by Tyler Keevil
I pulled over and walked back to take a look. The place had a country cottage feel, with white siding, blue trim, and slatted shutters. Hanging beneath a wooden arch out front was a painted sign, which depicted that symbol of a hand with an eye embedded in its palm.
The door was open, and I went on in. An overhead fan churned the air, the blades rattling as they rotated. The floor was divided into black and white linoleum squares, like a chessboard, and the far wall was covered with photos of various tattoo designs: flowers and daggers and skulls and serpents and Cantonese characters and countless others. Nobody was at the front desk. For a few minutes I stood and studied the tattoo collage.
‘Can I help you?’
Behind me, a person had appeared – a person with short hair, prominent cheekbones, and a slim crane’s neck. She looked like a woman, but she could just as easily have been a man. She was wearing a sleeveless top and her arms were wrapped in well-toned ink.
‘My friend Beatrice comes here, to get her tattoos. Beatrice Carmen.’
She smiled. ‘Of course. Bea.’
Like everybody else, she loved Bea. She let me wander around for a while longer, studying her photo displays, before she asked, ‘Do you want to get something done?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think so.’
Pinned among the more colourful pictures, I found a black and white charcoal sketch. It depicted a circular pattern, like an iris or starburst, with lines extending from the centre out to the circumference.
‘Is that a mandala?’
‘It’s a form of mandala.’ She came to stand beside me. ‘It’s an image they found on the Dead Sea Scrolls, or my rendition of it. I’ve been waiting to do it for somebody.’
She had a low, throaty voice, sexy and masculine. I was sold.
‘I’m your somebody,’ I said.
She took me into her studio, which had the same chessboard floor. In the centre of the room stood a padded tattoo table, with a doughnut-shaped headrest at one end. Peeling off my shirt, I lay down on my stomach and lowered my face into the hole. I’d decided to get the tattoo at the base of my neck, just below the collar line. For some reason it seemed important that my body stay symmetrical.
‘I want to be balanced,’ I told her.
She seemed to understand. She came to stand next to me, and started doing things to my back. First she wiped it down with a damp pad, which smelled of soap and alcohol. A disinfectant, I guess. Then she patted the spot dry.
‘I’m going to put the stencil on now,’ she said.
The stencil was similar to the decals you stick on model planes. She smoothed it on to my skin, before peeling the paper backing away. Next she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up her tattoo iron. It rested between her thumb and forefinger, slender as a pen. She turned it on and the needle started to vibrate.
‘It’s a wonderful pattern,’ she said.
‘Do you know what it means?’
‘What does it mean to you?’
‘It’s a reminder, I guess.’
She ran a finger down my spine, as if to prepare me or reassure me. I stared at her feet. They were nice feet, smooth and tanned. She’d painted her toenails a speckled blue, like tortoise shells. The sound of the needle got louder, and louder.
‘Is it painful?’ I asked.
‘Some people think so.’
Then I felt the needle prickling my spine, stitching ink into my skin.
‘How’s that?’ she asked – so close that I could feel her breath on my ear.
‘It hurts,’ I said. ‘But in a good way.’
The vibrations tingled along my spine like low-voltage electricity. It flowed into my lower back, my tailbone, my ass, and further – right into my colon and balls. The sensation made my dick twitch, and I felt a stirring down there. I had to shift around a bit and adjust my jeans. Then, when the implications of that hit me, I pushed myself up off the table.
‘Easy,’ she murmured. ‘Is that bit sensitive?’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It’s just…’
She looked at me, but I couldn’t really explain it. The whole impotence thing had been a bit of a charade, anyway.
‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘It’s exactly what I need.’
‘You also need to stay still for me.’
She waited for me to settle back down. Then I felt the arousing prickle of the needle again. I lay there, savouring the sensation. I was thinking, maybe that mezcal worked after all. I’d just had to drink it under the right circumstances, and in the right company.
‘How’s Beatrice doing?’ she asked.
