by Tyler Keevil
His cigarette was almost finished. He twisted it out on the ground. Then he heaved himself up, his knees popping as they extended. For a moment he towered next to me, and from my low vantage point he looked so gargantuan I felt as if I was three years old again.
‘Your dad wanted to have a nightcap with me,’ he said, and turned to go.
‘Hey,’ I said, picking up his lighter. ‘You forgot this.’
He stopped to look back, then waved it away.
‘Keep it. If you like.’
I was stoked, obviously. I was even more stoked when I looked at the lighter. It was the lighter he’d been given in the peacekeepers. It had his service number on it – so faded it was hard to read.
‘Thanks, Grandpa. That’s wicked.’
He shut the door behind him. Since he had to catch a plane to Lima the next morning, I didn’t see him again on that trip, but the day after our chat I took his advice. I placed an ad for my camera in the classifieds, and sold it to some kid from West Van. He was chubby and smelled like strawberry perfume and wore a Cuban beret. On the phone he told me he was attending Vancouver Film School. When he drove out to our house, his mom came along with him. There was no haggling or negotiating involved. She just handed over a certified cheque for thirty-five hundred dollars.
It seemed like a dangerous amount of money.
chapter 23
The Neon slid on, propelled along the water-slick highway like a log in a flume. I had to put some distance between myself and the wreck. I was convinced of that. Every thirty seconds or so I checked my mirrors. I kept expecting to see the cherry lights and hear the siren of a highway patrolman coming after me. The emergency crews had probably reached the site of the crash, and would be analysing my tracks, searching for evidence, scanning the clues into their little computers. I’d seen the films and TV shows. I knew how cunning these people could be. It was possible they were already following my progress with a satellite camera.
‘It’s a fucking duck hunt,’ I said. ‘A dragnet conspiracy.’
Even the rain was in on it. It wouldn’t let up. It just fell and fell and fell, like waves washing over my Neon. I pushed on, clutching the wheel, crashing through the tide.
‘A little further,’ I chanted, over and over. ‘Just a little further.’
Ten minutes later, I saw a sign for a rest stop. I put on my signal. The exit ramp was thick with water. As I descended, it sprayed up around my windows in shimmering fans. I floated on, into the parking lot. It was empty. I pulled over next to the toilets and yanked on the handbrake. Then I stumbled out and slumped across the hood. Rain pummelled my back. I rolled over, offering myself up to it. Fat drops slapped my face, spat in my eyes.
‘All right,’ I said, holding up my hands. ‘You win. I’m done.’
The rain stopped. Instantly. America had proved her point. I lay there, sprawled on the hood of my Neon, completely waterlogged. I could smell the night, the wetness, the pine trees. In the woods, water was dripping off the branches, like an echo of the storm.
‘You okay?’
Somebody was poking me.
‘Hey – are you dead or are you sleeping?’
I opened my eyes. It was bright and chilly. A woman stood over me, wearing a trucker’s hat. I was spreadeagled on the hood of my car, and my clothes were still wet. I gazed at her. My head hurt and I was shivering. I felt completely sodden and wrung out.
‘I hope I’m not dead,’ I said.
‘I saw you lying here.’
‘I got caught in the storm.’
She reached up and adjusted her hat. ‘Well – so long as you’re breathing.’
She ambled over to the snack machines in the rest stop shelter. Behind it I could see her rig – a big green eighteen-wheeler. On the side of the semi-trailer was a logo of a turtle, and their slogan: Martha’s Movers. Not the fastest. Just the best.
I peeled myself off the hood and sidled past her to the men’s washroom. It was tiny, with three urinals, two stalls and one sink. I grabbed on to the sink with both hands, bracing myself, and puked straight down the drain. Since I hadn’t been eating, not much came out – just bile that seared my oesophagus. I wiped my lips, and cupped handfuls of water into my mouth. The water tasted sweet, in the way it does after you throw up. I rested on a toilet in one of the stalls for a few minutes, then got up and drank some more. Finally, after all that, I looked in the mirror. My face was pale as a china plate.
