Another boring 10 hour road trip . . .
His eyes were like little beads of birdshot, small and unblinking -- the eyelids drooping half closed over them as they stared through the car window. The face was full, stubble-covered cheeks drooping, mouth slightly open as if he had forgotten to close it after taking a swallow of spit. Gray hair split the dome of his bald head, cascading down the sides and sticking out over his ears like straw on a scarecrow. It looked like all the world a face from The Muppet Show – one of the old men in the balcony that always harass the frog.
The eyes starred. It was hard to tell if they saw the gray shadows of the roadside, broken only by the dips and furrows of slate gray rock as the roadbed cut through a hillside. It was a face that could have been just as much dead as alive for all anyone knew, just lying up against the window, taking up space. John knew how the man felt. He lived there himself.
John shifted his gaze from the man in the car to the scene outside his window. At seventy-five miles an hour, it was all just a blur. The winter had stripped the world of all color except for the color of despair. Everywhere it was dull and gray. John couldn’t tell where the earth ended and the sky began. It’s true what they say, he thought; before you go they give you a color test. If all you see is a single color, it’s time to go, but if you can at least see two colors, they let you stay until one of them goes away and only the gray remains. Even black and white were considered two colors.
He had been starring out the window for what seemed like years, ever since they had left her mother’s house, 200 miles back. While it had been a dark and dull ride so far, it hadn’t been a quiet one. Without shifting his body or giving any hint that he was listening, he focused his attention back on the constant source of drivel entering his hearing. It must be the radio, he thought, nothing else could keep up a constant stream of rhetoric indefinitely.
Nope, sorry, the radio is off. It really was his wife. John didn’t believe she could still be talking hours after getting in the car. But then he really couldn’t be sure since he had tuned her out almost immediately after she began. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his wife. In fact, he loved her very much. It was just that after 22 years of being together, he had heard all the stories about her mom and family- and not just once either. He could probably recite word-for-word her entire conversation. It was a good thing too, because the next thing she said was “Man, that was close! And isn’t she in a real snit? I mean, to do that to her kid!”
She looked over at John, gauging his reaction.
Oh-oh, John thought, I don’t have a clue what’s she’s talking about -- maybe I really blew it this time. “Well, you know how it is dear, some people just don’t have any idea about what’s going on. Sometime you have to hit them on the head just to get their attention.” he answered slowly, hoping that it was good enough. “Hey, want me drive some? I’m really ready to take over y’know.” Change the subject, quick.
“You know,” she laughed, “you’re the one that outta be hit over the head. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said since leaving moms. Eh...so what’s new, eh? Never mind, I was only talking about the way that goat over there was butting his kid away from the hole in the cliff.”
John’s attention was directed to the spot up the road and over above the top where the new exit ramp was being blasted. Interstate repair was a career around here. To John it looked like the blasting of the hillside had caused a minor rockslide. The rocks had slid; causing what appeared to be a small opening in the side of the cut. The baby goat had climbed the slide and was trying it’s best to enter the hole when the Billy goat began herding it away from the opening.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Looks like that mommy goat sure doesn’t want her kid in that hole, doesn’t it? Wonder why?”
“Ah, who knows.” his wife answered. “That hole looks new, and we know there’s a lot of old caves around this area. Mammoth Cave is only about 100 miles from here. She probably smells something and thinks it’s dangerous to the kid, that’s why she’s keeping him away.”
John starred at the hole and the more he starred, the more his imagination took hold. “Hey, hon, what if that hole did lead to a cave? There could be anything in there. Kentucky was one of the first places that our ancestors traveled when moving west. There could be something up there, maybe an old skeleton, or maybe even treasure!” His excitement was getting to him. “Let’s stop and investigate! Maybe we’re the first ones to find the hole. If there’s anything there, we can claim it.”
“Whoa there, bud. Getting a little carried away there, aren’t you? It’s only a hole in the side of a hill, who said anything about treasure or skeletons!” His wife shuddered. “If I wanted skeletons, I’d go back and follow that car with the dead guy in it.”
John was shocked. He just starred at his wife, his expression one of disbelief. “What dead guy?” he asked.
“Oh come on.” she hissed, “You were starring at it too. You know the one. The guy looked like one of the Muppets, but I forget which one.”
