by Kim Fielding
He ate while he drove. He was twenty minutes outside of Williams when the radio switched suddenly from a car commercial to “Heartbreak Hotel.” Jack appeared in the passenger seat. He had a cigarette tucked behind one ear. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get to come this far. Thought I’d get all stretched again. I wonder how many miles I can go.”
Tag glanced at him from the corner of his eye and shrugged. “We might as well find out.”
“Might as well,” Jack said and leaned back in his seat.
Eight
“WHAT’S WITH all the historical markers?” Tag asked. “Are we supposed to be impressed at more Joshua trees and yucca?”
Jack had been silently gazing out the window for miles, but now he glanced at Tag. “They’re old mining towns.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve heard people mention them.”
“When you were eavesdropping.”
Jack made a rude noise and shifted in his seat. “Yeah, when I was eavesdropping. Isn’t like there’s much else to do when you’re a ghost. Listen in, watch TV when they do… sometimes I watched them fuck, but that was just… frustrating.”
“Ghosts have libidos?”
“I do.”
Jeez. Freud would be delighted with this hallucination. Tag decided to push it a little farther. “Can’t you beat off?”
“No,” Jack replied sadly. Then he brightened. “Except I probably could, now that I can be solid.” He looked down at his lap thoughtfully.
“No!” The car swerved with the vehemence of Tag’s response. “No masturbating while I’m driving!”
“Spoilsport,” said Jack with a snicker.
Tag was going to reply, but he caught sight of yet another marker. He pulled off the road abruptly enough to make the guy in back of him honk angrily, then hopped out of the car, leaving the door open and motor running. CHLORIDE, said the sign. Four miles east is former mining town of Chloride. He reached out and touched the stone and metal; they felt real enough. So did the sharp grasses poking at his denim-clad legs. Tiny black ants marched across the marker’s base, dust in the air tickled his throat, and cars roared by on the highway. Everything about his sensory input felt genuine.
He plopped back down in the driver’s seat and slammed the door but didn’t shift out of park. “I could have guessed this on my own. We’re in the middle of the Mojave. What else would the signs be about?”
“Indians. Cowboys. Bandits. Settlers. The Colorado River. Railroads.”
Why did Tag’s subconscious have to be so goddamn smug? “You’re not real,” Tag said firmly.
“Sure I am. And how do I know you’re real, now that I think of it? Maybe after all these years alone, my mind’s starting to go and I’m imagining you, like I did before.” Jack blinked as if he’d said more than he intended to.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Trying to prove your own existence to your delusion was a new level of insanity, one that Tag was not willing to explore. He pushed aside the specter of his mother’s schizophrenia, put the car into gear, and merged back onto the highway.
His passenger seemed restless. Jack tapped fingers on the armrest and refolded Tag’s maps. He made faces at the fast food bags scattered near his feet. “Your car is a mess.”
“I’ve been driving for a while.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. A week, I guess.” He’d started out with a few days of aimless circling before heading south to the old Route 66.
“You’re not on vacation.”
“Not exactly.”
After the silence stretched for a few miles, Jack sighed. “I haven’t talked to anyone in almost sixty years. You could at least try to make conversation.”
“But I feel stupid, talking to someone who’s not really there.”
“I am here, though. In spirit, anyway.” Jack chuckled softly. “Will you at least tell me where we’re going?”
“Vegas.”
“Las Vegas? Really? Sam said we’d go there sometime, but we never did.”
Tag cut his eyes sideways for a moment. “Who’s Sam?”
“Nobody,” Jack replied quickly. “How come you’re going there? Are you moving there?”
“For a little while.”
A sign announced they were leaving Arizona and entering Nevada. Tag drove slowly over a tall bridge, then took the next exit. He saw Jack looking at him quizzically, and he shrugged. “I’ve never been to Hoover Dam.”
