by Louise Krieg
Cindy looked at her watched then stopped in place.
“You are a fucking asshole.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said. “But I'm an apologetic asshole.”
Cindy looked back down the empty road. “If I go with you-”
Logan opened his driver side door.
“Stop,” she said. “If I go with you we are going straight to the bus depot. No turning the car around. No talking me out of this.”
Logan put up his hands in appeasement.
“Okay.”
“I'm not playing.”
Logan nodded his head and reached over to open the passenger side door.
“Neither am I,” he whispered under his breath as Cindy ran around the front of the car to get in his vehicle.
Spotting himself in the rear view mirror, Logan knew he had looked at least a decade older than his calendar age. Everything about his face was long, from the stretch of forehead between his thin brown hair and fading brown eyebrows, to the nose that ran from his blood shot eyes to his scowling lips, to the lines that grooved the skin under his eyes across his face. His skin was the color of rotten buttermilk, which his choice of gray t-shirts and blue jeans only emphasized.
Still, Cindy got into the car, beautiful on the surface but seeing a lot of herself in the melancholy that was Logan Metcalf.
CHAPTER TWO
The two drove in silence down the long road for about two miles. Logan kept looking at Cindy, waiting for some kind of opening.
She reached over and turned on the radio dial.
“Sorry sunshine,” he said. “I haven't fixed that yet.”
Instead, she looked through her purse then out the back window. In the distance, she saw the Greyhound bus gaining speed on the Corvette.
“There's my bus,” she said.
“It won't pick you up in the middle of the road.”
Logan reached over and ran his fingers through her hair. She pushed his hand away.
“Take it easy,” he said. “You a piece of hay in there.”
Cindy looked over at him and rolled her eyes.
“I can't wait to sit in a salon,” she said. “Get my hair done. Get a manicure. Pedicure. Then eat out at a real restaurant. Not a diner. And then go to a 3-D movie. I heard those are great. Or maybe I'll just sit at a cafe and people watch. Will be nice to see crowds of people again. Jesus.”
“I hate crowds,” Logan said. “Especially ones with people.”
“Or maybe just hang out in a dive bar,” she said. “Like when I was in college. Where the air is just fresh with possibilities. You can smell the perfume, cotton and shampooed hair, burning tobacco and pot. Beer and lust.”
“You need to just start writing again.”
The bus passed the Corvette on the left hand side of the road.
Logan slowed his car down.
“You're not going slow on purpose are you?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Fuck, Logan, you are going to make me miss the bus!”
“Am I?” Logan turned to her with a smug smile. He turned the steering wheel to his left, making a sharp turn off the road and into some grass land.
“Logan!”
He put the car in reverse and headed back down the road in the opposite direction.
“I don't believe this,” she said. “You're such a liar! Stop the fucking car. Stop!”
“Your wish,” Logan slammed on the brakes and Cindy pitched forward hitting her head on the dashboard. “Is my command.”
Logan pushed his door open and marched over to the passenger side. He ripped the door open and grabbed Cindy, throwing her to the ground.
“Go on! Get the fuck outta here. Get out of my line of vision. Go back to where you came from.”
“Fucking asshole!” Cindy screamed, hitting him in the face with her purse. “Fuck you. And your art. You're not an artist. You're just a psycho!”
Logan went back into his car and started it up again.
Cindy started walking back to the road, giving him the middle finger.
Then Logan started after her, following her with the car, speeding up as she started to run.
“Go bitch!” he screamed as he picked up speed. “Run bitch run!”
Cindy turned around and sprinted away as fast as she could. She could feel the Corvette hot on her heels.
Then she pitched forward as she tripped on rock, hitting her head on the gravel hard.
Logan hit the brakes on the Corvette. He sprang out of his car, running over to Cindy now laying face first in the dirt. He knelt down and rolled her over, caressing her face.
She's crying.
“I'm so sorry,” he said. “Why do we keep doing this to each other? This can't keep happening.”
Cindy shook her head in response, slipping in and out of consciousness.
“I'm so sorry,” he kissed her lips. “For how I make you feel sometimes. I'll change. I promise. I'll change for you.”
She pressed her head against his chest as he held her tight.
“You're like the morning breeze,” he said. “Touching you is like kissing an angel.”
Cindy began to sob then passed out.
The sun had come down by the time the reached the farm house.
Logan carried the sleeping Cindy back into the home, carrying her all the way into his bedroom.
“Sleep it off,” Logan whispered as he laid Cindy onto the mattress “It has all been a bad dream.”
Logan sighed deep as he looked down at the unconscious Cindy. He then walked over to the closet next to the bed and took out a pink dress with the store's plastic wrap still around it.
“This'll work,” he said, laying the dress her prone body. “This will work just right.”
Cindy took a deep breath and rolled over.
“Rest up, Sleeping Beauty,” Logan stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind himself.
