The boy had never stolen a car until two days ago and now he is stalking a run-down neighborhood in search of his fourth. Here windows have bedsheet curtains and driveways host pyramids of half-destroyed appliances while one building is half-burned yet the lights are on. Briefly someone retches unseen as if undergoing an exorcism. But at this late hour this stretch of road is otherwise as still as a bay at neap tide. He doesn\u2019t even know the name of this area, only that it is south of St. Louis.<\/p>\n
The first car he and the girl had absconded with was almost a non-theft: it belonged to the girl\u2019s demented elderly neighbor. A stop by to say hello, followed by a hug and an offer to fetch some groceries, and they were driving her station wagon. Then the tire blew. There was no spare. They walked.<\/p>\n
The second one, a pickup\u2014that was a mess. They\u2019d spotted it in front of a convenience store on a lamplit country road. The driver emerged from the store as the boy and the girl were climbing in. She tried to smooth-talk him but she insisted on calling him Buzzo, a nickname she\u2019d given him on the spot. That drove Buzzo mad; he made mistakes. But so did the girl. The boy had to intervene. He ended up taking Buzzo down with a semi-rotted log that detonated on the man\u2019s skull. Later that night he found blood on the collar of his beloved denim jacket and convinced her to abandon the truck among two thousand cars in a mall parking lot.<\/p>\n
The third, a jeep, was idling behind a hardware store, no driver. The lack of violence was such a relief the boy wept in silence. Little more than a sack of bolts, it\u2019s now parked in the garage of a foreclosed house with no running water or electricity while the girl lies on the living room floor with only a coarse blanket to keep her warm, occasionally puking her guts out or kicking holes in the sheetrock with the heels of her boots.<\/p>\n
Three streets later the tenor changes slightly and the boy spots it. Japanese manufacturer, black, rust-free, bland, common. The boy stands with his hands in his pockets, his chest rising and falling as the streetlight overhead flickers with a sickening strobelike regularity. His plan is benign this time: slip in the back door and slide the key off the hook, then flee. The house where it\u2019s parked is middle-class, tended to but not celebrated. Grass grows or it does not. The paint flakes off every other year and it is covered over. But the boy is unsure. The silence is uncanny, a quietude broken up only by the occasional slamming of doors or hocking of a smoker. He skulks up the driveway, his head flanked by stiff shoulders, and is peering through the driver\u2019s side window to check for an alarm system when from the yard beyond a dog howls plaintively. It\u2019s not a warning or a threat though, more like a gesture, a greeting.<\/p>\n
The boy turns back to the car. But the wailing grows louder.<\/p>\n
The boy sighs.<\/p>\n
The noise belongs to a small droopy-eared mongrel. Holding his right hind leg in the air, the dog is filthy and underfed, chained to a playground set with no swings. Nearby sits a hutch with an opening that looks more kicked-in than sawn. The dog\u2019s wound is fresh: a gash, perhaps a break.<\/p>\n
He wonders who could love a dog like this. And who could hate an animal like this.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll make some calls. I promise. But I can\u2019t do this tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n
Something clatters; someone is awake in the house. As a light comes and a door opens the boy leaps behind the hutch.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou shut up,\u201d a disembodied voice says.<\/p>\n
Something lands on the ground, a bone or chunk of meat that the dog ignores. The door shuts; the lights go off.<\/p>\n
The boy crouches until the dog comes to him and perks his ears as if to say, Well?<\/p>\n
\u201cFuck.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy removes his jacket and wraps it around the dog and unclips the chain. The dog writhes but does not cry out. They slip down the driveway but as he scurries past the car the streetlight glints off a bit of silvery metal. The keys are tucked into the crease of the passenger seat.
