel my fingers and don’t know if I should trust the nothingness they find. I decide to press my luck and take small steps along the outer footboard, ignoring the whooping sirens warning my every move. A large fuel tank extends along the low side of the truck, so if I slip I can try to fall there. If not, I guess the cop gets the pleasure of running me over. He can tell everybody how he ‘got one.’
A clear cackle floats from inside and I know the maniac has rolled the window down. It’s a relief and a nightmare. Yes! I can get inside! But how the hell am I supposed to do that?
I inch closer to the edge of the small footboard and see that just below the door is a set of steps. Almost there. I work my way down only to find the steps are too low to help at getting inside. My terrified reflection in the warped rearview mirror makes me wish I had the courage to jump. The defiant thought gives me an idea and I reach for the arm of the mirror. Using the forked mount, I lift off the steps and scramble up the door towards the open window.
From there the encouragement of Daemon’s heckles are hard to miss.
“Head first is dead first! Woo!”
Prick.
With one arm planted firmly inside, I go for the second, grabbing a handle below the front seat for leverage. My head inches in as my arms are ready to give out. My knees press against the outside, losing ground and gaining hope. In a half second, I’ll either fall out or in. Then, my blind foot locks on the wheel well. One more push and my bruised ribs scream. The window sill disappears and I fall into the truck. Still alive.
“What took you so long?” Daemon shrieks, sounding cheerful as ever. Bright and sunny as a Sunday in May.
I’m going to punch him.
Twisted on the floor, I lay gasping, taking an account of my limbs. Righting myself proves to be no easy task, the space is cramped and I’m still rigid from the cold. Plus, the lunatic is laughing at every move I make.
He pumps a fist I the air. “That makes two you owe me!”
“Are you schizophrenic?”
He holds up my backpack. I yank it from him and sit down to buckle up.
“Don’t do that,” he commands all traces of humor gone. I’m about to tell him where he can shove his instruction, but he’s not buckled up either.
He points out the windshield and I feel the drag of the truck speeding up again. My pleas are high-pitched as he yanks the wheel to the left, trading the smooth road for the dirt divider. I rebound from every surface inside the cab until we’re back on the pavement heading into oncoming traffic.
Daemon pulls down the convenient goggles that rest against his stupid bike helmet.
There are only a few horns as people in compact cars and minivans swerve apart on both sides. Most of them probably can’t believe what they are seeing.
“Lean into it!” His command sounds made-up and garbled, so ludicrous, that I can’t even imagine the words come from a legitimate language.
“What?”
He smiling, looking dreadful and ridiculous. “You’re gonna see your dad!”
“What?”
It happens quickly, but plays in slow motion.
Daemon stomps on the gas pedal. The truck engine sputters in delayed obedience. The police cars and emergency trucks are still chasing us, but their flashing lights, all at once, cut out. Their sirens fall silent, too.
I know what’s coming and right before my eyes, which are glued open, I see it taking shape in the form of a Greyhound Bus. Silhouettes of passengers line the rows but I can’t make out their faces. I’m glad for this small mercy. The bus drivers’ mouth forms an ‘O’ when he sees us coming. He swerves, but so does Daemon.
“Lean forward!”
My eyes clench shut. My hands fly out, the instinct to protect myself from the inescapable collision.
But there’s nothing.
Everywhere, inside, outside, a vivid blue fog covers us and shatters; bursting into a spectrum of bright colors that cover everything in a single burst of radiant light that flashes on and off before I can wince or take in any detail.
And then everything is different, but . . . eerily similar.
Hot air whips over my entire body. The truck has disappeared. We’re still moving, but we aren’t inside the truck anymore. It’s gone. Outside is the same, minus the police cars, the giant bus, the dim clouds and cold air. Everything that was here only a second ago has vanished and I am locked in free fall.
The dirt and gravel greet me with a smacking kiss and a r
umbling hug as my body tumbles like a wet rag. Skidding onto the emergency shoulder I’m curled into a tight ball, instinctively protecting my head. The dirt scrapes through my jeans and into my knees, into my hair and elbows, my hip. I feel like the wooden matchstick grinding across the sulfur strip. I’m breaking and going up in flames. Old wounds are scoured open as I flip and slide, fighting to stay locked in my huddle. A clump of dirt hidden in dead grass in gathered at the base of a pole. My body wraps around it all, ending my helpless reeling.
