The Drive

by Tyler Keevil

  ‘Nobody ever escape here,’ Victor said.

  ‘That’s because they never locked me up,’ Bea told him.

  She went to stand on the front deck, and Venus followed. Their figures blended into the fog. Me and Victor stayed inside, gazing up at the island fortress looming on our left.

  ‘She sure something, yes?’ he said.

  I didn’t know if he meant Alcatraz, or Beatrice.

  ‘She sure is,’ I said.

  chapter 65

  When we got back to their place, I flopped down on the living room floor and lay with my legs together and my arms extended straight out at my sides, as if I’d been crucified. I was babbling about how Beatrice had prevented me from expanding my sexual horizons. I told her I’d been ready to experiment.

  ‘No, you weren’t.’

  ‘Maybe it would have cured me. Maybe I’ve been gay all along.’

  ‘Honey – you’re the straightest man I know.’

  ‘I’m sick of being straight!’

  Bea patted my head and went to put the kettle on. I sat up and made an extravagant stretching gesture with my arms, like a prima ballerina. Venus was rolling a joint on their elephant table, but she was doing it furtively, with her back to me, shielding her stash from view. When she finished, she offered me the joint first, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. ‘You want to christen this?’

  I took it and lit it. Two tokes got me totally blitzed, as if the inside of my skull had been whitewashed. It was so potent I hardly remember what happened afterwards. I just remember doing handstands, and parading around. Then I had this deck of cards. I was on the floor, playing poker with Sprite. Five card stud, I think. She was pretty good, for a cat. She had a great poker face. You couldn’t read her.

  ‘Goddammit, cat,’ I said, throwing down my cards. ‘Another straight flush!’

  Venus and Bea were behind me on the sofa. I heard Venus whispering something.

  ‘What was in that joint?’ I demanded.

  ‘Only weed,’ Venus said.

  ‘I’ve smoked weed my whole life. That wasn’t weed.’

  ‘Don’t be paranoid.’

  I played another hand with Sprite, just to show them I was in control. Then I put the cards down, carefully, and sipped my tea. I told them I wanted to go to bed now.

  ‘Okay, cardsharp.’

  Bea patted the top of my head. ‘See you in the morning, honey.’

  They went into their room, leaving me to arrange my sofa bed. As soon as I lay down, it seemed to levitate and swivel in circles, like Aladdin’s magic carpet. I held on and closed my eyes, willing it to settle. Sprite watched all this curiously.

  ‘She tricked me, cat,’ I said. ‘The party cruise didn’t go as she planned, so she resorted to sabotage. That was a loaded joint.’

  Then I heard noises coming from the bedroom – a soft moaning, faint but distinct. I lay still for a minute, eaves-dropping, until Sprite caught me at it and took a swipe at my foot.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll be a gentleman.’

  I rolled over and mashed my ear to the pillow and tried to ignore the noises. It wasn’t easy. The moans were getting louder. Sprite was stretched out on the floor among the pile of scattered playing cards. She raised her head and peered at me and sniffed, as if to say, You can act like a broken-hearted gay-boy all you like. She’s still the one in there, getting laid.

  I threw a sock at her. ‘At least I’m not suckling off a dog.’

  I don’t know if I fell asleep that night. I was drunken-dozing when Sprite leapt on to my chest – scaring the hell out of me. She flexed her claws into my shirt and crouched with her face in front of mine, breathing cat-food fumes on me. Her fur was less scruffy than it had been, and her rheumy eye was clearing up. Bea had given her some eye drops and a worming tablet. ‘You almost look like a real cat,’ I said, petting her.

  She mrrred at me. We were lying like that, lazing, when I heard the rasp of Bea’s mail slot. Something dropped to the floor. I checked my watch. It was two twenty-two am. No mailman delivered mail that early. No normal mailman, anyways. Sprite had tensed up, staring at the door like a pointer hound. I pried her off my chest, put her down, and crept over to the entrance hall. On the floor was the postcard I’d sent to Bea, after getting out of the desert – the one that said The Middle of Nowhere across the front. I slid it aside and opened the door. Halfway down the block, a shadowy figure was power-walking away. As he passed beneath the sodium glow of a street-lamp, I saw that he had a mailbag slung over one shoulder.