‘As stellar as ever,’ I said.
Then, more gravely, she asked, ‘And Venus?’
‘Not so good, I don’t think.’
She waited, still tickling my chakra.
‘It might not last.’
‘I suppose it’s inevitable.’
We both knew it was coming. On some level, even Venus must have known.
chapter 76
The Number 1 meandered north, and I let the Neon meander with it. The road was carved into a series of steep cliffs and hillsides, and filled with sweeping curves. To my left the Pacific stretched on and on and on, surging and undulating in the sun. The breeze blowing through the broken window made my shirt ripple, like a slack sail. I coasted through Fort Bragg and Westport and Leggett. At Leggett the Number 1 merged back with the 101, and a few miles further on I hit a place called Eureka.
In Eureka, for no real reason, I started fiddling with my radio. I didn’t actually expect it to work, but it did. It was like a minor miracle. This kitten-voiced DJ came on and purred to me. All she was playing was Nirvana: Nirvana live, Nirvana unplugged, Nirvana B-sides, Nirvana whatever. They were having a Nirvana marathon, apparently.
‘Listening to all these tracks back-to-back,’ she said at one point, ‘I feel like I’m really understanding Nirvana for the first time. Does anybody else feel like that?’
‘I do,’ I told her. ‘That’s me.’
‘Next up, a tune from Nevermind: “On A Plain”.’
By mid-afternoon I’d reached the redwood forests. I was back on the terrain that me and Zuzska and Bea had driven through together the previous year – the section of America I’d deliberately avoided on the way down. Now I ventured into the forests, and circled twice around Hyperion, the world’s tallest tree. I drove past Paul Bunyan, with his big-balled bull, and I drove past the famous, enormous redwood stump. I’d taken a photo of Zuzska lying on that stump, spreadeagled like a human sacrifice. Beyond the redwoods lay Oregon, with all the campsites we’d slept in, the bars we’d partied at, the beaches we’d surfed. At each spot I would pull over and have a little sentimental moment. Then I’d keep driving.
Night came on suddenly, like a screensaver. I stopped at a rest area near the Oregon sand dunes. We had been there, too. We’d rented dune buggies and quad bikes and zipped around like particles, smashing into each other, altering the course of our trajectories. I parked the Neon among the dunes. From there I could hear the shush of waves, and see campfires flickering on the beach. I closed my eyes and rested. I wasn’t really sleeping – just recharging at the wheel. When the eastern sky turned grey, I set out again. If I drove steadily, I could get the car back by the end of the day – exactly two weeks after I’d left.
That early in the morning, the coastal highway was empty. I held the wheel with one hand, and let the Neon steer herself. By then I knew that car so well it was practically an extension of my body. At Newport we banked inland, wiggled along a one-lane back road, and emerged, magically, on the I-5. The HOV lane was clear. We slipped into it, gliding over the asphalt like a luge in a chute. I’d lost the Eureka radio station and DJ a while back, but other DJs rose up and faded out, keeping me company. They were playing Nirvana, too. A new box set was being released, apparently. Again. When ‘All Apologies’ came on, I cranked it up until the speakers started shuddering. Before then, I’d always listened to the final choru
s – about all in all being all we are – without really hearing it. This time the words seemed to resonate indefinitely, echoing in my head. As the track faded out, I lit one of Bea’s American Spirits, took a deep drag, and sighed smoke.
‘You knew the key too, Kurt,’ I said. ‘But I guess it just wasn’t enough.’
Somewhere past Salem a squad car latched on to me and started riding my tail. I was doing eighty in a work zone. I slowed down to let it overtake, but it didn’t. After a minute or two, the lights spun blue and the siren emitted an angry squawk, so I pulled over, and the squad car pulled in behind me. We sat there. The patrolman didn’t get out immediately. I guess he was running my licence plate through his computer. I turned down my radio and finished my cigarette. Then I gazed out the window, resting my palm on my belly, feeling peaceful and patient as a Buddha. I was thinking, he won’t hassle me, now that I’ve discovered Nirvana.