\nThere is no hesitation. He opens the door and flicks off the overhead light and swaps the keys for the dog, then releases the parking brake and pushes the car down the driveway. In the street he starts the engine. Once the boy is driving the dog settles back and dog looks out the window as if this were any other day.<\/p>\n
He drives. This is what he does now. Only for once it is not the girl beside him.<\/p>\n
He searches the main streets and side streets and asks around and learns that this town has no veterinarian. The fuel gauge\u2019s needle drops the more his anxiety rises. His heart quickens as he thinks about what he has done but more so what will happen if he returns to the girl with a wounded animal and a car with no fuel.<\/p>\n
The next two towns he passes through are lifeless and shuttered. After a diversion along the interstate he stops at an all-night copy center to use the internet. He locates a veterinarian a mile down the road and makes an appointment via telephone. It will cost one hundred dollars just to get in the door. He and the girl have seventy-eight dollars total to reach the coast.<\/p>\n
He parks outside the veterinarian\u2019s office and they wait on the curb. The dog, shivering, has no tag, no name. The boy will have to invent one. Florian. Adolf. Jocko. He laughs to himself and the dog licks his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll love her,\u201d he tells the dog. \u201cJust don\u2019t take anything she says seriously. She doesn\u2019t mean half of it, good or bad. I think.\u201d He shrugs.<\/p>\n
The dog leans against him. The boy takes it for affection but the dog is merely shifting the weight away from the wound.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re heading far away. Canada, Alaska, Mexico, I don\u2019t know. Are you coming?\u201d<\/p>\n
The dog yawns, which transitions into panting. The boy scratches him beneath his collar.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course the likelihood of us making it there is razor-thin. The police are probably looking and\u2014fuck, I shouldn\u2019t tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy shuts his eyes. He\u2019s seeing it now, that which he spared the dog. He standing at the bottom of the stairs, standing over a male body arranged in an unbecoming interpretation of the human form, a child\u2019s badly drawn idea, red cloud pooling frothily around the gaping mouth. He shakes it off at the sound of a vehicle approaching. The veterinarian arrives in a battered pickup truck. He is a small man with a languid demeanor. He motions with a sweep of the hand for the boy to follow him inside, saying, \u201cName?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMine or the dog\u2019s?\u201d<\/p>\n
The man doesn\u2019t answer. He leaves the lobby dark and leads them to the exam room. The boy sets the dog on the table. The veterinarian slides back the boy\u2019s coat and sees the issue. \u201cYup. The leg. Age?\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy peers into the dog\u2019s eyes. \u201cSix. And a half.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDoesn\u2019t seem broke but I\u2019ll check. He\u2019ll at least need this cleaned and sutured up. You can wait in the lobby or help restrain him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to get cash. I saw an ATM on the corner.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI take cards.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. I, uh, have a limit.\u201d The boy wants to extract his coat from beneath the dog but figures this for a giveaway. He pets him on the head. \u201cStay, Jocko.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cATM?\u201d the man mutters as the boy exits through the lobby, the door jangling.<\/p>\n
As he closes in on the car the boy sees a figure shining a flashlight through the driver\u2019s side window. The boy presses his back to the wall and waits. But the person does not leave. A couple minutes later a patrol car arrives. The boy backs away. He rounds the corner toward the veterinarian\u2019s office but does not stop.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He returns to the girl. They roll the jeep out of the garage and boy takes the wheel again, relearning the language of the jeep\u2019s chassis and the poorly inflated tires. The seat bolts seem to be unscrewing themselves, becoming looser each mile, and with no roof above them and no doors and only two frayed belts holding them in at the waist, the spring air rushes through the boy and the girl like a curse.<\/p>\n
A few hours before dawn they stop so the girl can vomit again and rinse her hands beneath a shuttered roadhouse\u2019s spigot. The water is frigid and to bring warmth back to her flesh she scours her skin with fistfuls of sand and gravel. When her hands are cleared of puke and dirt and any lingering flakes of blood she at last shuts it off and staggers wordlessly toward the edge of the dark property where she hoists her skirt and drops her underwear and squats to relieve herself.<\/p>\n
The boy takes her place, kneeling to drink from the twisted brass tap. To him the water tastes like steel. He spits it out and runs his sleeve across his mouth and though his hands are unblemished he washes them anyway.<\/p>\n
The fuel is low and the axle is wobbling but the boy drives onward, the rising sun at their back. An hour passes before the girl finally stirs, her shoulders rolling as she releases a great sigh. She reaches out for a stalk of grain arching over the road and comes away with a stiff dry husk that she breaks apart in her small strong fingers, then blows the seeds all over the boy.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey,\u201d he says, all but calling out to her over the wind.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey,\u201d she echoes.<\/p>\n
\u201cWelcome back.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl turns away. \u201cI\u2019m still not here.\u201d<\/p>\n
As the jeep lists against the wind the hem of her skirt leaps up to expose the ornate tapestry of her tattooed thighs. He lays his hand there, on the face of some Eastern goddess, and for the first time in two days she doesn\u2019t push him away. But when he reaches the scarifications circumscribing her upper leg the girl intercepts his hand and returns it to the wheel.<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cShut up.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout the car, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can only speak if you don\u2019t use words.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHup-bup!\u201d She raises a hand.<\/p>\n