  ‘Hey, you!’ I called.

  He looked back. It was him, all right. When he saw me, he took off, sprinting away down the street. I chased after him. I hadn’t undressed to go to sleep, but I’d taken off my shoes – so I was booting it barefoot.

  ‘Hold up!’

  We ran for half a dozen blocks. My feet slapped against the warm pavement. I was faster than him on the sidewalks, but whenever I crossed a street I had to hop and hotfoot it, mincing my way over the prickly asphalt. Eventually he gave up and waited for me. As I drew level with him, I threw up my arms in a kind of exasperated, bewildered gesture.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I said.

  We both doubled over, bracing our hands on our knees. We stayed like that for a bit, sucking wind and trying to catch our breath.

  ‘Why did you run?’ I asked, still panting.

  ‘Why did you run?’

  I shook my head. I’d forgotten how annoying he could be.

  ‘What are you doing in San Francisco, anyways?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you before that I was going to Sausalito.’

  ‘This isn’t Sausalito.’

  He looked around – as if he’d only just realised that. Then he shrugged it off. ‘Of course it’s not. I’m still on my way to Sausalito. But I needed to give you a message first.’

  We’d stopped in front of an all-night diner. A few of the patrons were watching us through the windows. I asked the hitcher if he wanted to get a cup of coffee or something.

  ‘On you?’

  He was such a natural mooch, that guy. ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  Since I’d offered to pay, he ordered a full meal for himself. I only had coffee. Our waiter was an old guy with a jaundiced face and a ducktail comb-over. He didn’t say much. He didn’t say anything, actually. He just took our orders and plodded away.

  ‘Still not eating?’ the hitcher asked.

  ‘I had a smoothie yesterday, and a fruit salad this morning.’

  ‘Not quite as exotic as eagle, eh?’

  We stared at each other across the table. He looked better than he had in the desert. His face had filled out a bit and his skin had a healthy sheen. He’d finally gotten around to washing his clothes, too. Making it to the coast had obviously done him some good.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you again,’ I said, ‘after that mauling you gave me.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He became overly interested in a black spot on the tabletop. He tried to wipe it away with his thumb, but it was stain of some kind, or a burn mark. Finally he gave up and said, ‘I might have gone a bit far. But I wanted to give you a spiritual experience.’

  ‘You put on a tiger mask and kicked my ass.’

  ‘We were both deathly high, remember?’

  The waiter returned. He had a way of walking without taking his feet off the floor – a slow, half-step shuffle. He gave us our coffees and went back to slump behind his counter. It was an L-shaped counter with tarnished chrome trim. The place reminded me of the diner in that Hopper painting – except, instead of a redhead and two guys in fedoras sitting on the stools, there were three mechanics in greasy coveralls.

  ‘How did you find me, anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a postman. You put the address on your postcard.’

  That made sense, I guess – on some kind of bizarre, irrational level.

  ‘You’re not a postman any more.’

  ‘I’ve still got contacts in the ma
il room.’ He blew on his coffee, took a slurp, and smacked his lips. ‘I needed to give you a message, so I scribbled one across the card.’

  ‘You wrote on my postcard?’

  ‘Now it’s our postcard.’

  I let that slide, and we drank our coffee in silence. Mine was speckled with grounds, and tasted stale and bitter and old. Eventually the waiter brought over the food. The hitcher had ordered a beef dip – one of those roast beef sandwiches in a Kaiser bun, that comes with a side bowl of thin gravy. He noticed me eyeing it up.

  ‘Want half?’

  ‘I haven’t had much luck sharing buns with you.’

  He grinned and took a big bite – so big he couldn’t fit it all in. A strand of excess meat hung from his mouth, as if he’d swallowed a mouse. While he chewed, he asked me how my trip had been since we’d split up. I told him about some of the things I’d been through, and about facing his brother at the shooting range. He didn’t seem surprised.

