Together We Will Go

by J. Michael Straczynski

  * * *

  AdminMark

  Savannah, Georgia, was a no-show, so we kept going north. By the time we rolled through Hardeeville, in Jasper County, South Carolina (and seriously, Hardeeville? Were all the good names taken? Twenty bucks says any kid who went to Har-Har-Hardeeville High School spent the rest of his life saying he went somewhere else because that’s the only way he would ever get laid), Karen had become more loquacious, which is Creative Writing 101 speak for She pulled the pink suitcase out of her ass. I think she finally accepted that we weren’t going to kill her, or that if we were going to kill her we’d at least wait until we found someplace with a nice view, and Hardeeville definitely wasn’t it, so she could afford to open up a bit.

  At first it was just casual chatter—the weather (sunny but not too hot), how long I thought it might take us to reach San Francisco (ten days mas o menos) and where I got the bus—but eventually we started talking about what brought us here. She said it was chronic pain, but didn’t go too deep. She was surprised to find out Dylan wasn’t there for the same reasons as us, and asked why.

  “Think about it,” he said. “If you’re trying to get from Point A to Point Z, the last thing you want is somebody at the wheel who might decide ‘fuck it’ and drive into oncoming traffic at Point C.”

  She laughed and said it was a fair point. It was the first time she’d laughed since she got on the bus, and I got the sense she doesn’t do it easily or a lot. Then, like she realized she’d shown more of herself than she intended, she went back to her laptop.

  * * *

  Karen_Ortiz

  To: Mom TracyOrtiz@mountainview.com

  From: Me KOrtiz2019@simrose.com

  Subject: From Karen

  Hey Mom.

  Sorry it’s taken a while to get back to you. I wanted to be sure I understood what I was getting myself into before talking to you about everything. Now I do, so now I am.

  I don’t think I need to tell you what this email is about. We both know this has been coming for a long time. We’ve certainly talked about it enough, especially this year with the Spider growing bigger and badder than ever.

  Don’t worry about me. I’m with friends, if you can believe that. They actually understand what I’m going through, and why I’ve made this decision. We’re going someplace beautiful, and I think going there together will make things easier.

  I left the key to my apartment under the penguin on the front side window. I went through and labeled everything so you’ll know who gets what, and put the smaller bits that might get lost in Tupperware containers with Post-It notes on top.

  OCD to the very end, right?

  I think you know that this isn’t your fault, that there was nothing you could’ve done to change things or stop me from taking this next step, but it’s important for you to hear me say it one more time, so it’ll stick.

  The hard part for you, beyond the obvious, will be Dad. He won’t understand. He never has, really. He always thought he could fix everything, and even though he never said it out loud, I think he felt like he was a failure because he couldn’t fix me, which was why he went down that bad road for a while. I’m glad he came back and I don’t want him to go down that road a second time because of me, so please do what you can to make sure he understands. This is my choice and nobody’s fault.

  I love you both so much, and I’m sorry to have been such a burden for so many years. I probably should’ve done this a long time ago. I guess I was just afraid. But I’m not afraid anymore.

  Tell Chuck he was the best brother anyone could have asked for, and I love him more than a fat kid loves cake. That may seem weird, but he’ll understand what it means when you say it.

  Don’t try to find me. There are no footprints to follow, and I won’t send any more emails until I get where we’re going in case Dad tries to get the police to check the cell tower info or trace my phone. I’ll let you know where to go to take care of things once I’m ready to step off.

  I love you, Mom, so very much.

  Please be at peace, because I am. Finally.

  All my love—

  K.

  * * *

  AdminMark

  Karen closed her laptop, looked up for the first time in almost an hour, and said, “I want to go to a strip club.”

  Dylan almost drove off the road.

  The first time she starts a conversation on her own, and that’s what she says? What’s weird is that there was a lightness to her voice, as if a weight she’d been carrying around for a long time had suddenly and for the very first time been lifted off.

  “You want to do what?” I said.

  “A strip club. I’ve never been to a strip club. It’s on my bucket list, along with getting drunk. Just once.”

  “Yeah, but… right now?”

  She shrugged. “May as well, I mean, I’m almost out of bucket, right? Besides, I’d be too shy to go in with a big group. Better to do it now when it’s only the three of us. Is there a place near here?”

  I checked the map. We were about to cross into North Carolina and this part of the world was known more for churches and titty bars than fancy strip clubs. “Might be something in Charlotte, but by the time we get there it’ll be almost ten and they may close early on a weekday.”

  “I wasn’t planning on moving in,” she said. “I just want to go long enough to say I did it.”

  Half an hour later, we rolled up to Lace Cabaret, an industrial-looking building at the ass end of Pineville Road. The parking lot was full of pickups and older model sedans bearing Confederate flag decals and Fuck Liberals license frames. I told Dylan maybe we should try someplace else, but then he pointed to a car with a bumper sticker that said My Other Vehicle is a TARDIS and I figured we’d probably be okay.

