by Craig Birk
Chapter Fourteen
Death & Outhouses
6:58 p.m.
“All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don’t fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain.
We can be like they are
Come on baby . . . don't fear the reaper”
– (Don’t Fear) The Reaper, Blue Oyster Cult
With Barstow nothing but a fading memory, the guys hurtled toward Vegas and away from the last vestiges of day and light at eighty-six miles an hour.
For rabbits living in the desert, night was a blessing. During the day, it could be hot as hell. Also, nasty mean birds could see you running around and swoop down to make a lunch out of you. One particular rabbit, who made his home east of Barstow and lived in a hole that didn’t require a mortgage and didn’t have a sign saying, “You could be home now,” headed out for the evening a few minutes earlier than usual. This rabbit had soft, fluffy light brown fur with a large white patch on his left side and a smaller one on top of his head. He also had cute little whiskers that bounced up and down when he tried to sniff out food or danger. This particular rabbit, who had no name, usually went left out of his hole, but today decided he would search for food to the right. Eighty yards later he found himself on the edge of northbound US Interstate Highway 15. The rabbit did not understand that it was a freeway and did not understand how the cars on the freeway burned gasoline to propel several thousand pounds of metal forward at relatively high speeds.
The rabbit also did not appreciate how quickly things moved at what was now eighty-seven miles per hour. He was curious about the different terrain of the pavement and hopped off the desert sand and onto the outer edge of the freeway. Encouraged by the warmth of the asphalt and its solid feel, the rabbit scampered about, zigging and zagging with amusement until he reached the fast-lane.
Inside Alex’s BMW, Alice Cooper was very excited that school was out for summer. Mike was still removing the remains of the Kodiak, which he now very much regretted putting in, from his mouth. He reached into his lip with his forefinger and scooped out several more grains which stubbornly remained behind. Mike gagged but did not puke. He spit into his In-N-Out cup several more times and announced, “I’ve got to take a shit,” followed by, “please pull over.”
Because he thought it would be highly amusing, Alex started to probe Mike to see if the situation was bad enough that he would consider shitting on the side of the road if he pulled over immediately. Mike said it was not, so Alex offered him $50 to do it. The negotiation, which was going nowhere, was suddenly interrupted when the lower right corner of the front bumper of the BMW struck the upper left part of the rabbit’s head. The rabbit’s skull shattered instantly and its brain flew outward like a shotgun blast with a slightly downward trajectory. The rabbit never knew what hit him and died instantly and without pain. Alex also never knew what he had hit, but because he was still alive and was concerned about his car, he was more curious. “What the fuck was that?” he asked no one in particular.
Though the rabbit only weighed twelve pounds, he embedded a golf ball-sized dent into the bumper. This turned out to be his lasting legacy.
The rabbit’s demise was quickly forgotten inside the car, especially by Mike whose attention returned to his previous concern. He had arrived to the point where he had waves requiring him to forcibly clench his ass to keep from going in his pants. Based on that way in which one just knows in these situations, he estimated he had about fifteen minutes left before the inevitable. “Dude, I’ve really got to take a shit. Please pull over at the next gas station,” he pleaded.
Alex was not happy about having to pull over again so quickly and was getting anxious to be in Vegas. He was tempted to keep going on the small chance that Mike actually did shit his pants, which he would have found hilarious had it not been his car they were driving. But it was his car, and there seemed to be little choice, so three miles later he took the first available exit. The area was fairly barren. The only signs of civilization were a Chevron station and, strangely, what appeared to be a yoga studio.
The problem was that both were closed, though the automated gas pumps were working and there were two other cars filling up. Mike was not amused. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he declared. Alex asked if he could make it to the next exit and Mike replied that he didn’t think so.
Alex began to smile: “Well, it looks like you are just going to have to go behind the yoga studio. I’ve got some paper towel in the trunk.”
Mike: “No fucking way.”
Alex: “There doesn’t seem to be much alternative, is there?”
Roger shared Alex’s perspective of the situation and was by now laughing and poking Mike in the side alternately with both hands: “Go behind the yoga shop. That will give them something to meditate about.”
It was then that Gary noticed three port-o-potties about fifty yards past the yoga shop where it appeared someone was considering constructing another building. He pointed them out to Mike, who had never been so happy to have the opportunity to use an outhouse. He opened the car door and started waddling briskly toward the port-o-potties.
Gary, Roger and Alex had a nice chuckle about this and Alex decided to use the time to top off the gas tank even though they had only burned a few gallons. Just as he was maneuvering the car to line up with the pump, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the ID display on the outside and was pleased to see it was Cindy, a girl from Georgia whom he had hooked up with a few times last year.