He stops talking.<\/p>\n
Once the rain starts they pull into a run-down town just large enough to offer two competing motels. \u201cThat one,\u201d the girl says, choosing the brighter more sterile one, then remains in the jeep, curled forward, using her damp carmine-red hair to shield her face like drapes as the boy goes in search of a room they cannot afford.<\/p>\n
Inside the boy asks the rail-thin bird of a woman for a room at the far end. \u201cQuieter there, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat puts you closer to the pond, actually,\u201d she says. \u201cFrogs\u2019ll be barking come night.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA pond? That\u2019s ok. I like amphibians.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want some crickets to feed them?\u201d she asks through a tooth-poor smile. \u201cWe got plenty.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy declines and hands over forty-two dollars.<\/p>\n
In their room the girl starts to strip out of her soaked clothes before the boy can even shut the door. She then climbs into bed and pulls the blankets to her neck and shuts her eyes.<\/p>\n
The boy sets out her clothes to dry, then goes back to the jeep. After four attempts the engine catches; this will surely be the last time. He steers it down the narrow service road behind the motel and into the lush woods until he reaches a small pond slicked over with a coat of green scum.<\/p>\n
The engine noise spooks a lone pair of ducks and they take to the air and the boy parks and sits listening to the engine ticking on its cool down while watching the pond\u2019s surface roiling with various sickly green hues. The stillness is so rich it could be captured in a jar and sold.<\/p>\n
He climbs out and hooks the keys on a branch but he doesn\u2019t want to return to the motel. Perhaps these woods are dotted with abandoned cabins. He could hide here until the girl has moved on and her face is lost to the decay of time like everything else in the woods. But then he catches her scent on his jacket and his chest rises.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou here?\u201d he says as he steps into the room.<\/p>\n
He spots her bare feet through the open door of the bathroom and finds her pressed against the bathtub, stringy vomit dripping from her jaw into the basin. He supports her with his hands against her stomach, just like his mother did when he was a child. Her back is revealed to him in full: a tiger covering every inch of skin, its tail disappearing around her front. She is a work of art, sculpted of archetypes and icons. Only the thrust of her belly against his fingers convinces him she is real.<\/p>\n
The girl, head hung low, twists the tap open and sips warm water from her palm.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe should see a doctor,\u201d the boy says as the girl wraps herself in the comforter, sits on the edge of the mattress, and removes a deck of cards from her purse. \u201cMaybe it\u2019s food poisoning from that stuff we dumpstered.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
She practices a shuffle in which the deck is divided into sixths and reunited in thirds but because her hands are stiff and swollen she can\u2019t move the cards through her fingers like the girl of old and they slip through her fingers in a cascade of suits and numbers.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat can I do for you?\u201d he asks, hovering. \u201cIce? Want me to find a hot water bottle? Something to drink?\u201d<\/p>\n
She mumbles something he doesn\u2019t catch.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t hear you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI said go away. I don\u2019t want to see your fucking face right now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome on, you don\u2019t mean that.\u201d<\/p>\n
She tosses the remaining cards onto the floor and lies on her side. \u201cI do. How old are you anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTwenty-nine. Two years older than you, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou look like a teenager who went through the washer on a long cycle.\u201d<\/p>\n
He tries not to laugh. \u201cHating me is like hating the weather.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shrugs. \u201cNothing. I guess our\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease be quiet. Your voice is making me nauseous.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m\u2014I\u2019m sorry.\u201d He stands up. \u201cI\u2019ll get you a soda.\u201d<\/p>\n
After getting a ginger ale from the vending machine he returns to the room and sets the soda by the bed and slumps in the chair in the corner, dozing fitfully until the girl\u2019s arm emerges from the blankets. She snaps her fingers. He shakes off his torpor and stumbles toward her.<\/p>\n
All she\u2019d had to do was ask and he ran with her. And drove. And walked. And drove some more.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll head for the coast,\u201d she says. \u201cMy cousin has a boat.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSeriously?\u201d<\/p>\n
She nods. He sits.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do you feel?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll live,\u201d she says, rolling onto her back. \u201cYou see, here\u2019s the thing. I\u2019m not sick. I mean, I am but it\u2019s not an illness. I\u2019m knocked up. With your kid.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWait\u2014what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe can get rid of it but I\u2019ve done that before and it\u2019s kind of rough and we\u2019d need money for that too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2014wow. Well, it\u2019s up to you. I mean, I\u2019m a feminist, so it\u2019s your body to decide.\u201d<\/p>\n
She groans and throws her arm over her face. \u201cIdiot. Stand up for yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy rubs his jaw and thinks a moment. \u201cFine. I want to keep it.\u201d<\/p>\n