John laughed. “Oh, that guy. Yeah, I saw him and wondered if he was dead too. But what makes you think he was dead? He could have just been sleeping with his eyes open.”
“No way, I know when someone is asleep and looking right at you. I see you do it all the time,” she said. “I know sleep, believe me. And he wasn’t asleep.”
“Where is that car, anyway?” John asked, glancing around for any indication that the car was nearby. He tried to remember what type of car it was but couldn’t. In the distance he could see a pair of taillights fading away. “I guess they must have passed us while we were talking, although I didn’t notice them.”
“Neither did I.” his wife said. “Well, what’ya think? Let’s go find a way into the cave.” John prodded, a sly grin sliding across his face. “What are you waiting for? Let’s take this here exit and get to exploring!”
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Sharon knew better that to argue with her husband when he got that dopey, hound-dog look. It was a sign that he was excited and nothing was going to chase him away. When they were dating and even after they were first married, Sharon had tried her damnedest to break him of that stubborn streak. More than once she had cried and stomped out of the house to go to mom’s only to find out that no matter how long she stayed away, no matter how angry she appeared to be, he would remain independent, doing those things that he enjoyed doing, even if it meant doing them without her. He never did anything that hurt her, it was just things that she didn’t want him to do or things that she didn’t think he should be doing when he had a wife to think of; things like scuba diving for undiscovered wrecks, caving, skydiving, sailing the waters of the Gulf Of Mexico alone, and mostly, flying. Her husband had never given her one reason for doubting him, but that hadn’t stopped her from wanting him to stop.
She was mostly afraid of losing him. Now, even after 22 years of marriage, she still refused to go diving, or sailing, or flying with him. He still went. She had given up going to moms after the third time when her mom told her very politely but firmly to go home and stay home -- wait for him to come back safe and sound. Better yet, go with him, as he did with her. But she couldn’t. At least not sailing or scuba diving or flying. But she did go caving once. And loved it.
He had taken her to Hawaii for their tenth wedding anniversary. As part of the package a tour was arranged to visit the Hawaiian Wedding Chapel, a huge cavern visited by thousands of tourist each year. It was supposed to be mostly an open grotto. Sharon had refused to go.
“There’s absolutely no way I’m going to visit some old dark and drippy cave,” she had told him. No amount of pleading on his part would change her mind. She too had a stubborn streak, as long and deep as his. He refused to go unless she did. She pleaded that he go, since he loved caving (danger really, she thought) so much. It was ruining their vacation. Finally John said the magic words that changed things forever. He told her that if she didn’t go with him to this most special place, he would call her mother and ask her to accompany him, because damn it, this was too special to miss and too special not to keep it in the family. If she was too stubborn to see that it was not dangerous, her mother would be able to tell Sharon all about the beauty and sanctity of the Chapel. Sharon would just have to accept it. This infuriated Sharon. How could he possibly want to take her mother of all people? Was there something going on she didn’t know about? Yes, her mom told her. It was a plot to get Sharon out from the clutches of fear. If Sharon wouldn’t go, she was ready and willing.
So Sharon went - - holding on for dear life to the railings of the small barge as it and twenty-eight other couples crossed the small lagoon to the path leading to the cave. Once on the other side of the lagoon, Sharon smiled weakly at her husband and thought to herself that if you ever do this to me again, I’ll kill you.
The path to the cave was narrow and winding. All around were large and wondrous plants, full of colors and smells. Sharon had never seen them before and was amazed to find out that the only grew here, near the grotto, because the water dripping from the stalactites was enriched with the nutrients from the soil in which it passed, providing the plants food not found anywhere else on earth.
No one spoke as they wound their way through the flowers and plants along the path. Couples held hands and quietly, wondrously followed the trail. Sharon felt a sense of spirituality. Speech wasn’t called for. She knew John felt it too when he gently took here hand in his and held it to his lips. A shiver went through her as she saw the love reflected in his eyes.
The path suddenly opened into a clearing around a small lagoon festooned with birds and flowers. A path entrance could be seen leading in both directions around the water’s edge. Even more flowers and plants lined them. Ahead, across the lagoon, was on of the most beautiful sights Sharon had ever seen.