Finally the patrolman got out and approached the passenger side. That confused me. Cops don’t do that in Canada. He bent down and peered through the broken window. He had terrible sunburn. It was so bad his face had gone completely purple, like a plum.
‘Licence and registration.’
‘Sure thing, officer.’
My calf was itching, so I bent forward to scratch it.
‘Keep your hands where I can see them!’
His was holding the butt of his gun, ready to draw. I raised my hands. Slowly.
‘Sorry about that, officer,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got a mosquito bite on my leg. Those darned skeeters, eh?’
I said ‘eh’ loudly – to let him know I was Canadian. When I reached for the glovebox, I sensed him tense up again. I opened it as cautiously as a safecracker, then carefully extracted the registration papers, which I handed over along with my licence.
As he flipped through them, he asked, ‘Where you headed, sonny?’
‘Back home to Vancouver.’
‘What are you doing in the States?’
‘Originally I just needed to get away. My girlfriend cheated on me, see.’ I half-turned in my seat, so I was facing him. ‘But my trip became something more than your regular, run-of-the-mill trip.’
‘How can a trip be more than a trip?’
‘When it’s an epic journey.’
‘I see.’ He scratched his sunburnt nose and peered around my car. ‘You aren’t high, are you?’
I exhaled, deflated. That was just like a cop.
‘No, I’m not high.’
‘You got any drugs on you?’
‘No, I don’t have any drugs on me.’
‘Then you won’t mind opening the trunk.’
When he said that, my newfound sense of Nirvana completely vanished – like a genie back into its bottle. I stared at the cop for a few seconds. His nostrils flared, as if he’d caught a scent of my fear.
‘The trunk?’ I asked.
‘That’s what I said.’
I still had my gun in there. An unlicensed firearm.
‘It doesn’t pop from inside,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get out.’
‘Go ahead.’
I opened the door, put my feet on the pavement, and stood up. As I zombie-walked to the back, I offered up a prayer. Not to God, though. I prayed to America, this motherland I’d crossed in pilgrimage, and the birthplace of Beatrice Carmen. I prayed for a little bit of luck.
‘Here we go,’ I said, fiddling with the lock.
The trunk rose up, revealing my cooler and dirty clothes and backpack and sleeping bag and empties. The cop used his nightstick to poke around among all that junk. The Glock was tucked to one side, half-hidden behind the cooler. I could see it clearly from where I stood.
‘Any reason you were doing eighty just now?’ he asked.
‘I’m in a kind of zone today.’
‘You sure are. A speed zone.’
He wrote me out a speeding ticket. He also wrote out two other tickets: one for the broken window, and one for a cracked tail-light. I didn’t argue. I just stood and smiled and accepted his tickets as if they were hundred-dollar bills.
‘Thanks, officer. I know you’re only doing your job.’
‘Don’t give me any of that lip, sonny.’
‘No, really – I mean it.’
I kept thanking him and congratulating him. I even stood by my car, waving at him as he drove off. Once he was out of sight, I did a little dance of joy, hopped up on the hood of the Neon, and shouted at the sky, ‘I owe you, America!’
At the next rest stop, I pulled over. I removed the clip from the pistol and wiped my fingerprints off the grip, using some dirty underwear. Then I dropped it in a garbage can, underwear and all. At another rest stop, and another garbage can, I got rid of the bullets and extra clip. Afterwards, to thank America for watching over me, I knelt down and kissed her grass. It tickled my lips and tasted a bit wet. I hoped a dog hadn’t pissed on it.
chapter 77
‘Have a nice trip?’
‘I had the kind of trip I needed.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
At the rental car agency, the same guy who’d been working when I’d set out was on duty – the Asian guy with the hoop earring. I don’t think he recognised me at first. He didn’t look as if he recognised me, anyways. He didn’t look very well, either. His eyes were puffy, his uniform was crumpled, and his quiff was flopping around all over the place.