She peeks out from beneath her arm. \u201cBut why?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shrugs. \u201cI like you. Despite\u2014well, just despite everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
After a long interval of silence she says, \u201cTell me. Tell me what you like about me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSeriously?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her answer is a stare.<\/p>\n
\u201cOk.\u201d He pivots on the edge of the mattress and lays his hands on either side of her. \u201cI like how you throw your hips when you walk. Like you\u2019re trying to stab the world with each step you take.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh?\u201d<\/p>\n
He slides his hands to her ankles, grasping them through the blanket. \u201cI like how your feet point in just a tiny bit. It\u2019s cute and out of character with the rest of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHm.\u201d<\/p>\n
He brings his face close to hers.<\/p>\n
\u201cI like your smirk. You smile for reasons different from everyone else, something only you will ever understand.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl writhes beneath the cover, though the boy\u2019s not sure if it\u2019s nausea or titillation. He flips the blanket aside and kisses the flaming heart tattooed between her breasts.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you die before me I\u2019m going to make you into a book of flesh. And this face, this hair\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s just my body you\u2019re talking about. Is there anything else?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course. I like how angry you are. If you could channel that rage it could power sails and we\u2019d be in the middle of the ocean already.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl writhes.<\/p>\n
He continues: \u201cYou\u2019re clever and witty. You\u2019re\u2014sharp.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBe careful.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMost of all I like how you hate me only because you know how much I love you, no matter what you say or what the world and all the psychos and angels it contains throw at me.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl closes her eyes and moans softly. \u201cEnough.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI see colors when we make love. I go places and see things.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes open. \u201cLike what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything. I disappear into our bodies. I forget you, me. I feel your bones and guts as mine. I know it sounds ridiculous and gushy but it\u2019s true.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShut up. That\u2019s disgusting.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTell me more.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMe what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you feel?\u201d<\/p>\n
She forces herself to look at him. \u201cI hurt.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI hurt inside and I hurt people and I will hurt you and I don\u2019t want to. But here you are. I don\u2019t know what else to say. But now I feel sick again I want to rest some more and you need to go get us some money.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re joking.\u201d<\/p>\n
She flicks her fingers toward the door. \u201cGo on.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI failed to get us a car and now you want me to go get money from\u2014where? A bank? A lonely widower whom I have to woo over the course of months? Years? What\u2019s your plan?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo plan. Just go do it while I rest. It\u2019s your poisonous seed inside me, after all.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFuck.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo fuck. You want to fuck you\u2019ve got to get a hooker.\u201d<\/p>\n
He rises. \u201cWill you pay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDepends on what she looks like.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019ll look like you but with less ink.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl sits up and cracks open the soda and takes one sip before setting it back on the night stand. \u201cIt\u2019s warm. Next time get me a cold one.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy says nothing. He himself is cold. He needs a jacket but it\u2019s Jocko\u2019s now. He needs many things but all he has is her.<\/p>\n
He takes his room key and leaves.<\/p>\n
Late in the afternoon the girl climbs from the motel bed damp with her own sweat and calls out for the boy. Getting no answer she goes to the bathroom and showers, assuming he will be back by the time she has emerged. He\u2019ll be standing there with that stupid overly eager grin on his face, some pathetic offering in his hands like a bag of salted nuts or crumbling cookies in a foil pouch.<\/p>\n
She shuts off the water and steps dripping into the empty room. He was supposed to be back hours ago. He probably, finally, at long last, has abandoned her. He is too weak to love her.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank god. You fucking coward.\u201d<\/p>\n
She goes to the mirror and studies her doppelg\u00e4nger. She pokes at her stomach and lifts her sore breasts and lets them fall.<\/p>\n
\u201cUgh.\u201d<\/p>\n
She flips back the curtains and stands nude before the window, peering out. Because her body is covered in tattoos a passerby might think she were a dressed in a strangely designed jumpsuit. She doesn\u2019t care. Then she does. She closes the curtains only to snap them open them again, doing this over and over as if the correct combination of open-and-close will suddenly conjure up the boy. When she grows bored with this she wraps herself in the bedding and sits in the lumpy armchair and monitors the parking lot and the street beyond.<\/p>\n
She feels better but doesn\u2019t want to. She wants the thing inside her to kick as hard as it can though she also knows it\u2019s no bigger than an atom or two. She tries to count the ceiling tiles but thinks the design resembles prison bars. That that seems fitting. Trapped here waiting for nothing. They will never reach the ocean. How does that poem go? Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink. Water, water everywhere and all you can do is think about how you are never going to make it through this alive.<\/p>\n