I’m literally wrapped around a pole. And sick. So sick I’m barely able to open my mouth to let the vomit out. Crumpled and heaving, I hear another groan followed by a spraying splash. It’s coming from somewhere nearby. I allow one last heave before falling back to rest, waiting for the nausea to ebb. In between groups of traffic, I take in deep, concentrated breaths, trying to avoid sucking up the heavy exhaust.
Every inch of me is on fire. The unmistakable heat of summer burns what’s left of my skin. Still, after all that, one thing is standing out in my mind. Daemon’s words: Lean forward. Don’t buckle. You’re going to see your dad.
The truck disappeared just like the bus and the possibility is exciting enough that I force my eyes open. The bright sun is blinding. I roll to one side using my battered hands to lift from the dirt and calling out to the passing cars for help.
My calls are interrupted by a distinct sound.
A click that sounds from behind me and digs into the back of my head.
My calls cease. Intuitively, I raise my shredded arms out slowly.
“What are you doing?” Daemon asks.
“Putting my hands over my head.”
He laughs and the sound makes what’s left of my skin crawl. “Did I tell you to do that?”
“No.” I say and change directions to lower them.
“Stop moving!”
I freeze.
“You think you are so smart,” he snickers.
The barrel jams harder into my skull and I shrink away, hating that I can’t keep from shaking.
“So afraid of what you do not understand.”
“What am I supposed to understand?”
“Quiet!”
The tip of his boot lands between my shoulder blades, forcing me back to the ground to lie in my own vomit. With my cheeks pressed to the unforgiving road, I watch the line of traffic passing, willing someone to have the courage to stop. The cars are newer—smoother lines and rounded edges. The drivers slow a little, just long enough to decide to keep going. Several seem to hold out their phones for pictures.
Forgive me for not smiling.
“Understand this: I don’t want to hurt you.”
“What? Why are you doing this?”
He snickers. “I am here for my Threestone. Can you take me to my rocks?”
“What?”
“We are the same color, see?”
“What? What rocks?” He’s talking in monotone the way an inexperienced news anchor reads cue cards or a bad actor reads a script, and pressing his foot harder into my back. Even if there was no gun involved, if I weren’t feeling so feeble, so filled with dread, and was standing upright, I don’t think I’d understand this exchange.
“That means nothing to you, does it?”
“What?”
“I bet you’ve never seen anyone like me before, have you? Tell me, Gerry, do you think I am a god?”
“What?” I’m like a robot, I can’t stop repeating myself.
“How do you like your god now?”
The question is totally misdirected. What could a guy like me possibly know about God? I’m the one with a gun to my head. I’ve got no control whatsoever. His hubris has me righteously pissed, though. The anger helps form a sequence in my mind. A plan of sorts: throw my weight into a roll, grab his leg, and make him fall. At the very least, that should give me enough time to get the gun or run.
On the count of three. One . . . two . . .
I have the whole sequence laid out in my mind but there’s this tremendous noise. It’s so loud it makes me lose focus, confuses me. Colors shoot across my vision and then I realize it’s not colors. It’s one color. It’s red. Daemon has pulled the trigger.
It’s really loud but other than that, doesn’t feel as bad as I expect. I imagined it happening to someone else of course, never me. But I’ve always thought, ‘what horrible pain it must be’, but it’s not. It’s messy. There is a lot of blood. I hear it pouring from me, tinkling to the ground. My ear drum hurts more than the bullet. All in all, I suppose it is preferable to other methods of execution. If I have to go, I may as well go quickly.
Dying is nothing like they show in the movies. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes; it’s only fleeting opinions of the things I’ve done that occur and fly away.
And my mother. Oddly, she’s here with me holding my hand. She’s bright and beautiful, the only source of light in the dim world. She’s not looking at me, but down at an open book and I realize that she’s reading to me. Beyond the deafening resonance of the bullet, her voice rings clear and sweet. “Do not rejoice over me, my enemy; when I fall, I will rise. When I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me.”
Part III
Increments