I hated to add to his troubles.
‘But there was a bit of a problem,’ I said, ‘with the car.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘You better come look.’
We walked out into the underground parkade. In the drop-off bay sat my brand-new Neon, covered in dust, spattered with mud. The replacement bumper was dented and the wheel well was scraped and the window was shattered and the panelling was covered in key-marks. I’d gotten used to all that, but now I was seeing it through his eyes. She looked pretty battered. The clerk was absolutely baffled. He walked around the car, gawking, then poked his head inside to check the odometer. I’d put over four thousand kilometres on the clock.
He asked, ‘Where did you take it?’
‘A town called Trevor. Then Oregon, Reno, San Francisco. And back up the I-5.’
‘In two weeks?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Fuck.’
I slapped him on the back. ‘Good thing you sold me that insurance, eh?’
We stood and stared at her. You could tell he was impressed, which made me oddly proud – as if I was presenting a work of art. I patted her hood affectionately, in farewell. ‘If I could afford to buy you,’ I said, ‘I would, old girl.’
Back in the office, I had to fill in some forms, explaining the damage. I was going to lose my deductible – which was almost as much as the rental – but I’d expected that. While I scribbled, he took his phone out of his pocket and fiddled with it, as if checking to make sure it still worked.
‘How’s your fiancée?’ I asked.
‘I don’t have a fiancée,’ he said. Then he tugged on his earring. I guess he must have remembered that he’d told me about her before, because he added, ‘Not any more.’
‘Girl troubles, eh? You want some advice?’
You could tell he didn’t, but he didn’t have a choice, either.
‘Go on a road trip. That’s why I went on mine.’
‘Did it make a difference?’
‘It made all the difference. Distance gives you perspective.’
‘Bet you saw some things, huh?’
‘I saw things you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Really?’ He slid another form towards me – he had a whole sheaf of them – and pointed to the spot where I was supposed to fill in my details. ‘What kinds of things?’
‘Well,’ I said, signing my name with a flourish, ‘I saw a desert plain on fire, like a landscape in hell. I saw a diner where they serve human flesh, and a darkness that’s never seen the sun. I kissed a girl from a distant land, who had escaped her fate, and I slept w
ith a witch in a waterbed. I had a shoot-out at the Twin Peaks – twice – and I surfed the afterlife. I got deathly high on peyote, and saw the luminescence behind existence, but I didn’t know what it meant until I drank mezcal with a goddess and she interpreted my vision for me.’
I thought all that sounded pretty impressive, but he was only half-listening, and kept checking his phone discreetly. When I got to the bit about my vision, though, he looked up.
‘It meant everything is connected,’ I said. ‘Everything in the entire universe.’
‘Connected by gravity?’
‘By invisible rays of light, that run between all the physical phenonema you can see. Between plants, animals, the landscape. Between distant stars and planets. And between all the people, too. Even me and you.’
He looked at the space between us, as if expecting to see something there.
‘You mean like the Care Bear Stare?’
‘Not exactly. Never mind. The point is, you’re part of it, and it’s part of you.’ I tapped him in the chest, with my pen. ‘You are it, or thou art that. Understand?’
‘I think so.’ But he had that frozen, service-with-a-smile look on his face now. ‘Sounds like you had quite the experience out there. Did you bring any souvenirs back?’
‘Actually – hold on.’ I unzipped my backpack, pulled out my bottle of mezcal, and plonked it down on the counter in front of him. ‘Check this out.’
He peered at the snake. ‘Harsh.’
‘You can have it, if you want.’
He looked from the bottle, to me, and back to the bottle. Only a few ounces of liquor remained at the bottom. The snake, half-exposed to the air, had started to rot and fall apart.
‘That’s the mezcal,’ I said. ‘Practically a magic elixir.’
‘Thanks very much.’ He pinched the bottleneck with three fingers, as if he thought it might be infectious, and placed it to one side. ‘Now, let’s finish off this claim, shall we?’