“Me either. My dad almost headed out here to help build it. There were hardly any jobs back home and the farm wasn’t big enough for him and all his brothers. But he ended up finding something in Omaha instead and marrying Mom. He used to grouse about it sometimes. Said he would’ve had better luck out west.”
The roadway curved sharply as it descended. “You’re from Omaha?” Tag asked.
“Originally. You?”
“All over. We moved a lot.”
There was a short line of cars stopped ahead of them, and Tag’s heart sped when he realized he’d have to get past a security checkpoint. Did he look like a guy who was in the midst of a psychotic break? And if so, what would happen to him? He remembered his mother’s stark fear of mental hospitals, her avowal that she’d take her own life before she let herself be locked up in one of those places again. His throat went dry. But the cop only gave him a long look, then stared at the passenger seat before waving Tag past.
“What was that all about?” Jack asked, twisting around to look behind them.
“Terrorists, I guess.”
“Huh?”
“After 9/11 they started worrying about people blowing things up.”
Jack turned back to look at him. “What’s that—nine eleven?”
Jesus. “September 11, 2001. This group hijacked some jets and flew them into the Pentagon and the World Tra—a couple of skyscrapers in Manhattan. And I think the other plane was heading for DC, but the passengers fought back and it crashed in a field. Something like three thousand people died that day.”
“You had a war? Here, in the US?”
“Not exactly. This was… a bunch of guys who hated us, I guess. But it wasn’t a war.” Tag decided to sidestep the whole Iraq thing that followed.
Jack remained silent as Tag entered the parking garage and forked over seven bucks to the attendant. But as Tag pulled into a vacant space, Jack shook his head. “A couple of my uncles went to Europe during the war. Not Dad. He got some kind of exemption. But Tommy and Joseph went. I used to write them letters.”
“What happened to them?” Damn, Tag hadn’t meant to ask.
“Tommy came back pretty deaf, but he managed okay. We just had to talk real loud around him. Joseph got killed. D-Day.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, Jack.”
Jack shrugged slightly. “It’s okay. Least he was a hero.”
It was much hotter here than it had been near the Grand Canyon. Tag snagged a bottle of water as he exited the car, then walked across the garage and jogged down a couple flights of stairs. Jack was at his side, but quiet, which was good. Tag didn’t want to be dragged into a public conversation with his imaginary friend.
Tag followed the walkway until he actually stood on the dam itself. It was an impressive feat of engineering, he had to admit. And to think that it was built before there were computers and lasers and whatever else modern engineers used to construct their miracles. He leaned his arms on the thick concrete wall and looked down.
He stood there a very long time, ignoring the sun on the back of his neck and the sweat dripping down his forehead. The green water looked cool.
“Drowning’s not a good way to die.”
Tag startled slightly at Jack’s voice but didn’t turn his head to look. He didn’t answer either. He could smell cigarette smoke, though, and hear the slight puffs of Jack’s exhales.
“I think,” Jack continued, “if you jumped from here you wouldn’t have the chance to drown.
You’d bust your head open on the base of the dam instead, or maybe break your neck when you hit the water. I don’t know which is better. Either way, you’d have a few seconds to think about it while you fell. I wonder what goes through a fellow’s head in a time like that.”
Against his better judgment, Tag swiveled his head slightly to see next to him. Jack was leaning on the concrete beside him, holding a cigarette between two fingers and staring off into space.
“I wasn’t going to jump,” Tag whispered.
“Good. ’Cause I’ve been watching people pretty closely for a long time—used to watch them even when I was alive, because that’s what an actor does—and you seem kinda… lost.”
“I am going to Las Vegas.”
“And I was going to Omaha.” Jack took a few contemplative drags from his cigarette. “Sometimes maybe a fellow isn’t even sure he wants to do something—something bad—and he finds himself doing it anyway. And by the time he realizes what a mistake he’s making, it’s too late.”
Tag snorted. “Story of my life, Jacky-boy. I’m king of the fuckups.”