‘You piece of shit,’ I said.
I shuffled back to the car. The bottle of whisky was lying in the passenger footwell. Only a thimbleful was left. I’d managed to drink nearly the whole twixer. I grabbed it by the neck, as if it was a pet animal that had been misbehaving, and locked it in the trunk with the rest of the booze. There’d be no more of that. I had a new vow, to add to my list of vows. America had made it clear that there was certain shit she wouldn’t put up with on this trip.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll drink, and I’ll drive, but not at the same time.’
To seal the pact, I sparked my grandpa’s Zippo and lit up a Lucky Strike. While I puffed away on it, I got out my map – one of those folding road maps that are a pain in the ass to open and close. I unfolded it and spread it across the hood of the Neon. It took me a while to find Seattle, and trace my route along the I-90. There were a bunch of little roads to the north and south of it. I could have been on any of them.
The trucker was still deciding on her snack. I waved to her.
‘Could you tell me where I am?’ I called.
She came to stand beside me and stared at my map, jingling her coins in her palm.
‘Uh-huh,’ she said. She pointed to a little yellow road in Washington. Her fingernail was clipped and clean and pink, without any nail polish. ‘We’re here. On Highway 28.’
Highway 28 ran parallel to the interstate. I wasn’t that far off course. This route would take me to Trevor, too. It was just smaller and slower and meandered around a bit.
She said, ‘The I-90’s faster, if time’s an issue.’
‘Guess I’m not in any real rush.’
‘I hear you. I haul freight, but I ain’t one of these speed maniacs. I see so many assholes just racing along the highways, like they’re trying to conquer the entire country.’
I looked at her. Something about her voice reminded me of the operator on the phone. It had that same calmness. Her face was calm, too – worn smooth by age.
I said, ‘But you can’t conquer her, can you?’
‘Nope. Better to take things slow, enjoy the journey. Got far to go?’
‘Trevor, first. Then on to Winnemucca, Reno, and San Francisco.’
She whistled, long and low. ‘Big trip.’
‘That was the idea.’
‘Where’d you start?’
I had to think about that as I folded up the map.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘I’m starting here.’
chapter 24
On the day I left, while I was getting my things together, I received three phone calls, on my landline. The first was from Amanda. I’d told her and my dad that I was going camping for two weeks by myself, up in Northern BC, and she had already started to worry.
She phoned me from her office at the injection site to see if I wanted to borrow one of their cars – the Camry or the Cherokee. It was tempting. It would save me cash, and I knew those cars so well. They were as cosy and familiar as a pair of old mitts.
‘No, thanks, Amanda,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a rental lined up.’
‘You never know with those rental cars.’
‘It’s a good agency – out at the airport.’
You could tell she wasn’t convinced, but by then it was all settled.
‘Well, make sure you touch base with us every so often.’
I told her I would. She insisted I take my dad’s cellphone, since I’d smashed mine. He was getting another one soon on his plan, anyways.
‘And your dad said to remind you not to
pick up any hitchhikers.’
‘I better get going, Amanda.’
‘Drive safe.’
After we hung up, I finished getting ready. I didn’t have many preparations to make. I was just taking the one backpack, with a few spare clothes. But after I’d packed, instead of leaving, I lingered in the house. I walked upstairs and downstairs. I checked all the lights. I brushed my teeth twice. I even cleaned my suite, and bagged all the empties. It was like when you open the door to a birdcage, and find the birds don’t want to fly away. I’d always wondered about that. Now I knew how they felt.
At about ten o’clock, the phone rang a second time. I thought it might be Zuzska, and couldn’t decide whether or not to answer. Finally I did. It wasn’t her, anyways. It was the director. He was calling because the funding had come through for his feature. Some of it had, at least. He’d received enough to shoot it, but not on film like he’d originally planned. He wanted me, and my camera.
‘I really liked the work you did on my short,’ he said.
I guess he’d forgiven me for the close-up of his face in the bar taps.