  ‘I knew he’d dupe you,’ he said. He was still attacking the sandwich, and talking with his mouth full. ‘Even though I warned you. You really fucked the dog on that one.’

  ‘I didn’t expect him to want my visor.’

  He shook his head. Wistfully.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I know you did.’

  ‘That visor’s one of a kind.’

  ‘I still got away with his mezcal.’

  I expected him to mock me for that, but he stopped eating and looked up.

  ‘You did? Where is it?’

  ‘Back at my friends’ place.’

  ‘Right. Your friends.’ He sneered. There were bits of beef between his teeth. ‘You mean those dykes you’re hanging out with. I wouldn’t trust them. They’re not real friends.’

  ‘They don’t think you’re real, either. They say I imagined you.’

  ‘Women are always saying stupid shit. That’s why I left mine.’

  ‘No – you left because you got her pregnant and weren’t man enough to handle it.’

  He winced, pretending to be wounded, but didn’t deny it.

  ‘Have you found her and given her your letter yet?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I will when I get to Sausalito.’

  ‘It’s only across the bridge.’

  ‘It’s a big fucking bridge, okay?’ He spat out a piece of fat. ‘Besides – who are you to tell me how to act? I’m not the one getting naked on cruise ships, hooking up with guys.’

  ‘How did you know about that?’

  ‘Everybody knows! You were showing off and making a spectacle of yourself, like some homosexual superstar. You’ve obviously forgotten what I taught you in the desert.’

  ‘You didn’t teach me shit,’ I said. Then I laughed, remembering. ‘Except how to wrestle naked. As if there wasn’t anything homoerotic about that.’

  ‘You better hope you learned something out there, because you’re going to need it.’ He glanced around, as if he was worried about being overheard. It was all very theatrical and put on. In a stage whisper he said, ‘Did you tell my brother you were coming here?’

  ‘Maybe. Why?’

  ‘He’s in town. Looking for you.’

  I picked up my spoon and stirred my coffee, starting a slow whirlpool.

  ‘It’s a big town,’ I said.

  ‘He’ll find you. Or you’ll find him. One way or another. It’s…’

  ‘Synchronicity.’

  ‘See? You did learn something. And, when you meet him again, you’re not going to be able to trick your way out of it. That was the main thing I wanted to tell you.’ He dunked his bun in the dip and swabbed it around. ‘It’s all in the message I wrote. You can read it on our postcard.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  I gulped the dregs of my coffee. As I put the cup down, it rattled against the saucer. Coffee always makes me jittery. The hitcher shoved the last bite of sandwich in his mouth, tossed his napkin on his plate, and stood up. I figured he was going to take a leak, or wash his face. He still had gravy glistening on his chin. But instead he slung his postbag over his shoulder, and strode regally towards the door. I could tell he wanted me to ask him, so I did.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  He paused in the doorway, and patted his bag.

  ‘Where do you think I’m going?’

  He stepped outside, letting the door swing shut behind him. It was a glass door and I watched him through it as he walked away, fading into the dark. The waiter slogged over to clear our dishes and top up my coffee. I sat a while longer. I don’t know how much longer. The next time I looked over, the waiter was asleep at his counter. All the other customers were asleep, too. It was like that scene in Sleeping Beauty, where everybody passes out because of the witch’s spell. I left twenty bucks on the table and got the hell out of there.

  chapter 66

  I heard instrumental music, made up of plucking and strumming in a minor key. I lifted my head to peer around. Beatrice was standing in the middle of the living room. She had on a shorty wetsuit, sleek as sealskin, emblazoned with the boned hand of the Body Glove logo. She breathed in and held out her arms, as if to encompass the entire world. She was running through what looked like some kind of Kung Fu form – each movement slow, deliberate, refined.

  I groaned and mashed my palms against my eyes. It was still dark outside.

  I said, ‘It’s not even morning yet.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘I feel like a dead man walking.’

  ‘And you look like a casualty of war.’

  ‘I love that you can match my cinematic references.’ I managed to sit up. My body was still buzzing from the cocktail of toxins I’d dumped into it, and I had the shakes – as if I’d been drinking endless coffee. ‘I also love that you’re immune to hangovers, apparently.’