Logan sponged down the hood of the '65 Ford Mustang in his garage. The car had belonged to his father over forty years ago and now he had almost completely restored the vehicle. Old cars were his father's hobby and he shared the same affinity for the old Mustangs and Chevys.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young man come into the lot outside the garage. He pretended not to see him at first, waiting to see what the drifter would do.
The man looked inside the rusted '56 Chevy, his grandfather's old car that he fully restored.
Logan set down his sponge and began walking toward the intruder.
“Hey asshole,” he said. “That piece of tin is over sixty years old. Not really ideal for a getaway car.”
The drifter turned around and held up a long steel pipe that he had hidden under his shirt. He waved the weapon with menace at Logan.
Logan sighed hard and shook his head as if disappointment. He reached into his pocket and took out a one hundred dollar bill, holding it up to the young man.
“You looking to just rip someone off or are you looking for work?”
The drifter let the pipe down to his side, eyeballing the money. He walked forward and took hold of the bill.
Logan pulled his hand back, ripping off his end of the one hundred dollar bill.
“You look just like him,” Logan said, staring at the young drifter with incredulity.
The young man said nothing, just cocked his head at Logan.
“Follow me,” Logan said, turning his back on the drifter and leading him further into the shed.
The drifter stood in place, not moving.
Logan turned back around. “Do you want to earn some money or not?”
The drifter followed as Logan turned on another light, revealing his work station at the rear of the garage. A lathe and numerous art palettes laid about.
Logan squinted his eyes at the young man, seeing the scratches on his face. “The hell happened to you?”
“Been running,” he said, scanning Logan up and down with eyes that harbored a lifelong grudge aga
inst the world. “Through the woods.”
Logan made a twirling motion with his fingers, wanting the man to spin around. “Let me take a look at you.”
“If you-”
“I don't bite,” Logan said as he pushed aside a lock of the man's hair from his eyes.
The drifter pushed away Logan's hand.
“Take it easy, sunshine,” Logan said.
“If you're a fag-”
“I have a job for you,” Logan laughed.
“I just need a place to crash for the night.”
“You got three hots and a cot plus some cash. How's that sound?”
“In exchange for what?”
“Your ass-”
The drifter turned around and started walking. “Faggot ass-”
“I'm kidding,” Logan laughed. “Come on, back. Come on, I couldn't resist. No. What I need from you is to have you model for me. I'm a photographer. Painter. Sculptor. Artist.”
Logan waved his arms around work station as Terry looked at all of the eclectic art.
“I don't do anything gay,” the young man said.
Logan took out his camera from the desk and focused on Terry through the lens. “Don't worry, Sunshine,” he said laughing.
CHAPTER THREE
Cindy woke up to faint sounds coming from the kitchen. She thought she heard voices but wrote it off to Logan talking to himself again. She got up and felt woozy, as she walked over to her make-up desk.
“Fucking asshole,” Cindy said, looking at the bump on her forehead in the mirror. “Dumb fucking creep.”
Cindy didn't remember how she got in the bed. The last thing she remembered was running away from the Corvette.
She looked at the unmade bed and felt like going back to sleep until she again heard voices coming from the kitchen. One of them didn't sound like Logan.
“Damn, dude,” Logan said. “You're eating like you just ended a hunger strike.”
Cindy opened her bedroom door, stepped down the hall and -
“Boo!” Logan said, greeted her just as she walked into the kitchen.
“Shit!”
“We have company,” he said, nodding his head over at the drifter sitting at the table.
Cindy saw the young man scarfing down Logan's charred hash browns and sausage. He took a big gulp of orange juice and belched as she stepped inside.
His manners aside, she thought he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.
“Terry,” Logan said. “This is Cindy. You'll be working together.”
The young man didn't look up. He continued to stuff the hash browns into his mouth as if the plate were about to be taken away.
“Hey,” Cindy said.
The man finally looked up. She gasped at the color of his slate blue eyes, feeling as if she were looking at a different breed of human being.
He nodded his head at Cindy and returned his attention to the breakfast Logan prepared for him.
“People thought my art was pretentious,” Logan said as led Terry back into his shed. “So I like the fact you don't come from that world. You'll be able to see things with a fresh point of view unlike so many of those college pukes I've worked with in the past.”
The young man watched as Logan opened a binder filled with old newspaper articles and pictures. Sifting through the pages, Logan took out the last one, handing the paper to Terry.
“What's this?” Terry asked, looking down on the caption that read “Couple Crashes To Death.”
“With persuasive words she led him astray,” Logan said. “She seduced him with her smooth talk. Proverbs 7:21.”
Terry looked back at the photo in the newspaper article. The picture showed a smashed up, burned out automobile.
“Okay,” he said, still not understanding.
“It is the inspiration for my new sculpture,” Logan said. “My mother had ran away with this young drifter. Looked like you, a bit. Good looking, muscular guy. She left my Dad for him. Only they didn't get far. They drove into a wall and burned to death.”
“Sorry,” Terry said.
“It was a long time ago,” Logan said. “Now I have to use that pain. Use that memory and create art. If I can do that, then that haunting memory becomes a gift. A gift from the Gods.”