She balls her hands into fists and taps them against her eyes, though no tears come. When she finds the boy she will kill him and make him promise to never leave her again.<\/p>\n
\u201cFuck this.\u201d<\/p>\n
She dresses and heads toward the center of town. The rain has burned off, leaving behind an oppressive cloak of humidity. She\u2019s just starting to sweat when the grocery store doors welcome her with a pneumatic hiss and the arctic air assaults her. She gets a cart knowing full well it\u2019ll remain empty; it\u2019s just something to lean on as she wanders up and down the aisles, the hard heels of her boots rapping out a slow pensive rhythm. The few shoppers here stop to stare. In this place she is a flame among moths, a song among homilies. Beauty brings out the ugliness in humanity, she thinks while twisting a coin through her fingers and studying products she will not buy.<\/p>\n
Only one person pays her no mind and this one interests her most\u2014a man fiddling with a key fob as he approaches the meat department. He sports a dark greasy coif with long sideburns and is dressed in hideous brown pants and a white short-sleeve button-down. Two-toned aviator glasses, brown at the top before fading to yellow, obscure his eyes. She follows at a safe distance, studying his every move. The longer she stalks him the more she wants this. Not just the fob. Not just the car. Him.<\/p>\n
He stops to peruse the meat, examining each package closely before tossing them haphazardly back into the case. She studies his crude gestures and jerky movements, his anachronistic fashion and pinkish sweaty pallor. She can tell he is the type of person to leave bad tips without shame, to swear at a priest, to strike a stranger\u2019s child, to dance to the same song that was blaring on the radio that time in high school he raped a girl behind the bleachers.<\/p>\n
She starts to tremble. He is terrifying, exquisite.<\/p>\n
He chooses an assortment of pork products and pushes his cart along. The girl watches from afar as he selects three large bottles of generic cola. He buys chips and peanuts, pickles, eggs\u2014bar food. Then expensive cheese and cheap toothpicks. A small bottle of water. She waits for him to strike up a conversation with someone, anyone, so she can overhear him divulging crucial facts such as his name, but no. He remains mute, merely nodding to the cashier.<\/p>\n
The girl dubs him Brown.<\/p>\n
After paying for a glass bottle of soda she hurries outside. Brown is setting his groceries in the back of his car. He starts the engine but doesn\u2019t drive off just yet. He climbs out again to rinse bird shit off the hood with the bottle of water he just purchased that, when empty, he tosses onto the ground. She is stunned. Not at the littering but at the car. She would expect a man like Brown to drive a blue Cadillac Fleetwood or a gold Chevy Caprice, a car that uses actual keys, not a gleaming black Camaro with orange striping. The car\u2019s throaty engine brings to mind a jet plane carving up a cloudless sky while Brown should be in a shitbox with fake testicles sagging from the rear bumper and cheap air fresheners flapping against the rear-view mirror.<\/p>\n
Her heels warn him of her approach. \u201cThat this year\u2019s model?\u201d she asks. \u201cIt\u2019s beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt does what I ask of it,\u201d he says over his shoulder with nary a glance.<\/p>\n
She laughs tenderly. \u201cIt do donuts?\u201d<\/p>\n
Now he looks at her, adjusting his sunglasses. \u201cI like my tires grippy. Futzing around like that wears them down to the quick. What\u2019s it to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
She is slow to answer, teasing out the moment like an unruly snarl of hair. \u201cWhen the g-forces are high enough, my skirt tends to ride up,\u201d she says, one of her tattooed fingers tracing the hem.<\/p>\n
Brown tilts his head downward to see over the top of his sunglasses. \u201cThat so.\u201d<\/p>\n
She smirks and attempts to twist the cap off the soda. \u201cWell, fuck.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want me to pop that for you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt depends. Does it come with donuts or not?\u201d<\/p>\n
His chest rises and falls a long moment. Then he circles the car and opens the passenger door.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The boy hitchhikes to a neighboring town and visits a thrift store where he shops for a denim jacket to replace the old one. He finds one in his size and to his liking but blighted with patches from Japanese pop bands; he gets it anyways. Toward the back of the shop sits a locked case containing chef knives and a few for hunting. They are the tools of a desperate psychopath and he knows that carrying blades of that size induces certain laws. He shakes off the idea and continues to shop, taking in all the wares. Things they will have to buy when they land wherever it is they will land. Lamps. Chairs. Photo frames for honoring all those they\u2019ve left behind.<\/p>\n
On a cardboard box near the receptions area he sees it: a retractable razor knife. The blade extends less than an inch yet hijackers have taken down planes with such implements. Surely it\u2019s enough to compel someone into forfeiting some cash.<\/p>\n
He pays for coat with his last few dollars and heads to one of the three banks and glances through the window. When a teller looks at the boy he pretends to be using his reflection to fix his hair, short as it is. He then moves to the ATM and takes out his card and flicks it in his fingers. He has two hundred dollars in there but to access the account would set off as many flags as a razor knife in one\u2019s luggage. It\u2019s the same reasoning for having ditched their phones a thousand miles back.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou gonna shit or get off the pot?\u201d a woman asks from behind while playing with her phone.<\/p>\n
This woman will have money soon. But the bank\u2014cameras everywhere. Despite the girl\u2019s imploring ringing in his head he decides to wait until dark.<\/p>\n