  From in the kitchen came the clink of metal on glass. Venus was over there, stirring a spoon around a jug. She poured some blue liquid into a tall glass and brought it over to me.

  ‘Here you go, Casanova.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Kool-aid, apple juice and Tabasco sauce.’

  ‘Thanks. I think.’

  She flopped down beside me on the sofa. Together we watched Beatrice perform a complex set of backhand strikes. I sipped Venus’s concoction – which tasted like a spicy popsicle – and tried to figure out what was going on.

  ‘Is this wake-up call a punishment for my antics last night?’

  Bea smiled, pulled back into a crane position, and swept both arms across her body, as if disposing of a negative vibe. ‘Punishment sounds a bit harsh. Think of it as an antidote.’

  ‘Or a therapy,’ Venus added.

  ‘Hydrotherapy.’

  I’d finished drinking her brew. I put the empty glass on the table beside me.

  ‘Isn’t that where they throw you naked in a shower and blast you with a firehose?’

  ‘Not in this case.’ Bea swept one foot out and sank into a horse stance. ‘In this case it’s where we take you to our secret surfing beach and ride killer waves in the dead of night.’

  With a monkey’s paw, she gestured towards the front hall. By the door, propped against the wall, were three longboards – freshly waxed and gleaming like gigantic fishing lures. I stood up and went over there. I’d remembered something else about last night. On the ground, at the foot of the boards, was a stack of mail from the last few days. I gathered it up and flipped through the letters and flyers.

  ‘It’s really here,’ I said, holding up my postcard. ‘I thought I might have been dreaming.’

  Beatrice took it from me and turned it over, and read out what was written on the back.

  ‘“Watch out – he’s coming after you. Women aren’t the answer. Neither are men. You’re the answer. You are it. When all else fails, blind luck will see you through.”’ Bea looked over at me. ‘Hmm. Thank you, Trevor. It’s like our own personal fortune cookie.’

  ‘I
didn’t write that!’ I said, grabbing it back from her.

  The bastard had scribbled over my message, making it illegible, and added his own.

  ‘Who did, then?’ Venus asked. She was acting polite, but you could tell she was incredibly pleased that I’d made a fool of myself again. ‘And who’s coming after you?’

  ‘The hitcher.’ I flopped back on the sofa, arms out. ‘And his brother, the biker.’

  Beatrice took my postcard and placed it on the mantelpiece. Delicately. ‘Well,’ she said, studying it like an art critic, with her hands on her hips, ‘it’s a very nice picture, Trev.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve gone loco,’ I said.

  There was a fairly long pause, as we all pondered the possibility that I was losing my mind. Then Bea said, ‘That’s why we’re going night-surfing: to clear your head of clutter.’

  The moon had swollen to a half-circle and looked unnaturally huge, hanging so close to the water. Its reflection spilled glossily across the waves – these sleek black swells about seven or eight feet high. As each one rolled in it would crescendo steadily, like an incoming bomb, and then detonate with an explosion of spray and a concussive boom, echoing across the bay.

  ‘Whoah,’ I said. ‘Those are big rollers.’

  Bea said, ‘You’ve ridden bigger.’

  ‘Not at night.’

  ‘That’s why I’m preparing you.’

  We’d driven to a secluded beach south of the city, along a stretch of coastline called Half Moon Bay. Bea had us kneeling at the water’s edge, three abreast, with Belle and Sprite sitting obediently on our right and the longboards laid out on our left. We’d coated the boards in a layer of fluorescent green latex paint – waterproof and glow-in-the-dark – and smeared the same stuff on our faces, necks, and forearms. We looked like the ghosts of tribal warriors.

  ‘The latex is dry,’ Venus said. ‘Surf’s up.’

  ‘I haven’t baptised Trevor.’

  Bea stood up, scooped a palmful of water from in front of us, and emptied it over my head. It trickled down my neck. She repeated the same thing three times, saying, ‘Take care of Trevor out there. I pray for his protection, and I ask for permission to enter these waves.’