‘I’d like to,’ I said. ‘But I can’t.’
‘But this is the road movie, man. Our feature. Like Easy Rider, remember?’
‘I remember. The thing is, I sold my camera.’
‘Aw, shit.’ He sounded so disappointed. Almost heartbroken. A lot more so than me – and it had been my camera. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I’m going on an actual road trip.’ Then, since that didn’t seem like explanation enough, I added, ‘It’s going to be even better than your movie. Because I’ll be living it.’
He still didn’t understand, but it had felt good to say it out loud. I was ready. I told the director I had to go, and hung up on him. My backpack was in my suite. I went to get it, checked I had my passport, and headed for the door.
Then the phone rang again.
I walked back and approached it. Cautiously. This time, I knew it was her – in that instinctive way that happened between me and Zuzska sometimes. It trilled and trilled. I imagined picking it up, and all the things we’d say: reproaches, apologies, ultimatums. I think I even reached out to touch it.
‘Not yet,’ I said.
I backed away, then turned and walked down the hall. I felt each ring tugging at me like a string. I stepped on to the porch and shut the door behind me, locking that sound inside.
chapter 25
I drove into the centre of Trevor and parked on the main street. I wanted to announce my arrival in some outlandish manner. I wanted to declare myself, like in the olden days, when travellers had to knock on the gates of a town. We had a connection, Trevor and I. A bond.
Near where I parked, a hunchbacked guy was standing on the street corner, selling papers. I hopped out and went over and bought one: the Trevor Tribune. I tapped the header. ‘That’s my name,’ I told him. ‘I’m Trevor.’
‘Good for you, pal.’
I wandered down the street. I was hoping to have some kind of mind-blowing déjà vu experience, but that didn’t happen. Trevor just looked like any other mid-sized North American town. It was all stretched out, low and flat, with a couple of apartment buildings squatting at one end. The main strip had been taken over by chain stores: Starbucks and 7-Eleven and Kentucky Fried Chicken. I didn’t see Trevor Toys, or Trevor Grocery. I didn’t see any of the shops that I remembered from my childhood.
I passed a few other people – the citizens of Trevor. Trevorites, I guess. I smiled at them. Some smiled back, but not many. For them it was just a regular day in Trevor. Then I came up to a middle-aged woman in a floral dress, dragging a boy along beside her. The boy had curly blond hair, hacked into haphazard locks, and looked a little like I had at that age. I figured they might know where the toy store was, so I stopped them and asked about it.
‘You mean Trevor Toys?’ she said.
‘That’s it. They sell clear blue plastic visors with flashing lights.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s gone now. Toys R Us put it out of business.’
‘Shit.’
She frowned at me, for swearing in front of her kid, and tugged him on. I kept walking. At the end of the main street, I found Toys R Us. It was the size of an aircraft hangar, with a flat roof and dull concrete façade. I walked through the sliding glass doors, which snapped shut behind me. Inside, the place was filled with conditioned air, chilly as a fridge. The floor tiles sparkled like ice cubes, and emitted cold and empty echoes at each step. My forearms prickled into goosebumps, instantly. There were hardly any other customers, and hardly any staff.
I went up to the only till clerk on duty – this teenage girl in a frosty white uniform.
‘Good morning, sir, can I help you?’
She smiled. On her teeth she had some kind of ornate orthodontic brace. Steel brackets and bits of wire filled her entire mouth, like the inside of an android. I made a small, startled sound, and took a step back.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she asked again, with the same intonation. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for a visor.’
‘What kind of visor are you looking for, sir?’
It was so cold I could see our breath in the air. I rubbed at my arms, trying to keep warm, as I described my visor to her. She listened, her mouth frozen in that metallic smile.
‘We don’t have a visor like that, sir. Nobody sells visors like that any more. But we have sports visors and cartoon visors. In fact, we have a special on our headwear today…’
She started telling me about the special, about all their specials, repeating her pre-recorded sales pitch. I shivered and backed away. Slowly. She didn’t seem to notice. She continued speaking to the empty air, and staring at the place I’d been, as I crept out the door.
