Cadillac Chronicles

by Brett Hartman

  “What happens next?”

  “We settle in, clean up and get ourselves a nice meal at that restaurant in the lobby.” He paused for breath. “Don’t eat too much, or you’ll really take a whuppin’ come chess-time.”

  “Sounds good,” Alex said.

  “After a game or two, I’ll take myself a bath—wash everything jail-related right out of me. You can go down to that gym and run to your heart’s content, if you still got the energy.”

  The plan felt like a good match to go along with the beautiful sunset and this chic, contemporary suite.

  LESTER HAD so hyped up the game of chess over dinner that the idea of actually playing felt anticlimactic for Alex. But the last thing he wanted was let the old man down. If Lester wanted to play chess, then that’s exactly what they would do.

  Lester pulled the set out of his suitcase and handed it to Alex. “Put it on the table and move that vase. Chess and flowers don’t go together.” Then he sat down and pointed to the arena where the Carolina Panthers played. “Stadium’s empty, and it’ll stay that way another month. What a ridiculous waste to keep all those lights on.”

  Alex filled two glasses of iced water and placed them on the table.

  “I’ll have a beer,” Lester said. “And no, you can’t have one…not on my watch.”

  It was the first time Lester had expressed an interest in drinking since they’d met. “You sure you’re allowed to drink?”

  “One won’t do anything. Two might kill me, but I’ll stick with one.”

  Alex wondered how many of the old man’s medicine bottles warned against drinking alcohol, but he dutifully went to the mini fridge and announced there was Michelob, Heineken and Miller Lite.

  “I’ll take a Michelob.” Lester began setting up the board, assigning himself the black pieces, Alex the white. “Here’s how it goes,” he said. “First, you put the board so that you got a white square to your right. White’s right—remember that for chess, but not in real life. And always put your pieces like this.” He named the chessmen: king, queen, bishop, knight, rook and pawn. He demonstrated what each of them could do.

  Alex was confused but nodded anyway. Then Lester explained how the king and the rook could flip around in one fell swoop and how the lowly pawn could advance to become a queen. To further increase the confusion level, he gave the rule of en passant.

  “It’s a lot to remember,” Alex said.

  “Just think of this board as an ancient battlefield. We’re at war. Our pride and property are at stake.” He picked up both kings. “Only one of these can rule the land. How we manage our troops, offensively and defensively, dictates whose king survives.” He put the pieces back and took another sip. “Let’s start with a practice game.”

  Alex began by moving pawn, then knight, then bishop and getting each taken away in quick order. Lester demonstrated a checkmate in six moves.

  “God, that was stupid,” Alex said.

  “Not stupid, just naïve. You’re starting to learn.”

  In their first official game, Alex played defensively. He moved pawn after pawn after pawn, creating a W of protection from attack. Meanwhile, Lester broke through with a combination of bishop and queen. The game was over in eight moves.

  “You crucified me,” Alex said.

  “Play like that and you deserve to be crucified.” Lester downed half his beer. “Sweet taste of victory. Now let’s try another game. You set up the board.” He got up and made his way to the bathroom. Alex lined up the pieces as he remembered, and he rehearsed and visualized what each of them could do. He was hovering over the board when Lester returned.

  “Looks like you’re ready to go.” The old man lowered himself into his chair. “Go on, make your move.”

  Alex went on the offensive. He started with one knight then the other. He moved two pawns to engage both bishops. Then he brought out his queen, only to get her taken away by Lester’s black bishop. “Gotcha,” Lester said.

  “I should’ve seen it coming,” Alex said. “I suck.”

  “You’re just too pumped up, too aggressive. You’ve got to see the board more clearly.”

  Six more moves and Lester called checkmate. “You’re learning, kid. Let’s try one last game.”

  It was true what they say about defeat being a good teacher. For nearly thirty minutes they squared off, man to man, attacking and whittling away each other’s defenses. By the end of it, Alex was reduced to two pawns and a knight while Lester retained his queen, three pawns and a bishop. He called “Check” for the last time and smiled at Alex.