  The guy at the cash register was surprised to see a woman with us, but our money was good, so he buzzed us through a heavy fire door covered in photos of dancers and posters announcing upcoming parties. Inside, a long L-shaped bar ran along two walls, with couches, tables, and chairs lined up on the other side. The main runway ran straight down the middle of the place, with a couple of smaller stages tucked into opposite corners. Curtained doors led off to private rooms where the real action took place. A handful of strippers (I wonder if a handful of strippers is like a murder of crows) prowled the club or sat with customers, encouraging them to buy overpriced drinks or step away for lap dances.

  Huge speakers painted the same matte black as the walls blasted country hip-hop across the club, and I didn’t even know that was a thing until we walked in the door and heard “Baby Got Back” sung with a twang under steel guitars, which totally weirded me out. I don’t think the dozen or so guys in the club had any idea where that song came from, but they weren’t here to critique the music.

  Then again, neither were we.

  Dylan headed to the bar to buy the first round while Karen and I tucked into a table near the runway, where a brunette in a red bra and panties was making love to the pole. Most of the tables had one customer each, with the rest sitting on worn sofas or clumped up in Pervert Row at the edge of the stage, which provided the best vantage point for any free-floating labia that might wander into view. Seven one-dollar bills were crumpled up on the runway. Slow night for tips.

  “Strip club’s kind of old-school, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Like I said: bucket list.”

  “What else is on it?”

  She ticked them off on her fingers: “Skydiving. Riding in a limo. Riding a camel. Seeing the sun go down in Paris.”

  “Not likely to hit many of those on our way to San Fran.”

  “That’s why we’re doing this one. Taking what I can get.”

  Then, I noticed a guy at another table staring at Karen, his hand down the front of his pants. When he caught me looking at him, he pulled it out like he was just scratching an itch and went back to watching the dancer.

  As Dylan returned with the drinks, one of the strippers came out
of the dressing room and headed toward us: thirties, blonde, with a set of silicone-enhanced bolt-ons that stood up so straight they looked like they were pissed off at somebody. Angry titties. There’s a band name in there somewhere.

  “Hi, I’m Nikki,” she said with a slight drawl, could be Texas or Louisiana. “Y’all just get in?”

  “Two minutes ago,” Dylan said. By now the other strippers had noticed fresh meat in the place, and seemed annoyed that Nikki got to us first. New arrivals meant we hadn’t spent our money yet, and there’s always a rush to get what’s there to be gotten.

  She draped an arm around Karen’s chair. “Hi, sweetie. We don’t get many pretty ladies like you in here. Buy a girl a drink?”

  “Sure. How much?”

  “Bossman says we’re only supposed to have water, so it’s five plus a tip if you’re so inclined.”

  Karen handed over ten bucks and Nikki went off to get the water.

  Dylan raised his glass of beer. “To Karen!”

  I seconded. Karen smiled like she hadn’t been toasted before. An item for the bucket list she hadn’t even known was there.

  Nikki came back with an unopened bottle of water that she kept beside her the whole time, leading me to wonder how many times that bottle had been resold. Dylan and I had already worked out our cover story, so when she asked where we were from and why we were in town we said Chicago and On vacation. Not that I think she was really listening to the answers, just marking time until she could say—

  “Anybody want a dance?”

  “What’s the fare?” Dylan asked.

  “Twenty per song, twenty-five topless, thirty nude. Should have a two-for-one blue-light coming up pretty soon if you want to wait a bit. VIP is one hundred for fifteen minutes, nude.”

  I was trying to decide whether or not to go for it—normally it wouldn’t be a problem, but having Karen there made things a little awkward—when she said, “Let’s do a VIP.”

  Nikki smiled and brushed Karen’s hair away from her face. “Love a woman who knows what she wants. You good now or you want to finish your beer?”

  “Now,” she said, like she might change her mind if she waited.

  Nikki led her away by the hand, pausing only to throw back a wink at us. “Don’t you worry about your friend, babes, she’s in good hands. Until then, any of these bitches come poaching my territory, you tell ’em you’re all mine.”

  The other strippers must’ve gotten the message, because for the next few minutes nobody else came by our table. While we were waiting, Dylan pulled out a folded piece of paper where he’d written down some of the issues he was having with the bus. “She’s grinding like a sonofabitch on inclines. Might be the bearings.”

  “Yeah, Rick said the same thing. Should last long enough to get us where we’re going.”

  “You’re the boss,” he said dubiously, and glanced back at his list. “Still pulls to the right. Air conditioner doesn’t travel back very far, so unless you’re planning on just picking up lizards, you’re gonna get complaints about the heat.”

  Then he straightened suddenly and looked past me. I swung around in time to see Karen race past in tears, heading for the door.

  I started to say what the hell, but D was already in motion, hurrying after her. Soldier reflexes.

  I started to follow him out when Nikki came up behind me, pulling her bra back on. “Is your friend all right?”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Everything started okay… I do a little air-dance to get things going while I undress… I touched her face… everything was fine… then I turned around and sat on her legs and—”

  She shook her head, visibly upset, and for the first time I noticed that she was wearing a blonde wig that had come slightly askew, revealing close-cropped black hair beneath. “I can tell when someone’s enjoying the dance because they relax into me, but she tightened up. I asked if she was okay and she said yeah, so I kept going but it just got worse and when I turned around she was crying. I said, ‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ but she didn’t say anything, she just got more upset. Then she pushed me off and ran out, cursing a blue streak and yellin’ something about a spider… I thought maybe she got bit by something in the booth, or she was mad at me.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, she’s just had a long day,” I said, and hurried out the door.

