by Jim Dodge
‘Then about three months ago they started this big bumper-sticker promotion. You know: you put a KROM bumper-sticker on your car, and if your license number’s announced and you call in, you win some kind of prize – albums, merchandise, tickets to a dance or concert or movie. The license plates are picked by what they called “The Mystery Spotter.” That was me, The Mystery Spotter. It sounds pretty important but all it meant was that when I was driving to work, or at lunch, or whatever, I’d pick four or five cars with KROM bumper-stickers and write down the license numbers and then turn them over to the manager. I was fair, too. I tried to be random, and it didn’t matter if it was a new car or old one or who was driving.
‘But what happened was none of the numbers I’d collected ever called in. The whole idea of the promotion is to make people listen to the station to hear their number called – plus the advertising from the bumper-stickers themselves. So after three days of no winners, nobody calling in, it got horribly embarrassing because it was like nobody was listening. The deejays started joking on the air that maybe The Mystery Spotter needed glasses. Then the station manager said, “Hey, bring in ten numbers; we’ll go till we get a winner.” And still nobody called. So the manager wanted twenty numbers. He told Evans, the night security guy, to bring in ten and me ten. None of my ten called. Eight of Evans’s did.
‘You understand what I’m getting at? It’s like I wasn’t connected. So I started cheating. I’d tell people I was The Mystery Spotter and that if they listened at eight o’clock or whenever, their number would be called and they’d win something. And they’d go, “Oh great! Hey, all right!” But they never called. And these were people who put those dumb stickers on their cars. It’s like I wasn’t real to them. Evans’s numbers? At least seventy percent of the time.
‘It seems dumb, but it really got to me. The Mystery Spotter who couldn’t spot anything. I could stand there telling someone I was the KROM Mystery Spotter and feel my voice go right through them without touching, and they’d smile back right through me, and I’d go back to my apartment and open the door and walk in and wonder who lived there. Go look in her closet and touch her clothes and my hand would pass through them like air.
‘You can’t live like that, without any substance. I had this dream where I cut my wrists. Took a razor blade and sliced in deep, waiting for the blood to spurt. But there was no blood. I cut deeper and deeper till my hand flopped back and I could look right down into my wrist and there was nothing there – no muscles, no arteries, no blood. I think I would’ve actually tried to kill myself if I wasn’t so terrified nobody was there to die.
‘The only thing I could think to do was to get away. I took my sleeping bag, some blankets, borrowed a fishing pole, stole a knife, and eventually ended up here. I like it, but it’s getting cold and I don’t think I’ll stay when the snows come. But maybe I’ll try. I’m doing better now, trying to make myself real again. At first I was like a little baby – not learning the names, that was just confusing – but touching the water, trying to feel the light on my skin, the texture and color of this stone, that stone, the leaves and the trees, with nothing in the way. Going back to nothing and starting over. And I’m doing all right. It’s slow. I’m not ready for people yet is all.’
‘Mira,’ I said, resisting the impulse to take her in my arms, ‘I want you to spot me.’
She tilted her head. ‘What?’
‘You’re a Mystery Spotter and I desperately need to be spotted. So please spot me. We need each other.’
She shook her head. ‘Maybe you’re too crazy.’
‘And you’re not? You’re crawling around touching things you’re afraid to name, licking rocks, going to extraordinary lengths to comprehend the most obvious things, and you call me nuts? Hey, the crazy have to help each other; nobody else knows how. My license number is BOP three-three-three. Call it in. I’ll be listening for it.’
She shrugged her shoulders under the poncho. ‘I can’t. There’s no phone. I don’t even work there anymore.’
‘You’re so literal, Mira; that’s part of your problem, I think. And maybe mine. Probably the opposite is true. But I don’t know.’ I picked up a small chunk of firewood and handed it to her. ‘Here’s a phone. Or use that rock over there. Use one of those hands you keep staring at – they’ll work. Or you can do it in your mind without props, even without words, certainly without reason.’
‘It’d just make it worse.’
There was an abject finality in her tone that freshened my determination, but I took a different tack. ‘Do you ever see ravens around here?’
‘Sure.’ She looked puzzled.