The huge grotto opened up facing the stunned tourist. It was like a huge amphitheater, with stalagmites lining the floors as the band and colorful stalactites hanging down from the ceiling as banners. She could only see back into the grotto as far as the third row, but for the first time in her life, Sharon knew why her husband did what he did. It was beautiful. She wanted to see more. All fear gone, forgotten as easily as the headaches the arguments against coming had caused. Forever after, she would seek out caves and the beauty they provided. What the hell was he going to do now, he thought, his fist slamming down hard on the steering wheel of the beat up old Pontiac. Robbie’s fingers were freezing as they gripped the wheel, trying to keep it from shaking the whole damn car apart.
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Shit! What was he thinking when he hid in the back seat of this piece of crap at the last rest stop? Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t good thinking, not that he did much of that anyway. Seems like everything he ever did got him in trouble, just like now and none of it was his fault, shit just happened it seemed. Only question was, why in the hell did it always seem to happen when he was around? Why not to Billy or Sally or some god-damned-body else? Shit! He just wished he could turn up the heat in this old clunker, but Robbie was afraid that would make the old fucker’d smell even worse so he just shivered and kept on driving.
He had only passed one car in the past hour, but he had noticed that both the driver and passenger seemed to notice him. Ah, shit, Robbie thought, it’s getting dark and everybody stares at each other when you’re on the road, but nobody sees anything. Even he couldn’t remember the type of car they had been driving. He was just getting paranoid.
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It had been rough growing up, the second boy of four in a family of nine. He had learned to get what he wanted by taking it away from the younger kids, threatening to punch their lights out if they complained and blaming it on his older brother when he got caught by his parents.
Not that his parents ever really did anything. His dad was a drunk and when he wasn’t working he spent the rest of his time gambling, drinking, and whoring. The only discipline they got was when he’d come home drunk and the next day they’d have to be very quiet because he liked to sleep late and always woke up in a mean, nasty mood. During these times he was more ‘n likely to knock you in the head with a brick than just tell you to shut up.
His mom tried, but the longer time passed and the more kids she had, the less she seemed to care, eventually drifting into the same way as him. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Many times he’d come home from a night out thieving to find them sprawled across the bed, naked as jaybirds where they’d been drinking and fucking. No wonder they had so damn many kids, he though with a grin.
He himself had done well, considering the hick town they grew up in. His dad may have been a drunk and stupid as dog shit, letting everybody take advantage of him - even those damned bootleggers in slacktown - but he had been canny too. Old dad had known that working his ass off forty hours a week wasn’t going to make him a rich man, nor was it going to pay for his gambling and drinking either. He had looked around and found that he could make money, a lot more money, easier and faster if he just kept his cool and found a friend on the police department. The later was easy to do, but the former was impossible.
Old dad started bootlegging, and for a time everything was going easy. Except when the older, established guys in town started complaining or the local public began complaining and the police needed a scapegoat, dad was always the one raided and arrested. Then he’d get out of jail and go into fencing for the kids in the neighborhood. That’d last until some fool kid’d break into the sheriff’s car and steal his shotgun. Course, dad’d buy it and get raided and end up in jail again.
Then he’d go into gambling for a while, running a traveling poker game. He was good at gambling, but sooner or later, he’d take to drinking and before you’d know it he’d lost all his stake and be in the hole to some guy.
He remembered once when his dad had lost the car to a “friend” who’d gotten dad so drunk he didn’t sober up for a week and won the title to the car playing poker. His mom had broken every window out of that car before the “friend” could get it out of the driveway. There was nothing he could do about it either. He took the car, but he never came back to our house and Robbie never saw him again. The guy died when he drove the car into a bridge abutment. Dad, mom and Robbie had went down to see the car after it was towed to a wrecking yard. Robbie remembered never seeing such a mess. It was damn hard to tell exactly what kind of car it'd been. No way to go, Robbie had thought. He never had went drinking and driving though.
By the time Robbie was 10 he was adept at breaking and entering. Nothing was too hard for him to get in to. Once he had stolen a .22 rifle from the local 5 and 10 for the hell of it - a nice semi-automatic. Just stuck it down his pants leg and walked stiff legged out the damn door. His dumb-ass older brother had asked where Robbie had gotten it and all he told him was he found it. He believed him. Yeah, riggght...a brand new .22 semi-automatic found out behind the outhouse. Stupid shit. He’d ended up shooting the windows out of the old shed out back and then selling the gun to a guy living up in the knobs.