Outside, the afternoon sun was hitting the street full-on, like a giant laser beam. I sat on the steps of Toys R Us to warm up. Off to my right, near the wheelchair ramp, stood a woman. I hadn’t noticed her on the way in. She’d spray-painted her face pink and dressed up in a pink skirt and blouse. A pair of wings hung off her back. She was acting like one of those human statues you see in Europe. Zuzska had been terrified of them. In Barcelona I’d paid one – this guy dressed as the devil – to chase her down Las Ramblas. He’d followed her all the way to Park Güell. She’d screamed and laughed so hard that she’d had an asthma attack.
I got out a handful of coins and tossed them in the lady’s bucket. She lurched to life and pretended to notice me for the first time. In one hand she held a wand, which she brought up and waggled in front of my face.
‘I’m your fairy godmother,’ she said.
‘I could use a fairy godmother.’
‘I’ll grant you one wish.’
‘Well, I’m looking for a clear blue plastic visor, with flashing lights on the brim.’
She closed her eyes and jerked her wand around. I guess she was pretending to cast some kind of spell. Then she bopped me on the forehead with the wand, a little too hard.
‘Ow.’
‘Sorry. Try the old market, in Oak Park. There’s a toy stall.’
‘Hey – thanks a lot.’
She licked her lips. The pink paint was coming off at the corner of her mouth. ‘Once you get your visor, go. I wouldn’t stick around – a pretty young thing like you.’ She stirred her wand around my head. ‘Some local girl will wrap you up and take you home with her.’
She settled back into her original position, pretending to solidify again. I felt I owed her for the advice, so I added more money to her bucket. But she misunderstood and came back to life, thinking I wanted another performance. I explained that it was just a tip.
It was fairly awkward.
Oak Park wasn’t really a park. There was no grass, no playground, and no paths. It was an old dirt lot dotted with oil stains and dandelions. At the very centre stood an oak tree, large and gnarled, with a canopy of branches so elaborate it formed a kind of overhead labyrinth. In t
he air beneath it, cucumber-green caterpillars twisted and squirmed on strands of silk.
Most of the stalls were arranged in the shade of the oak tree. I walked around, checking them all out. One stall was set up on a two-wheeled farm cart, laden with melons and berries and other fruits. Above it a cardboard sign read Fresh Trevor Produce. Another stall, A Taste of Trevor, was selling pickled vegetables, preserves and local cheeses. This was more like the town I remembered. Trevor – the real Trevor – had gone underground. There was even Trevor Body Care, which sold home-made soaps and organic, chemical-free hand creams.
As I passed, the saleswoman asked, ‘Something for your lady friend?’
‘I don’t have a lady friend.’
There was a toy stall, too – just as my fairy godmother had said. Laid out on the table were grubby Care Bears and boxes of loose Lego blocks and a Hot Wheels track with a note on it: One piece missing. I knew those toys. They were the toys of my childhood. There were even He-Man figurines, and original Transformers. Some of the toys were still in their packaging, but most were second-hand. The man behind the table nodded at me. His nose was bulbous with veins, and a jelly-bowl belly jiggled over the band of his jeans.
‘Did you used to own a toy store around here?’ I asked.
‘That was Trev, my brother. Trevor Toys.’
‘Where’s Trevor now?’
‘He killed himself when his store closed.’
‘Damn. Sorry, man.’
I didn’t tell him that was my name too. It might have tripped him out.
‘But I inherited some of his stock,’ he added.
I pretended to peruse his stuff. Really I was only looking for one thing, and I saw it – hanging on a hook next to a Smurfette baseball cap.
‘Is that visor for sale?’
He took it off the hook, brushed a film of dust from the brim. ‘Sure is. Good deal, too. They don’t make these any more.’
‘Does it work?’
He flicked the switch on the headband. Nothing happened. When he saw my face, he said, ‘Maybe it’s the batteries.’
