by Peter Ackers
"…A KID EXTRACTING FLUFF FROM A SWEET…"
I watched him lower himself down the rope and into his wheelchair. Some switch or lever within reach set his chair on the ground with a whirring noise, and he was off. Propelled by his sinewy arms, he came around to the front of the tractor, swiveled so he faced the muddy mess on the ground, just as I did, and said:
"Quick, get it up, quick."
I just looked at him. He nudged me, an incentive, but I didn't move. Out here this night I was a lone entity in a world I didn't know. But my legs worked and his didn't, which was enough for at least a bubble of ego.
"Sod off," I said. "What is it?"
Gold, he said. What do you mean? I asked. Gold from the river nearby. Gold in them thar hills, if you like. Bollocks. No, really. Bollocks. Well-known that the local river gave up gold back in the last century, I tell you. Bol-locks. Yeah, well look at this.
He moved his chair forward, squelching right into the muddy mess, then backed out far enough so the muck coated the top of his wheels, within his reach. He scooped some off much as a bear might scoop honey right out of the hole in a tree. Then he began to pick though it, tossing away bits here and there like a kid extracting fluff from a sweet that's been in his pocket too long.
While he did this, I kept glancing around us. He'd left the spotlight on, aimed into the air like some beacon. I hoped it wouldn't attract attention. Not too many light sources way out here. And this was the land of the eccentric. Someone might suspect a light show at some illegal rave, in which case enraged villagers would come with pitchforks and giant wicker men to burn us. Or they might suspect aliens come to mutilate livestock, in which case… Or…
In each case, I couldn't shake the pitchfork image: a play on the scene from every Frankenstein movie when outraged townsfolk come to destroy the monster and creator. I -
Surfer-dude and his fucking spiked gin! I shook my head, as if that cartoonesque action really could clear a head. And it worked, because, at least for the moment, droplets of paranoia were sprayed out of my ears like water from a wet dog.
"What do you mean, gold?"
Tattoo-guy held up something - just his fingers, by the look. But he seemed to believe he was holding something there, clasped between his thumb and forefinger as you might hold a single hair.
He sniggered. "See - gold!"
I didn't see. But then I wasn't looking at his hands, rather his arms. His tattoos weren't creative or expertly crafted. In fact, they looked home-made. Few pictures, mostly words and terms, some in capital letters, others in speech bubbles. "LOVE YOURSELF" I saw, and "LEARN FROM ERRORS!" I stopped reading after that, because the guy threw away his gold speck with a grunt and turned his chair to me.
"Maybe not that bit. Help, look." He pointed at the mess on the road. And for some reason, I got on my knees, and he rolled back to his machine, reversed what he'd done to exit, and lowered the bucket to the ground, and I started scooping the mud up, pushing it back into the loader's bucket. Close to midnight, and I was scooping mud off a dark road for some cripple who thought he'd found gold.
When he was satisfied he had most of it, he waved me over, pointing to a space on the seat in the cab. He was thin enough so we could both occupy the cab. And, again, I acted without knowing why. I got mixed up with another strange stranger.