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Robbie glanced over at the old fuck in the seat beside him. He hadn’t been much, just an old man living on the edge, like him. Robbie hadn’t even killed him, really. The old man had stumbled back from the crapper, pants half fallen, twisted round his scrawny old ass. He had one hand in his pocket and the other clutched a paper bag. Obviously the old man had scored something he was happy with. He plopped into the drivers seat without even a nod to the old ‘look in the back seat cause the devil is just waiting to jump your stupid ass’ television commercials. Of course he was right… who’d want to steal this piece-of-shit car? Nobody in their right damned mind, anyway, thought Robbie.
The old man had pulled the door shut and managed to pull his keys out of his pants and get the car started without letting go of the bag. When it looked like he was going to have to park the bag until he got the car on the road, he did the next best thing, he just bumped the gear shift into first gear with his knee and let the car drift slowly ahead until it was in the darkest part of the lot. He road the brakes until the engine died and they jerked to a halt. A sigh and paper rattling was all Robbie could hear. Shit, he’s going to crash here, thought Robbie. Time to change drivers, doc. He thought to himself. The sweet smell of peppermint washed through the car and he knew what the shit had scored – mouthwash. Damned old drunks.
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Mac Levy didn’t give a damned whether Robbie liked mouthwash, drunks, or mommy’s boys. Had he known Robbie was in the seat behind him, he wouldn’t have cared either. It had been a whole twenty hours since his last drink, and – by god – nothing was going to stop him from this one. He pulled the bottle of blue stuff out of the paper bag – he didn’t care what flavor it was, what name it was, or what damned color it was. As long as it wasn’t shaving lotion – god he hated that shit – it was drinkable. He would survive. The clerk at the counter had known. They all know. He didn’t care. When they can sit here in this seat with their guts on fire and they can control it, then just maybe they can say something. But he knew they were full of shit – just like the preacher that kept trying to save his kids from their alcoholic dad – like his wife that, when in public, damned him and threw insults and more – yet hid half-pints of whisky in balloons in her bra for him when he was locked up in jail. All full of shit. His rheumatoid fingers tore at the plastic around the top, getting it off with a final yank. It took all his strength to push the little top down and twist. The top plopped off and fell down between the seat and the floor. The smell of sweet liquid invaded his senses. Spearmint he thought, as he raised the bottle to his lips.
Robbie rose slowly from the back seat, a dark spectre unseen by the old man in the front. He spread his arms slowly, breathing deep, trying not to cough from the sickly-sweet smell of the open bottle. The aroma in the car was palpable. He wanted to gag, but swallowed deep and blocked everything but the old man from his mind. He was ready. Time to roll.
Mac could taste the whiffs of odor as the bottle rose toward its intended resting place – but it never quite made it there. All of a sudden a dark cloud erupted from the back seat, a place that Mac hadn’t seen in years, hadn’t thought of in months. The cloud was making some dumb ass groaning sound, like a Saturday morning cartoon ghost or something. Mac didn’t give a shit about that. He didn’t give a shit about the cloud. But he DID give a shit about the bottle, and the fact that his hand seemed to be frozen right where it was. A color, redness – the color of dark Bing cherries – was floating around in front of his eyes. Pain was shooting through his head and echoing down his spine – each nerve synapse trying to receive and send all at the same time. He tried to draw a breath but his chest hurt too much. The smell from the bottle strong in his nose, but not on his lips. With one last straining, gasping breath, he tried to suck the liquid from the gap between the bottle and his mouth. All he succeeded in doing was turning the floating color from dark red . . . to black. Everything faded. No sound, no light, no liquid, no smell, and no thoughts.
Robbie spread his arms wide, his coat billowing out like bat wings. Robbie bet he looked just like that stupid shit, The Batman. He laughed aloud and then realized it sounded great to laugh. So he did – loud and maniacal – rolling along like the Phantom of the Opera or some dumb ass villain. He expected to see the old man shit his pants or something. Instead the old man just sit there, looking out the front like he’d just seen a ghost. I think he just might have, thought Robbie. Yes sir. I think he just might have.