He sits in a park near the playground and sips the remains of some soda left on the bench. He considers eating the bread crust off the ground but refrains. No children frolic. This town is only slightly less morose than the last, an atmosphere that echoes his internal climate. He tries to picture the road that brought him here, to this moment in this town, but the road are manifold, the turns indistinguishable from one another.<\/p>\n
As soon as the sun has clipped the horizon and the streaks of gold are gone from the streets the boy heads back to town. He strides past the thrift store toward the liquor store. He waits an hour but no one visits or exits. He tours the smaller neighborhoods until he reaches a business park of sorts where he spots a man heading toward a battered Mercedes, keys in hand. The boy slows down, cradling the razor knife in his palm.<\/p>\n
\u201cHello.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man turns. One glance at the boy\u2019s cocked wrist tells him all he needs to know.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook, I need your money.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man is slow to react. Then his face breaks into a pained sardonic smile. \u201cFuck you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy\u2014my girl is sick. I\u2019m sorry. I don\u2019t want to do this.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not doing this. You\u2019re an idiot. What\u2019s that in your hand?\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy dares not glance down at the three-quarters-inch blade jutting from between his fingers. \u201cIt\u2019s sharp,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re pathetic. Fuck you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy takes a step forward. The man looks larger now, though one arm hangs inert, perhaps the result of a longstanding injury. \u201cYou look like you can afford it,\u201d the boys says, instantly regretting it.<\/p>\n
The man\u2019s smile drops. \u201cYou think you\u2019re the only one with a sick girl? With a problem? I work. My advice, drop the shiv and pick up a job application.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI work. I did, I mean. I\u2019m in a bind.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t care. Leave me alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man steps toward his car, keys jangling\u2014trembling. The boy, stepping into the lamplight, casts a blunt shadow that sends the man spinning. His forearm clocks the boy on the side of the face. The boy staggers only slightly, having expected this, and swipes blindly. The blade catches the man\u2019s sleeve. The man repositions himself with his good arm forward and the boy takes this opening to throw his shoulder into the man\u2019s body while cocking the blade backwards. But he doesn\u2019t slice. Without the girl here to goad him, to berate him, to summon his most entombed demons, he can\u2019t summon the gall to do such a thing. He clenches the knife so tightly the blade instead draws his own blood. He drops it and takes to punching the man in the torso and to his surprise a rib gives with a sickening snap that undermines the man\u2019s vigor. He throws his arms around the boy as if to embrace a long-lost nephew, then falls against the car and slides to his knees. The boy works himself free and stumbles backwards, landing hard on his tailbone.<\/p>\n
\u201cHere,\u201d the man says while digging in his pockets. \u201cNine bucks. Fuck you.\u201d He throws the cash at the boy.<\/p>\n
The boy grabs it and runs for one block but his legs start to fail and he walks at a hurried clip.<\/p>\n
He has a long way to go.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Brown\u2019s scent, the girl notices as she stoops beneath his outstretched arm, is exactly as she imagined: like turpentine and musk tempered with a splash of hand soap. The back of her thighs grip the leather as she slides into the car. He slams the door hard and circles to the driver\u2019s side.<\/p>\n
She belts herself in but he doesn\u2019t. He caresses the gas pedal and the car bellows. They evade a wayward shopping cart, breach the roadway with nary a pause, and race down the town\u2019s lifeless thoroughfare.<\/p>\n
\u201cHigh school\u2019s empty,\u201d he says. \u201cThe kids get bussed to Templeton now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow far is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
He glances sidelong at her. \u201cYou in a rush?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo sir. I was just hoping you could open things up a little.\u201d<\/p>\n
He smirks, downshifts, and careers through a sharp bend at such a velocity that her stomach goes one direction and her appetite the other. When he straightens out she feels like she\u2019s still in the corner.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of engine this baby got?\u201d she asks, her warm thighs gripping the cold bottle of soda, her body tingling.<\/p>\n
\u201cShit, doll. I\u2019ll show you what\u2019s under the hood. Just let me feed you the sweets first.\u201d<\/p>\n
A bend in the road breaks the horizon but Brown doesn\u2019t let up. The girl presses against the window and Brown\u2019s free hand lands on her thigh. The forces are too great for her to release her grip on the grab bar and prise Brown\u2019s fingers out of her flesh. Deep into the bend his fingers dig in deeper, nearly parting the muscle, and she wants to call out but she stifles it until the road straightens.<\/p>\n
Brown hoots. \u201cLike a fuckin\u2019 starglider, eh? Now watch this.\u201d<\/p>\n
Again the girl swallows her dread as Brown bears down on a four-way junction. The stop sign is their obligation but Brown merely leans forward and cranes his head left and then right before barreling through it and toward the school ahead. They almost catch air on the lip into the wide and badly rutted parking lot, grass rising up through the cracks. He slows slightly and takes the lot counterclockwise, his hand again landing on the girl\u2019s leg, pressing just hard enough for the grease beneath his nails to transfer to her skin.<\/p>\n
For five solid minutes he races around like a hoodlum, a few times coming within inches of striking parking stanchions. He does a few donuts but the stench of burning rubber gets to both of them. Finally he slows to a halt, his chest, rising and falling, his sideburns moist with effort. The girl, loosening his hand, shivers. Their heavy breathing lingers in lieu of music as Brown, eyes forward, traces lines up and down girl\u2019s leg.