Alex opened his car door and flipped open his cell phone at the same time. “Hey. How is my sexy peach?” he said into the phone.
Cindy sounded like she had already had a few drinks and was being very friendly. After the requisite small talk she asked Alex, “Do you know what I really want for you to do?”
Alex did not know, so he inserted the gasoline pump into the opening of the tank, squeezed the trigger, and simply responded, “No. What?”
It turned out Cindy was in San Diego for a few days for a family event and she wanted to meet up later that night at around midnight. Alex explained that he would be in Vegas, which disappointed Cindy. “Nooo, that sucks, sweetie,” she cooed. “I want you to be with me tonight.”
Alex concluded the call quickly before she started going into any more detail about her desires. He was pleased to realize that he was not at all upset about missing Cindy in San Diego. As the gas flowed, he again pondered the fact that physical encounters with random girls were not as rewarding as they used to be. Frequently it even led to something closer to regret than satisfaction. He wondered if he should avoid trying to hook up in Vegas altogether. Then he smiled and shook his head, chiding himself for having such an utterly stupid idea.
Another six Southwest miles earned, Alex quickly replaced the gas pump, indicated that he did not want a receipt, and returned to the warmth of the car. “Let’s go fuck with Sourpuss,” he suggested. He started the car and slowly drove over to the large blue plastic portable toilets. As they pulled within fifteen feet he asked Gary, “Which one do you think he is in?”
Gary reluctantly put down the Club magazine and leaned forward, squinting at the toilets. “He is in the one on the right,” Gary declared with confidence.
Alex: “How do you know?”
Gary: “It is the only one with the red occupied signal on the door. He is in there. The other two are green.”
Alex: “Oh yeah, good call.”
Alex lifted his foot off the brake and turned the wheel slightly toward the right. “Watch this,” he said. Two seconds later the front of the BMW impacted the targeted outhouse at about five miles per hour. The force was significant enough to move the whole facility about two inches backward.
In the back seat, Roger was delighted. He took out the can of Kodiak and instinctively started to open it. Between bouts of laughter he suggested, “Hit him again.”
A banging noise began from inside the outhouse and the front door started to bend slightly outwards as the occupant tried desperately to get out. This was too much for Alex, Gary and Roger to take. All three were now laughing uncontrollably, Roger trying to put in a dip at the same time. Alex had tears rolling down his cheeks and tried to ask a question between bursts of laughter. “Jesus, you don’t think anything splashed up on him, do you?” he finally managed to ask before tapping on the horn a few more times.
Gary indicated that he didn’t know. “How long should we keep him in there?” he asked, starting to feel guilty.
Roger: “I don’t know, but I just put in a freshy so I don’t mind waiting a bit.”
Alex: “Let’s just let him soak up the ambiance for another thirty seconds. If we leave him in there too long he will be way too bitter the whole weekend.”
Alex wiped the tears from his face and spoke again, “God, this is way too funny.” Just then, Gary glanced in the passenger side rearview mirror. Then he rapidly swung around in his seat to look out the back window.
“Oh shit, there’s Caminiti!” he nearly shouted.
Alex pivoted around and saw Mike leisurely walking toward the car from the direction of the Chevron station. “What the fuck?” Alex wanted to know. This was followed up by a quick, “Oh, shit!”
Alex put the car in reverse and quickly backed it in Mike’s direction. At the same time he rolled down his window and yelled, “Quick, get in the car. Just get in the car.”
Mike slightly increased his pace, then opened the door and hopped in the car behind Alex. Alex put the car in drive and rapidly accelerated back toward the direction of the freeway onramp.
“What’s the rush?” Mike wanted to know.
Alex replied hurriedly, “Oh nothing. We just pinned some random person in the shitter so we need to get the fuck out of here. Where did you go? Did you use the outhouse?”
Mike explained that he intended to, but on the way over he saw someone working inside the closed mini-mart of the Chevron and they had let him in to use the store bathroom. None of the other guys had noticed.
It was quiet for a few seconds as the BMW sped down the onramp.
Then Gary excitedly exclaimed, “No fucking way! Who do you think was in there?”
“Probably whoever was driving the Acura at the other pump. Someone who is probably scared shitless right now,” Alex replied, adding, “literally.” Laughter dominated the next two miles of the drive. With a renewed sense of energy and purpose, Alex slowly brought the BMW up to ninety miles per hour to continue its quest to Las Vegas.