  “You got me,” Alex said.

  “Yeah, but you held your own. Keep it up and you’ll be a fine chess player.” He drank the last of his beer and slowly got up from the table.

  “Hope we can play again soon.”

  “Me too,” Lester said. “Right now I got me a date with a whirlpool tub. I’m not passing that up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Alex dreamt that he was living in another country—a superior country filled with smoked-glass skyscrapers, marble chessboards and tanned women in sports bras, jogging next to him, smiling glossy smiles. He awoke to the sinking realization that it was all coming to an end. By evening he’d be home again, arguing with his mother.

  One way to carry on the spirit of the trip was to take home free stuff, and there was plenty. After his shower, he scurried around the place, picking up pens and stationary, a bar of soap for the body, one for the face, a little bottle of shampoo and a moisturizer. And even though he doubted he’d ever use them, he took drink coasters, a shower cap and a miniature sewing kit. It didn’t matter. His aim was tangible reminders.

  Then came the final luxury—room-service breakfast. Alex dragged the table to the window so that he and Lester could watch the city materialize. A man in a tux sans jacket pushed a cart to the table and unloaded two covered plates, juice and a thermal pot of coffee. Alex sent the man off with a five dollar tip.

  “Ought to be good,” Lester said, pouring coffee into a mug.

  Alex was surprised to find that his Belgian waffle was still warm seventeen floors from its origin. “Real good,” he said. He looked out the window and saw a fair amount of traffic on the interstate but only a few vehicles on the city streets and even fewer pedestrians. He asked Lester about it.

  “That’s because it’s Sunday, and it’s Charlotte. That’s the problem with these modern cities—you gotta drive everywhere, makes everybody fat. And this city’s one of the fattest.”

  “People looked pretty fit in the gym.”

  “That’s ’cause they’re tourists, and they’re gym people.” He spread his arms broadly. “This hotel is a palace in a Third World country. That’s the fate of the American City—slums and palaces, slums and palaces.”

  “You sure you’re not being cynical again?”

  “Actually, you’re the one who ought to be cynical. You’ll be living in the kind of world I’m describing.”

  “Unless things change,” Alex said.

  “Spoken like a true optimist. You’ll be all right, though. Maybe someday you’ll get yourself a palace.”

  Last thing Alex wanted was a palace. What he really wanted was a way to get rid of his all-pervading guilt. Being in this tower of opulence made it worse. And it didn’t help that Lester was paying for everything, asking nothing of Alex.

  When they arrived at the lobby to check out, he looked away from the counter so he wouldn’t have to see the final bill. He waited until Lester folded the receipt and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Thank you,” Alex said timidly while patting Lester on the shoulder.

  “I should thank you,” Lester said. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed this place by myself. You made it special.”

  If only you knew the real me, Alex was thinking. He pulled out the valet ticket and handed it to the attendant.

  Lester was making a big deal about the fact that his energy level was good. “I could go a round or two with the
champ,” he said, which meant he was first to drive. When the car arrived, Alex relinquished five more dollars and slid into the passenger seat. The sky was cloudless, and it gave off a merciless heat.

  In a little while, they passed Statesville, which made him recall his rain-soaked driving lesson and how he had almost smacked into a pickup truck, but instead earned the right to drive on this very highway. Why couldn’t he feel like that now?

  “You been quiet awhile,” Lester said. “What’s bugging you?”

  “It’s nothing,” Alex said.

  “I don’t even have to look at you to know that’s a lie. Go ahead, cough it up.”

  But Alex just sat there, wondering what he could say to evade the truth. He could reveal smaller truths, like how he was dreading that first conversation with his mother. Or how concerned he was about Lester finding a place to live. But he knew those things would come out hollow, and he’d be left with the same feeling.

  So he pushed aside his fear and began speaking. “It was a couple of weeks ago, right after my birthday.”

  “I remember it well.”

  “My mom got pretty upset.”