Robbie looked around before crawling over the seat into the front. The old man was frozen in time. His eyes were wide open, irises small – like beads of birdshot. His left hand lay loose on the steering wheel, but his right had had a death grip on that bottle of wash – holding it up next to his mouth like he was going to take a taste no matter what. Robbie reached over to pull the arm down and was surprised to discover that it wouldn’t budge. Nor would the bottle come loose. Goddamnittohell!! I scared the old fuck to death before he could take a drink and now he’s frozen stiff – the old bastard. He pried and pulled before he finally got the bottle loose from the old man’s dead hand. He tugged the old fuck across the seat until he was sitting/leaning against the window. He put his hands over the old man’s eyes, like he seen them do on countless westerns and war movies when people get killed and pulled the old man’s lids down. They’d stay for a second or two, then one’d plop! open back up and the other would do the same. He left them open. No one’s going to notice on a night like this. He climbed back over into the back seat, retrieved his hat, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the car and eased it onto the highway. He had regretted it ever since.
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The next exit sign they passed told them they had three miles to go before they could turn around and head for the hole. Robin could tell that her husband could hardly wait, his fingers were tapping on the doorsill and his rear end kept sliding all over the seat. He had an itchy ass, and that told her that he was excited. As for her, well … it was different. She wasn’t bored with the long drive – in fact she looked forward to it. She loved the solitude the trip afforded – the peace and quiet. She just hated doing it alone. She really wanted him with her, just like he wanted her up there – flying at 500 knots doing loops and punching holes in he clouds. The fact that she talked the whole way never entered her consciousness. It was just something she did, it didn’t really matter what was said. It was as much a part of the trip as was stopping for breakfast at the first Cracker Barrel they saw or shopping at the Kentucky Store at Fayette Mall. They happened because they were enjoyed. Her talking never bothered her, just like his total lack of attention didn’t bother her – too much. At least he still came. One of these days he was going to say “No.” and she didn’t want to think about that, yet.
The dim sign, lit only by the reflection of their headlights, told them that KY Rte. 4027 to Pigeon Hollow Fork was coming up in three-tenths of a mile. Sharon slowed the car to cruise by taking her foot off the accelerator but not hitting the brakes. The car coasted on its own inertia, the friction of the wide tires against the roadway causing the car to slow quickly from seventy to fifty. By the time the exit popped up, they had slowed to thirty. Sharon maneuvered the small car expertly through the 270-degree off ramp and then proceeded to kick it hard once it had reached the absolute confines of KY Rte. 4027. The little BMW awoke to its true calling with that one jab to the accelerator. It didn’t seem to mind at all the three switchback curves they encountered immediately after exiting the interstate, and in fact, seemed to want to go faster than the eighty they were doing when they popped out of the third corner. A short eighth of a mile straightaway brought them up to ninety-five before the road disappeared as they crested a small hill - the road then dipping down and to the left. Sharon was concentrating on guessing which direction the road was going to take on the next curve when she heard her husband say “Honey, maybe you should turn on your high beams.” A good idea, thought Sharon, as she flicked the lever next to the steering column with the little finger of her left hand. Immediately the world grew to twice its size and Sharon could now tell the road was going right, not left like she had guessed. A crosscut road could be seen intersecting Rte. 4027 about 100 yards ahead. Sharon downshifted, toe-to-heel braked and downshifted again before spinning the steering wheel to the right. The Z3 took the turn as if it had been born just for that time. Not a tire squealed as it did a ninety-degree turn at sixty miles an hour. Once through, Sharon hummed the opening 5 bars of the Battle Hymn Of The Republic before slowing to fifty and reaching over to turn on the radio. Her husband was quiet. Good, she thought. I really will miss him when he stops coming with me, though.
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Robbie wasn’t so lucky. He had seen the sign only after the damn piece-of-shit car began shaking and sputtering. A quick glance told him that the old fuck had committed the cardinal sin – substituted drink for gas. DAMN! Robbie had nursed the old Pontiac onto the two-lane road and hopefully pointed it in the direction of a service station. As usual in these damn country roads, you’d have to drive fifteen miles from the damn highway to the nearest filling station. These stupid asses seemed to think that it was more convenient to have the gas pumps near the farm instead of near the highway.
Bullshit.