  I was halfway to the bus when I saw Dylan standing in the parking lot with his arms around Karen. As I got closer I saw that he wasn’t actually touching her, just surrounding her with his arms. She was crying, her face up against his chest.

  When he saw me, he shook his head, his eyes saying, It’s okay, I got this.

  I nodded and continued on to the bus. They stood out there for a long time. I could see she was talking to him, but I was too far away to hear anything she said.

  And he never took his arms away until she was ready to go.

  * * *

  From: Rick Lee RickLee@retailtransitsales.com

  To: Mark Antonelli MDAntonelli@gmail.com

  Subject: What the fuck?

  Mark—

  I don’t know if I should even be writing this, but you seemed like an okay guy, so I hope what just happened is some kind of mistake.

  When I came in to open up the shop this morning, two plainclothes cops and a guy who said he was your dad were waiting for me.

  They questioned me for about an hour. How did I know you? What was the job I did for you? When was the last time I heard from you? Did I know anything about why you wanted the bus? Were there any special modifications made?

  I told them the truth: you brought in the bus to get worked on, put down a deposit on your card (maybe that’s how they found me?), and paid the rest in cash. I said I finished the work, installed the server bay, you picked it up on Friday, and that’s the last time I saw you or heard from you. Which is the truth. I think they believed me but it’s cops, who the fuck knows.

  I gave them the VIN for the bus and the license plate, but unless they put out a national alert it probably won’t do them much good without some idea of where you are, so it’s all on you, Mark.

  They didn’t tell me what’s going on or why they’re asking about all this, but these are serious guys, so if you’re doing something you shouldn’t, you need to knock it off and call them and straighten it out, tell them I’ve got nothing to do with it. Because we both know that’s the truth.

  I don’t want to lose my shop because of whatever you’ve gotten yourself into. So do the right thing.

  Rick

  * * *

  AdminMark

  When the work on the bus was almost done and I knew this was really going to happen, I told my mother what I had in mind because she Gets It, she knows how important this is to me. My dad, not so much. So when I said, Don’t tell Dad about this, I should’ve either said it louder or been less stupid, because she tells him everything.

  Once he turned all Born Again, my dad got more and more extreme; we argued all the time about abortion, gay rights, weed, suicide, you name it. So when she told him what I was going to do, he probably went batshit crazy and called in some of the cops he knew back when he worked security. I can only imagine what he told them. He’s fallen in with secularists who are using him for their own agenda, convincing him to put himself at risk to help kill people who are sick and need God and you have to stop him before this gets out of control, so release the kraken!

  Rick’s right about one thing, though. We haven’t broken any laws yet, so as much as my dad is probably raising all kinds of hell, there’s no legal grounds to put a multi-state alert out on us. Besides, the police are probably too busy chasing terrorists, bank robbers, illegal aliens, and the latest asshole to shoot the hell out of a [ ] school [ ] church [ ] fast-food restaurant [ ] concert [ ] military base [ ] newspaper [ ] sporting event or [ ] other (please check whichever mass murder is most relevant at the time you are reading this) to get too upset a
bout us.

  But I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances, either.

  My original plan was to keep going north on 81, through Maryland and DC to New Jersey and New York, then head west. But there are a bazillion traffic cameras all over DC with license plate recognition software; if we’re not already on-camera somewhere, we sure as shit would be by then.

  So I told Dylan to jump onto surface roads for a while, head northwest, then take the 79 to Pittsburgh, where I had a shitload of emails from people interested in getting on the bus. At first I thought, why so many in Pittsburgh? Then I found out that Pittsburgh is ranked number eleven in suicides in the U.S. How fucked up does your city have to be that it can’t even make it to the top ten list of something like suicide? Even Miami and Jacksonville made it to seven and nine respectively, which is why I figured we’d do more local pickups before leaving the state, but we’re coming up on spring break and I guess everybody who was gonna kill themselves already did it to free up rental space for the party crowd, which if you think about it is pretty neighborly of them.

  I don’t like having to miss New York… there are some clubs I really wanted to hit on our way out… but ’tis not to be. Besides, if somebody in New York wants to kill themselves, they’ve totally missed the point of being in New York. On the other hand, if you’re living in New Jersey and want to kill yourself, you’re being redundant and should do it someplace pretty. That’s why there’s a shit-ton of fences all over Niagara Falls to discourage jumpers who want to experience death-in-beauty, not death-in-a-really-depressing-part-of-town-so-why-the-hell-not?

  If you’re in New Jersey and you’re reading this and you’re offended, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth and everybody knows it. If it was any more the truth, it’d be on the license plates. Welcome to New Jersey on top and at the bottom, Seriously, Just Kill Yourself.

  * * *