  “I regret saying those things. Didn’t know how thin-skinned she’d be.”

  “She pretty much wanted you gone after that,” Alex said. “And she used me to get rid of you. So on the way back from seeing my psychiatrist, she made me a deal. She said if I agreed to kicking you out, I wouldn’t have to see the shrink anymore.”

  They passed the state line into Virginia. Lester didn’t speak.

  “I took the deal.” Alex’s voice trembled. “It was a terrible thing. And I’ve been sorry about it ever since.” He stopped talking and braced himself for Lester’s response.

  “I’m not a fan of psychiatrists,” Lester said. “They pretty much murdered my sister Mary, turned her into a drooling vegetable with their drugs and their electric jolts to the head.”

  “Right,” Alex said, “but I could’ve handled the guy. I was flushing his drugs down the toilet.”

  “Goddamn drug-peddlers!” Lester clenched his hand into a gnarled fist.

  “I know. But I’m the one who sold you out. I should’ve handled the shrink myself.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, kid. Your mother would’ve found another way to get rid of me.” He gave Alex a quizzical stare. “What the hell you seeing a psychiatrist for anyway?”

  “He said I’ve got depression and behavior problems…and a poor attention span.”

  “You’re a goddamn teenager. He ought to know better.”

  “So you’re not angry I sold you out?”

  “I’m angry, but it ain’t for that reason. I’m angry at that imbecile tagging you with labels and forcing drugs on you, making you think you got some mental disease. He’s a demonic fortune-teller and worse, ’cause he’s got a medical license to wreak his havoc. That’s what I’m angry about.”

  Alex nodded. He was relieved of some of the guilt but still concerned about Lester’s living situation.

  “And your mother,” Lester continued. “I’m angry at her for putting you in a situation like that. She’s nearly as bad as the shrink.”

  “I didn’t know you as well back then. If I knew you like I do now, I wouldn’t have taken the deal. Swear to God.”

  “I believe you, kid. It’s a hell of a thing to put you through.”

  And that was true. What kind of a mother does a thing like that? Alex was back to his old stomping grounds—maternal anger, which also helped ease the guilt. After a period of silence, Lester said, “Forget the shrink. Forget your mother. You ought to do something for yourself.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Say that you’ll never give up on yourself. That’s all you’ve got to say. And you gotta mean it.”

  Alex felt a little silly. But he pushed himself to say the words with a straight face. “Okay.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll never give up on myself.”

  Lester nodded. “That’s good, kid. That’s your promise. Don’t you forget it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  They wouldn’t be discussing the Virginia Tech massacre on their return trip, because Lester had fallen asleep before the exit signs. So Alex was left to ponder the events of April 16, 2007 on his own. And they wouldn’t be discussing all the Civil War battlefields scattered along their route, because the old man remained on the backseat sleeping his way through the entire state of Virginia. If he hadn’t already proven himself a marathon napper, Alex would’ve been alarmed. Lester continued his slumber through those little slices of West Virginia and Maryland. He was going on five hours when they crossed the state line into Pennsylvania. Alex kept driving, but his worry was growing.

  Partly out of concern and partly out of boredom, he reached back and applied a couple of nudges to wake the old man up. And it worked. As they passed Carlisle, Lester slowly rose and looked around. He coughed a couple of times and said, “We’re in Pennsylvania already?”

  “That’s right. You missed a lot.”

  “I need a bathroom, but wait till we get past Harrisburg. There’s never a place to piss downtown.” He was fiddling with his left arm.

  “Something wrong?” Alex asked.

  “Arm’s probably numb from sleeping on it.”

  They turned toward a multi-purpose gas station off the Grantville exit. Alex pulled up to a row of pumps and began filling the tank while the old man made his way to the bathroom. Fortunately, the back of his pants looked dry.

  Lester was still in one of the bathroom stalls while Alex stood at a urinal, and the old man remained in the building while Alex worked a squeegee, struggling to rid the windshield of hundreds of miles of bug carnage. Finally, Lester arrived carrying a shopping bag. He opened the passenger door and said, “Looks real good. You’d need a razor blade to get’em all. Let’s move.”