\nPlans have changed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll show you what I got now,\u201d Brown says and pulls the hood release.<\/p>\n
They step out into the waning afternoon light. He mutters to himself as he lifts the hood with the aid of a handkerchief and sets up the support strut.<\/p>\n
\u201cV-8?\u201d she says. \u201cSix liter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course, doll.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow many horses?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAw, I dunno. At least 400, maybe 425. Enough.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut it\u2019s not supercharged.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNah. I don\u2019t go in for that gimmicky shit.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s that thing there?\u201d She points deep into the engine bay, indicating a corrugated tube snaking toward the steering wheel. Brown tilts at the waist to see it better.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s the uh\u2014shit. It\u2019s the\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t know?\u201d<\/p>\n
He glances at her. \u201cOf course I know.\u201d He leans in farther. \u201cIt\u2019s the fuckin\u2019\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
With a sweep of the soda bottle she strikes the support strut out of its notch and the hood hits Brown square on the skull. It\u2019s not enough to knock him out or even wound him but instantly he\u2019s hysterical, his arms lashing out. Before he can free himself the girl hops onto the hood and hooks her heels under the bumper and sandwiches him in the engine bay. As Brown continues to flail she removes a knife from the tiny pocket of her skirt and unfolds the blade and jams it into the back of Brown\u2019s thigh. His bellowing takes on an octave of desperation and boyishness as his blood sprays warmly into her hands. She retracts the knife and punctures the back of his other thigh a half-dozen times in quick succession. His struggles cease a moment as his hands shift from striking her calves to grabbing up handfuls of bloody trousers. She gives his right wrist a quick vertical slash, then sinks the knife into his lower back. Brown goes limp.<\/p>\n
She slides off the hood and his body pours liquidly from the engine bay. His glasses have been crushed and she sees now that his eyes are a pale gray, the lids inflamed and red.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew you was a whore,\u201d he says, pronouncing it hoo-uh.<\/p>\n
She still has the soda bottle. When it meets his skull in a mess of shards and liquid, the scent of vanilla mingles with the other odors in the air: the iron of his blood and the greasy burn of the engine bay. He wails, writhing on the ground.<\/p>\n
\u201cShut up, Brown.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho the fuck is Brown?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m Jim Torrance, you cunt. You got the wrong guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, it was always you.\u201d<\/p>\n
He spits a frothy red mess at her ankles but she dances away. Then he folds into the fetal position and clutches his weeping skull.<\/p>\n
Finally she silences him.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He returns to the room. The bedding lays wadded in a pile beneath the armchair, the pillows stacked atop the adjacent table. In the bathroom he catches a whiff of stomach acid and greasy potatoes.<\/p>\n
He waits an hour, then checks out of the room and takes to the dirt road leading from the motel to the forest. To the north the lights of a freight train break through the darkness. It\u2019s not far off; he heads toward it and because it\u2019s slow-moving he\u2019s able to catch the last half-mile of cars trundling past. The breeze chills him and he regrets having lost his coat. And when the train has passed he steps onto the rail bed and presses his hand to the warm metal and again considers leaving the girl behind.<\/p>\n
He thinks about the man he mugged and the dog he left. He wishes they could find one another the way he and the girl did.<\/p>\n
When the train\u2019s lights have fully faded into the dark the boy heads to the forest to retrieve the jeep, hoping it has one more go in it. They keys are still on the branch; he climbs in; the engine catches on the first try: he drives back and sits idling at the edge of the parking lot for a short while, then heads into town.<\/p>\n
He prowls the side streets, looking for the girl, for signs of carnage in her wake. Finding none he pulls into the gas station and brings the nine dollars to the cashier and requests three dollars\u2019 worth of fuel.<\/p>\n
\u201cThree. You sure?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThree. No\u2014four. I\u2019m feeling generous tonight.\u201d The clerk shrugs and goes back to watching a baseball game on his phone. The boy swipes an energy bar on his way out. For the girl.<\/p>\n
He circles the grocery store and heads back toward the center of town, stopping at the foot of Main Street where the bulk of the businesses sit, including a cafe. His hunger is so profound he considers pulling a classic dine-and-dash but as he idles at the intersection contemplating his options, he notices that one of cars in front of the cafe is a patrol vehicle marked up with sheriff\u2019s insignias. He is about to pull a u-turn when a second car approaches from his right. Glossy black, with only the fog lights on, its driver is imperceptible until the car rolls to a halt and the interior lights come on.<\/p>\n
What the boy notices first is the light catching the red of her hair. Then the smile, as cutting as any cold blade. The two of them stare at one another for a full minute before the boy undoes his seatbelt and steps out.<\/p>\n