Jack pointed at him with the cigarette. “But you’re still alive, and that means you can still fix things.”
“Great. My hallucination’s a motivational speaker.”
“I don’t think it’s an accident I found you. I think you should listen to me—” Jack stopped abruptly, his wide eyes focused over Tag’s shoulder.
Expecting to find a crowd gawping at the loony talking to himself, Tag spun around. There was a crowd all right, but they were looking at Jack, not him. Two dozen men stood on the roadway atop the dam. Some were shirtless, and all wore weird canvas overalls or ragged trousers. They were booted, and many had helmets or hats. All were dirty and deeply tanned. And they were transparent.
“What the fuck?” Tag asked with a gasp. He looked over his shoulder at Jack, hoping for an explanation, but Jack looked even more flabbergasted than Tag felt. The cigarette dropped from Jack’s fingers and rolled a few feet before disappearing.
When Tag looked back at the men, they wavered a little—like a heat mirage—then settled again. But he could still see through them to the opposite wall and to the hills and Lake Mead behind. They didn’t look angry or scary. In fact, he’d have to classify their expressions as solemn but mildly curious. Still, it felt a little like a standoff. Then one of the men stepped forward. His eyes were narrowed in a permanent squint. He wore a grimy white tank top, dark trousers, and a hat shaped like a pith helmet. Ignoring Tag completely, he came to a stop directly in front of Jack. And then all the ghosts, including Jack, vanished.
Tag was shaken. One figment was bad enough, but that had been a whole platoon. He walked back along the top of the dam, which suddenly felt far too insubstantial despite the millions of tons of concrete. He returned to the parking garage, but instead of climbing the stairs to his car, he bought an ice cream cone at a snack window and sat on a bench, trying to gather his wits.
How many men had died building the dam? It was dangerous work, the temperatures would have been roasting hot, and they were a long way from decent medical care—which in the 1930s must have been limited anyway. No medevacs to trauma centers. Maybe the dam was haunted. “Damn ghosts,” Tag said out loud, then winced because talking to a hallucination was somehow better than talking to himself.
He’d finished the ice cream and was still sitting there, paper napkin in hand, when he saw Jack strolling toward him. Jack sat on the bench and lit a cigarette. “I’m glad you didn’t drive off without me,” he said.
“You—”
“I was talking to them. They explained some things to me. They’ve been dead even longer than me, but at least they have each other for company.”
“Are there… are there ghosts everywhere? Everywhere someone’s died, at least.”
“Dunno. I was the only one in Jasper, and until you came along, I never went anywhere else.”
A family walked by: parents, a teenage girl, a couple of younger kids. None of them glanced Tag’s way. Maybe they were too fixated on the snack bar to notice him. Then two boys in their late teens stood near the edge of the dam, taking selfies with their arms slung around each other. Jack seemed distracted by them but waited until they’d walked into the gift shop to lean over and whisper, “Do you think they’re queer?”
“Ghosts don’t have gaydar?”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.” Tag got up and tossed the napkins in a trash bin. “They might be a couple or they might just be bros. Hard to tell sometimes.”
“Bros?”
Tag just shook his head. “I think I’m gonna do the tour.” Might as well.
The visitor center was fronted by a tall glass wall. Blessed air conditioning enveloped Tag as soon as he entered. He breathed a deep sigh and walked to the desk. He glanced at the information sign. “Power plant tour, please.”
The woman behind the counter nodded. “The next tour will begin in fifteen minutes.”
“No problem.”
“That’ll be twenty-two dollars, please.”
He frowned. “But the sign says eleven bucks.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. I thought he was with you.” She gestured behind Tag—where nobody stood except Jack, who was smiling broadly.
Tag clutched the counter with both hands. “I…. You can see him?”
The woman’s cheery expression turned troubled, and she glanced toward a nearby security guard. “Sir? Is there a problem?”
“I… I….”