‘That guy I told you about that played the train recording? Joshua Springfield? Well, when Josh was a kid he heard a raven flying over calling “Ark, Ark” and he was sure it was the raven Noah’d sent out in the flood to look for land, the one that never came back, and Joshua figured it was still looking for the Ark. So you know what Joshua did? He went out in his backyard and built an ark so the raven would have a place to land. Joshua refused to leave his ark, to give up his vigil. Finally his parents had him committed. Does that make it worse?’
‘I’m not Joshua,’ she said, some fire in her voice.
‘No, you’re not Joshua. I’m not Joshua. Even Joshua knows he’s not Joshua. We’re ravens. That’s why we build arks.’
‘I guess I’m too dumb to understand. It’s just words to me, George.’
My ghost appeared beside her, looking down consolingly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, ‘he doesn’t understand either.’
‘Did you hear that?’ I said sharply.
‘No.’ Mira was startled. ‘What?’
‘My ghost. He’s right beside you. He said I didn’t understand it either, so not to worry about it.’
‘George,’ my ghost said with irritated disgust, ‘leave this woman alone. She seems to know what her problem is, and what to do about it, which is more than can be said for you, and she undoubtedly has better things to do than listen to your bullshit. She wisely asked you to leave a couple of times already, so why don’t you lay off? If you need some miraculous conversion to bolster yourself, preach your madness at me.’
I repeated his speech verbatim, and Mira simply nodded – in terror or agreement, I wasn’t sure which. My ghost had disappeared, looking sorely annoyed, as I repeated his words. I waited a moment for Mira to comment. When she didn’t I went on. ‘There seems to be a general agreement that this fool should leave, so that’s what I’m going to do. I should get on with the night’s work anyway. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Mira, and I’m inspired by your faith. Excuse my preaching when I should’ve been listening – it’s one of my larger faults. And please’ – I smiled warmly – ‘do accept this small gift I braved the river to bring you, a gift I hope will be the first of two I’ll deliver tonight.’ I picked up the Divinity Confections from where I’d set it down behind the rock and presented it to her with a small bow. ‘It’s candy, for a sweetheart.’
She smiled as she accepted it with both hands. ‘Thank you.’
Her smile almost made me cry. ‘You have a lovely smile, Mira. Under different circumstances it would be easy for me to hang around and fall in love.’ I pointed at the can. ‘I hope you like sweets. They make an excellent dessert for twig soup, tossed moss salad, and grubs in willow sauce.’
I was embarrassing her, and she looked at the can for something to do. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘this looks like one of those things you buy in joke shops, where something leaps out.’
‘A practical joke is one that makes you laugh,’ I quoted. ‘And no doubt there’s both sweetness and nutrition in humor, but it would be in the poorest of taste considering the situation, don’t you think?’
Before she could answer I took my leave, thanking her for her warm hospitality on a cold night.
‘Good luck, George,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’
‘Ah, you’re not real enough to mean it.’
S
he smiled again. ‘Maybe so, but you deserve the effort.’
‘Then put some effort into spotting me.’ I waved and walked into the dark thicket of willows. I loved her smile but wanted to hear her laugh.
I was about forty feet from her camp when I heard the springing whooosh of the snake uncoiling, and then her quick, piercing shriek. There was a faint, flat whump! followed instantly by a flare of light so intense I could make out veins in the willow leaves: the snake had evidently landed in the fire. As the burst of light faded, her laughter began – warm, full-throated, belly-rich laughter that rang against the stone bluffs and swelled down the river canyon.
I turned around and yelled through cupped hands: ‘That’s right, you idiot: laugh!’
‘You’re fucking hopeless, George,’ my ghost said at my shoulder.
‘Oh yeah? I feel like I’m brimming with hope.’ I stepped out of the willows at the river’s edge. ‘So you don’t think I’m one of the ravens, huh?’ There was no answer. Though it was to dark to tell for sure, I assumed he’d vanished. ‘Well, my ghost, just watch me – I’m going to fly across this river here and not wet a pinkie.’