The girl meets him in the intersection.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere the hell did you get this?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n
\u201cI won it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIn a game, silly.\u201d<\/p>\n
The boy runs his hand along the hood until he sees the concavity where it failed to yield to Brown\u2019s skull. \u201cIt needs some body work.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo worries. It runs like a dream.\u201d<\/p>\n
He shakes his head. \u201cI failed. I got five dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n
The cafe door swings open; a waitress steps out. She looks to her left, then to the right, landing on the boy. Their eyes meet for a moment before she steps back inside.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo worries,\u201d the girl says and pulls something out of the waist of her skirt: a wallet, brown but mottled with a sticky red cloud and thick with cash.<\/p>\n
The boy is too busy staring on her knuckles to respond.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust don\u2019t,\u201d she says, rubbing them as if the stain were mere dust or paint.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need to find a tap.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m fine for now,\u201d she says,<\/p>\n
More lights come on in the cafe, then lights in the apartments above it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t mean you.\u201d The boy raises his hands, smeared with blood\u2014his own.<\/p>\n
\u201cCalm down,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u201cI should have stayed with Jocko.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho the hell is Jocko?\u201d<\/p>\n
He sighs and stares into his palms as if a map were unfurled there.<\/p>\n
The girl takes hold of his forearms. \u201cLook, I am not the girls you dated in high school.\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes bulge, his voice sharpening. \u201cI didn\u2019t date any girls in high school.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can tell.\u201d She says this with that wry smile but he doesn\u2019t laugh.<\/p>\n
Someone exits the cafe and goes to the street and stands watching them.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou will never love me,\u201d he says. \u201cYou will never love anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not true. But\u2014no, I don\u2019t love you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Now his eyes meet hers. She continues.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou deserve love for what you\u2019ve done for me, saving me, running with me. But when I look in the mirror and I see something on my face and it isn\u2019t love, no. I\u2019m sorry. Who knows, maybe years from now it will happen, or tomorrow, or out in the ocean, but just know that I tried.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks for the effort.\u201d<\/p>\n
The figure on the street is joined by others. The girl glances at them, then turns back to the boy. \u201cListen to me. I\u2019ll stay with you our whole lives. I promise. We\u2019ll fuck like athletes and raise the kid and never talk about what happened and be happy as we can be.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTrue romance.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t give up on me\u2014not yet. This is bigger than love or hate. This is tidal.\u201d She jerks his palms toward the dark sky. \u201cThis is evolution. Right?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shrugs. Then he nods.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood. Now get in the fucking car and get us out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about the jeep?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLeave that piece of shit.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy prints are all over it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s ok. You\u2019re blessed.\u201d<\/p>\n
She releases his hands and climbs into the passenger seat and turns on the radio to search for the right song to serve as the backdrop to this exodus. The boy remains standing in the intersection though. Bodies are moving toward him. He knows he should move but his legs will not respond. Nor will his mind. He\u2019s distracted: on the ground, something shines. He leans over to pick it up.<\/p>\n
His hand comes away with wetness, with nothing. It is a gob of spit.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A lustful boys follows a bloodlusting girl down dark roads and through empty fields in search of a man, any man, to satisfy her thirst for revenge. But when she forces him to step up, he finds that violence is not within his repertoire, and notions of power and control are inverted. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":16454,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[2405,154,358,2403,2404,2406,12],"class_list":["post-16215","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-boy-and-girl","tag-cars","tag-dogs","tag-road-story","tag-romance","tag-theft","tag-violence","writer-christopher-x-ryan"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16215","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16215"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16215\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16446,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16215\/revisions\/16446"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16454"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16215"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16215"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16215"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}