  Back on the road, they entered what Lester called the heart of Pennsylvania coal-mining country. “It’s got to be about the worst job there is,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Chipping away at solid earth all day is bad enough. But you gotta do it underground, and you gotta breathe that foul air. Can’t imagine anything worse.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of Advil and a bottle of water.

  “I guess it’s not a job I’d want,” Alex said.

  “You find a career that engages your brain. Pay is usually better. And as long as you don’t blow it with drugs, your brain’ll stay sharp a lot longer than your body.” He was struggling with the Advil bottle but finally got it open. “I’m all the proof you need of that.” He shook four tablets onto his palm and downed them with water.

  “You got a headache?”

  “That I do,” Lester said, and he closed his eyes.

  “You’re not gonna sleep again, are you?”

  “Please,” Lester said, “a little quiet for now.”

  Alex shook his head. Getting old really did suck.

  Then a terrible thing happened. Lester’s upper body jerked forward a couple of times while his left arm just dangled along like a dead eel. He appeared to be on the verge of vomiting, but nothing came out of him, thank God. Still, Alex grabbed the plastic shopping bag and said, “Here, take this, just in case.” Last thing Lester wanted was vomit all over his interior.

  But the old man didn’t take it. “No,” he said. Then he started to cry.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Lester didn’t respond. His eyes were closed.

  “Say something!”

  Lester made a series of garbled sounds. The only decipherable word was promise—the rest slurred beyond recognition.

  Alex cut across a lane of traffic and slowed onto the shoulder, rumbling to a stop. He reached for Lester’s chest. “Wake up,” he said. “You’ll be okay. Just wake up.” He gave a shove causing Lester’s head to bob forward. “No! You gotta wake up!”

  If ever he needed a cell phone, now was the time. He got out of the car, faced oncoming traffic and
flapped his arms for help. A white pickup truck pulled in front of the Cadillac. Alex ran to the driver’s side. “Call 911!” he yelled. “Call 911!”

  A man stepped out and handed Alex his phone.

  “What’s the address of your emergency?” asked a female dispatcher.

  Somehow Alex found the capacity to explain the situation. The woman asked whether Lester had a history of stroke, heart attack or seizures.

  “I don’t know,” Alex said three times.

  “What are his medications?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out.”

  “Good, I’m sending an ambulance right now. I’ll relay the info.”

  Holding the phone in one hand, Alex rifled through Lester’s suitcase and found the black leather bag. He started reading off the names from each bottle—long crazy names, but the woman kept saying, “Got it,” so he figured he was doing okay.

  He could hear a siren gaining in volume. He thanked her and returned the phone to the pickup driver. “Hope your friend makes it,” the man said as he got back into his truck.

  “Me too,” Alex said, and that’s when he began to cry.

  Two paramedics got out of the ambulance and proceeded to hoist Lester’s limp body onto a gurney.

  “Please be okay,” Alex said as he returned to the Cadillac. The ambulance sped away, siren howling. Alex took off behind them.

  It didn’t matter how fast the ambulance was going or if a trooper was on his ass, he refused to give ground. They got off the interstate at Frackville and raced through one red light after another. The Cadillac chirped and bounced and swayed through turns. It could have gone faster, which made him worry even more about Lester’s prognosis.

  A shiny black sign read Anthracite Regional Medical Center, and the four-story structure loomed a quarter mile up a hill. There was a roundabout with three options, one of which was the emergency entrance. Alex separated from the ambulance. The first open parking spot had a sign, Reserved for Dr. Calvin Sprague. Alex didn’t give a shit about Dr. Sprague. He shot right in and ran for the emergency doors.

  All the action ran up and down a hall leading to double doors, but you couldn’t pass the doors without being nabbed by the woman at the reception desk. He approached and said, “My friend’s in there. I gotta see him.”