I walked downstream till the bank widened. I concentrated fiercely, trying to let Mira’s laughter lighten my bones and feather my flesh, and then I ran for the river, flapping for lift, vaulting into the air. I flew seven or eight feet before I belly-flopped into the icy water. I’d flailed halfway across before I managed my first breath. The current was stronger than I remembered, but swimming was easier without the burden of a gift.
When I finally pulled myself up on the opposite shore, hunching out on all fours, panting and shivering like a sick dog, my ghost was waiting for me. ‘That was a spectacular flight,’ he said, ‘maybe a foot, fourteen inches.’
I trembled to my feet, jerkily stripped off my water-logged shorts, and swung them at his face. They passed right through it. Gasping, I said, ‘You haven’t seen anything. Foot’s a good start. Like seeing a leaf. Mira’s inspired me.’ I turned and flung my jockey shorts out in the river, then scrabbled around in the dark till I found my pile of clothes. I put them on gratefully, topping the outfit with my flamingo hat. I imagined it glowing like a beacon. The gods knew where to find me, if they were looking. As I walked back to the car I looked for a raven’s feather to stick in the band. I didn’t find any.
I started the Caddy and cranked up the heat, then gathered my bag from the trunk and five or six records that had already played. I stopped and retrieved the bottle of liquid benzedrine, reshouldered my duffle bag, and took it all down to the river.
I threw the records at the stars, missing by a couple jillion miles. I unzipped the duffle, took out my bankroll, added the two grand still wadded in my pocket, peeled off $500 for expenses, and hurled the rest toward the river. The unwieldy was fluttered apart into rectangular leaves, dropping silently on the water, whirling away. I stuffed several good-sized stones into the duffle bag and zipped it shut. I grabbed a strap, braced myself for an Olympian effort, spun once, twice, thrice, and cut loose. It hit halfway across in a tremendous splash, and sank. I unscrewed the cap on the bottle of crank and sidearmed it across the water like a skipping stone, lifted the bottle in a salute to the night sky, took a couple of farewell glugs, then whipped it out there as far as I could.
I trotted back up to the Eldorado’s heat, absently working my tongue around teeth and gums to cleanse the bitter chalk residue of the benzedrine. I smiled as I imagined some fisherman hooking into a trout full of speed, the pole nearly ripped from his hands, line smoking off the reel as he stumbled downstream howling to his buddy, ‘Holy fuck, Ted!’ just as the backing ran out on his reel and his $200 split-bamboo rod shattered in his hands. And Ted yelling back, ‘Hey, piss on the rod. I’ll buy you a new one. I’m wading in twenty-dollar bills here.’ Even if this wouldn’t happen, the possibility made me happy.
My ghost was sitting in the driver’s seat when I opened the Caddy’s door. ‘I better drive,’ he said.
‘Move your ass over.’
He glared at me; I glared back. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why should I care if you continue to wildly overestimate your capabilities and underestimate mine. But if it’s going to be like that, let’s fucking do it. No little lost raven-poo going “ark, ark, ark.” Burn the goddamn Ark! Let’s have some spirit, George. Let’s scream through the night like eagles. Let’s do it right.’ And he was gone.
Fuck him and his eagles. I took it extra easy pulling up the embankment back onto the frontage road, not wanting to bottom out. I’d been abusing the Caddy lately, and it was built for cruising, not off-road racing. I approached I–80 with caution, then hung a right. No sign of official forces or black Oldsmobiles. We needed gas pronto, and a new battery for Joshua’s solid-drive master blaster. I snapped on the radio, but KROM was gone – must cut back their signal, I figured. Or maybe this was some topographical anomaly, because I couldn’t seem to find anything at all: just a blur of static from one end of the band to the other. Or perhaps a little electronic interference, I thought to myself, like radar. I went back through the dial and at 1400, crisp and clear, I heard a man talking to me:
‘Awwwriiiight, brothers and sisters! If you’re twisting one up, keep right on it; but if you’re twisting the dial, stop right there,’ cause you got KRZE, one billion megawatts of pure blow hammering your skull from our studio high atop the Wind River Range. Coming up in tonight’s lifetime we got you some tricks and treats, some goblin chuckles and that monster beat, plus tons more good stuff than you’ll be able to believe, so dig it like a grave while I whisper some sweet nothings in your ear. That’s right, relax. This is Captain Midnight at the controls, if there are any; I want you to enjoy your flight.