Jack strode forward and pushed Tag slightly out of the way. “You’ll have to excuse my pal, ma’am. He likes to play stupid jokes. Terrible sense of humor.”
Relief filled her eyes and she smiled again, albeit cautiously. “Would you like two tickets?” she asked.
But Tag grabbed Jack’s arm and dragged him out of the building and to a group of a half-dozen people with guidebooks clutched in their hands. “Excuse me. Could you— It’s a bet, sort of. Could you tell me what color this guy’s shirt is?”
The tourists looked at him, looked at Jack, looked at one another. Two of the women murmured in what Tag thought was Japanese. Then a third woman nodded. “His shirt is white,” she said slowly, with a heavy accent.
“Thanks.”
Jack allowed himself to be tugged over to a man and woman in motorcycle gear. This time he spoke first. “My friend is having a small problem. Could you please tell him how many fingers I’m holding up?” He raised his right hand, two fingers extended.
The man laughed. “Blind drunk or too much jerking off, man?”
“Psychosis,” mumbled Tag.
The guy laughed again. “Well, it’s two. Anything else?”
“Tell him I’m real,” Jack said.
“Buddy, I don’t know what you been smoking, but he looks pretty fucking real to me. Right, Fawn?” He turned to the woman.
She had one of those sexy hoarse voices, like Lauren Bacall after a carton of Marlboros. “Oh, he’s real. Real cute. You too, honey.” She winked at them, then laughed when the man gave her a playful swat on the rump.
Tag managed to make it to a boulder. His knees gave out and he sat heavily. “I’m not crazy,” he said to Jack, who’d followed him.
“Not especially.”
“You’re a ghost. Ghosts are real. I’m talking to a ghost.”
Jack’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Last night you slept with one.”
“I…. Fuck.” The inside of Tag’s head was like the tornado in The Wizard of Oz, whirling and spinning with all kinds of crap zooming by. He grabbed the nearest thought. “Why are you haunting me? Are you looking to avenge your death?”
“I told you. Nothing to avenge. The people I knew when I was alive, they’re probably all dead now too. I stopped being angry at them decades ago. What happened to me—it’s my own damn fault.”
“Then what do you want?”
Jack rubbed his eyes. “I want—I wanted to get out of Jasper. I wa
nted a little company. I wanted to be reminded what it was like to be alive.” He said the last sentence choppily, as if the words were hard to get out.
“And now?” Tag asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” He scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground a few times, then looked at Tag. “Can I just go to Las Vegas with you? Please?” He looked about twelve years old.
Six decades alone in the middle of nowhere, not even his own right hand for company. The poor guy deserved at least a few days of neon lights, drunken tourists, and over-the-top theming. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s go now, okay? I’m hot.”
Jack held out his hand, offering Tag leverage to help him stand. Tag grasped the hand and rose to his feet.
Nine
EVEN SOME distance from Vegas, Tag had spotted the Stratosphere Casino, the tallest structure on the horizon. He had visited Vegas a couple times, but he’d never driven in the city, so he had to concentrate on navigating. Jack offered to help but then got distracted by the scenery—“Did you see what that lady was wearing?”—and was soon useless. They entered the Strip far south of the Stratosphere, near Caesar’s Palace, and Tag trawled some of the casinos and hotels.
Even though it was still daytime and the lights weren’t in full glory, Jack was nearly beside himself, keeping up a running commentary of amazement. “Is that the Eiffel Tower? Jesus, that guy’s almost naked. What the hell was that?” He twisted in his seat like a hyperactive eight-year-old, pointing and gasping at the sights.
Tag was delighted, because how often did he get the chance to astonish a spectral being?
Traffic crawled, but Tag didn’t mind. He wasn’t in a hurry. He drove all the way down past the Luxor—Jack squawking, “Holy shit! A pyramid!”—and then back up.
“It’s like a giant movie set,” Jack said when they were stopped at a light.