Logan took the article away from Terry and placed it back into his binder.
“Come on,” he said, leading Terry back into the garage and to the white Mustang.
“Was my Dad's old car,” he said, knocking on the convertible top. “Take the other end, will you?”
The two men stood at opposite ends of the convertible top and lifted it off the car.
“Right on,” Logan said, handing a bucket of soap water to Terry. “Make this baby shine, okay? I want it looking slicker than baby shit.”
Logan looked out the garage window and saw Cindy walking toward the shed with two glasses of lemonade.
“You'll find some extra soap in the cabinets over there,” Logan said, stepping out of the garage to avoid Cindy. “I'll be back with some wax.”
Cindy entered the garage, her eyes shifting left and right.
“Where is he?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
Terry said nothing, pointing to the direction where Logan left.
“I brought you guys some lemonade,” she said, laying the glasses on the hood. . “It is hot as heck in here.”
Terry ignored the offer and continued to wipe down the Mustang.
“What a pig sty,” Cindy said, looking around the garage. “I swear these artists are worse than farm animals. Matter of fact, I think that would be an insult to farm animals.”
“This is a step up for me,” Terry said, finally taking one of the lemonade glasses and taking a sip.
“Where are you from?”
“Ah, you know how it is. Here, there, and nowhere.”
“Sounds lonely,” Cindy said, moving closer to him. “Where are your people from?”
“My people?”
“I'm originally from Fernley,” Cindy said. “We called it Ferntucky. Bunch of people talking with Southern accents who live in friggin' Nevada. If you fart while you're driving you'll miss it. Both of my folks are dead but I have an older brother. I should go visit him out there. How about you?”
Terry put the glass of lemonade down. He looked around to make sure Logan was out of ear shot, still uncomfortable that Cindy would be taking such an interest in him.
“Yeah, you, I'm talking to you. Where are you headed?”
“South,” he said. “I want to go to Los Angeles.”
“I love L.A.,” she said. “Palm trees. The beach. God, that sounds fantastic.”
She took the glass of lemonade off the hood and rubbed her forehead with it.
The drifter looked her up and down, her tight white blouse leaving nothing to the imagination.
Cindy returned the stare, looking deep into the drifter's eyes as if trying to communicate her attraction without saying a word. She noticed that he didn't have eyes that suggested intelligence as much as an undeniable presence.
“I should give Logan his lemonade,” she said, leaving the shed.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Closer,” Logan said, commanding his two models. “Stick your arms out and move them closer. Good.”
Both Cindy and Terry lay face first on the ground. Cindy wore the retro pink dress while Terry wore a greasy t-shirt and jeans.
They both laid there, facing one another in a fake death scene.
“Okay,” Logan said, snapping some pictures while pouring more broken candy glass round them. “Now don't move. Don't even breathe!”
“It only gets worse,” Cindy said with humor. “He gets like this all the time. Gets a vision in his head and it goes on for hours and days on end. He calls it inspiration. I call it schizophrenia.”
“I didn't know modeling would be this hard.”
“It isn't,” Cindy said. “It's Logan that's hard.”
“This is insane,” Logan said, gidd
y with excitement. “It is as if I've been given a gift. You two look perfect for one another. The perfect scene.”
Logan studied the scene again, moving Terry's arm closer to Cindy.
Terry pulled his arm back.
“I said don't move,” Logan said, readjusting.
Terry looked at Cindy and the woman rolled her eyes.
Logan circled around the couple again, taking more still pictures. Then he adjusted the light so the broken glass sparkled back to his camera lens.
“This will be my finest work,” he said. “All of that time spent creating will culminate with this masterpiece. It will have everything. Lust. Betrayal. Death.”
He took a couple more shots and the camera bulb flashed across the shed, lighting the place up as if he were a crime scene photographer.
“This screams something personal,” Logan said. “All of my other work as been nothing compared to this. Empty. Lifeless. Inert. Up until now.”
He stood up both Cindy and Terry and shot one last picture.
“I can feel them,” he said. “My mother and her lover. I can touch them. I can hear her voice. Okay. Done.”
Cindy sprang up and dusted herself off.
“Well, that was fun,” she said her voice having more than a trace of sarcasm.
Logan watched as Cindy walked in the back room and slipped out of the dress, putting on her blouse.
The drifter took out a piece of bubble gum from his blue jean pocket and snapped it into his mouth.
“I was seven years old,” Logan said, looking through his camera at his shots. “My father and I were following them. Then we saw them disappear off the road and crash. We got out of the car and I ran over to edge of the road. I don't know why my father took me with him. Why he wanted me to see it. I never saw so much broken glass in my life. It was everywhere. Then the car burst into flames. I just saw the fire below and that is when I got interested in photography. I bought a camera with my savings and spent days just looking through the lens. Then something weird happened. I realized I wasn't holding a camera. I was holding my father's eyes.”
“Logan,” Cindy poked her head back into the shed. “I'm going to be out by the pond.”