‘Now did I say treats? You might be worrying where you’re gonna find a bag big enough to bring back all your goodies tonight, one that’s big enough to truck the whole load home. No sweat,’ cause here’s Mr James Brown and I do believe he’s got a bag you can borrow, a brand new one at that.’
‘Hey ghost,’ I yelled as James Brown worked out, ‘how do you like this station?’ But ghost wasn’t talking.
To save on gas, and because I was still jittery about troopers, I kept it at an even 65. ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag’ segued into Bobby ‘Boris’ Pickett and the Crypt Kickers doing ‘Monster Mash,’ which in turn slid without pause into Frankie Laine’s ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky.’
Then back to Captain Midnight, who was hopping with excitement: ‘Did you dig that message? Cowboys you better change your ways or it looks like eternity for sure busting ass, chasing them fire-eyed longhorns through the clouds. Yiiiiiiippeeee-i-o, that’s hard. And you little cowgirls better be good, too, or they won’t let you ride horsies in Heaven, little britches, and you know that’s hell on a girl. Hey, but enough cheap Christian morality, right? Tonight belongs to the beasties and demons, vamping vampires and the living dead. Yes, it’s All Hallow’s Eve, and something darkly stalks the land and the furthermost recesses of the human brain, which has always loved recess. But something good stalks it, too, because our Mystery Spotter is out there spotting mysteries left and right, as well as a few well-chosen license plates, and maybe tonight’s the night your number comes up. That’s right, hot dog: you may already be a wiener. So stay tuned and you might pick up a couple of tickets to the dance. And while you’re waiting, we flat guarantee we’ll have a few other numbers that will both elucidate and amuse. How’s that grab your happy ass, fool? You got Captain Midnight in your ear, KRZE, where you find it is where it’s at, so high up we’re underground. Now catch a listen to this monstrosity.’
‘Purple People Eater’ came tooting on, but I’d just spotted a Sinclair station in some strange tourist trap called Miniature America and was already pulling into the pumps. The attendant, a sawed-off geezer in red, white, and blue overalls, was curious about the car and the big silver box in the back seat, not to mention the fried-eyed idiot in the pink hat. Too curious. He craned to wa
tch me through the back window as he topped the tank and I hooked up the new battery. I don’t know if it was his oppressive attention, the raw Wyoming cold, or a case of speed-jangles, but my hands were shaking so bad I damn near couldn’t get the clamps cinched down.
The battery and gas came to $34. I gave the old geezer two twenties and told him to keep the change. He shook his head in disbelief, then grinned. ‘Mister, if I had your money I’d throw mine away.’
‘Throw it away anyway,’ I advised him. ‘It feels good.’
I rolled back onto I–80 and aimed at Salt Lake City, holding it at a solid 80. If I got stopped I could always argue I’d mistaken the highway number for the speed limit. I listened to the radio instead of records on Joshua’s revived system, just in case my license number was called. But first got an earful of Captain Midnight:
‘Now you might have thought your soul pilot, Captain Midnight here, was just flapping his lips when he said there was going to be some boss tricks and big treats on tonight’s special show. Maybe you’ve got us pegged as some no-class outfit jiving in the sagebrush, don’t know get-along-little-doggie from dactylic hexameter, so dumb we think Grape Nuts Flakes is a venereal disease. Well, how’s this for some air-you-fucking-dition: we got America’s main expert on poetry, history, and everything else to do us some short spots on the historical-emotional background of trick-or-treat. I mean this guy’s got fifteen – count ’em – Ph.Ds on his wall. We’re talking words like foremost and intellectual and anagogic insights into symbolic expressions of metaphorical parallels, and when you’re talking that sort of stuff, only one man rises with the cream: that’s the poet John Seasons. He works out of Baghdad-by-the-Bay, but his spirit abounds. Hey, when you want the tops you go to the top. So let me introduce John Seasons with Part One of a KRZE exclusive, “A Social Demonology of the Hollow Weenie.”’
