You've Got Something Coming

by Starke, Jonathan;

  Trucks looked over his shoulder. Nobody in the lot was paying attention. He opened the driver’s-side door and set Claudia in the seat. He threw the tote bag in the back. Then he reached across her and unlocked the passenger door. He picked her up out of the seat and quickly carried her around the car. Trucks opened the passenger-side door, set her in the seat, and buckled her in. When he closed the door, he looked over the roof. Still, nothing. He ran around the car. With each footfall, his head pounded. Trucks opened the driver’s-side door and got in. He put the car in gear, reversed, and took off like a bullet.

  THE GREATEST DARK

  Trucks flew down 90. Heading east. He could feel the tides of wind against the little car. Like it might blow them right off the road. But he kept the pedal pressed, his head down, always moving forward. A strategy he’d used so many times in that old ring.

  Trucks often looked over at Claudia. Breathing deep. Sleeping hard. Sometimes he’d reach over and feel her chest rise, just to be sure.

  He wondered if it was wrong. This deception. A sick magic act. But with all his failures he felt it had come down to this. A man doing all he could to save his girl from himself. To give her the best life he thought possible. A sad gift. The last attempt of a broken man.

  When he saw the sign for Crow Agency, he felt a catch in his throat.

  Trucks waved a hand against the cold glass. He pressed on.

  The cities flew by like memories—Garryowen, Lodge Grass, Saddlestring. As the hours ticked by, the scenery seemed to blur at a denser rate. He’d rub his eyes, look at his girl, look back to the ever-smearing road. Delirium. Exhaustion. Near-collapse.

  Somehow he kept his eyes open. His hands on the wheel. He clenched his jaw. Opened and closed his mouth. His sore back pressed against the seat. Sometimes he’d crank down the window and let the frigid air wake him. Seal it back up so he didn’t freeze out his girl. He’d grip hard and go on.

  He couldn’t cover all that ground in a day. Or maybe he could. He didn’t know how far it was, really. He just knew to stay on 90. Go east. Always east. A giant pewter horse in the yard. Jack Rose. Was it street? Lane? Avenue? It didn’t matter. Couldn’t be many of those out there. He’d find it. The horse his distant beacon. A landmark of new hope.

  Along the way he decided he needed to write a letter. He couldn’t just do this without some explanation. Trucks saw a big machine shed off an exit ramp near Sundance. He hit the brakes and took the exit. His girl thrust forward, stopped by the belt, and fell back in the seat. Trucks drove behind the machine shed and parked the car. He kept the engine running so the heat would stay on. Not for him. He was fine enough. It was for his sleeping girl.

  His temples throbbed as he looked through the windshield. The sun was falling fast. It’d be dark soon. He knew that. Any fool would.

  Trucks searched the car for paper. The visors, the glovebox, the center console. Nothing. He’d taken some napkins from the gas station and figured he’d use those. He took a few out of the tote bag in the backseat. Found a pen in one of the cupholders.

  How to start?

  Dear June. It made the most sense. Wasn’t there a famous song about that? “Hey June?” He couldn’t remember.

  So he wrote it anyway. He started it Dear June. And he went on. He worked out all his thoughts that way. He couldn’t spell for shit, but he tried his best. His handwriting crooked. His beaten hands shaking. He had the napkin against the wheel as he wrote. Trying to explain all his faults and fuck-ups and all the good her and his girl could make together. All the good that would come as soon as he was gone. Out of the picture. As far away from them as possible. Because he couldn’t do any good for June or his girl. No matter what he tried, he failed. And this would be his final sacrifice. The last thing he could think to give her. That love and life he knew she deserved. And he didn’t know if he could go on after that. That he might just take fight after fight until it really killed him. Dead in the ring. Blood on the gloves and the canvas. The dance toward the greatest dark.

  He kept that last part out of the letter.

  When he was done, he didn’t know how to sign off. He wanted to tell June that Claudia really loved her, and in that way, he kind of loved her too. So he did. He wrote it just like that. And then he signed his name—Lenny “Trucks” Babineaux.

  Trucks found a skinny rubber band in the center console. He rolled up the ink-filled napkins and bound them with the rubber band. Put them in the cupholder. Then he looked at Claudia. A pretty sleeping angel. His love. He felt choked off. Such an intense sadness at the thought of having to leave her. But what else could he really do? He kissed his thumb and ran it over her brow. Adjusted her left hearing aid. He’d miss her. God, he’d miss her.

  Trucks righted the car and drove on. He caught the interstate and sped into the coming dark. The mile markers clocked by. They entered South Dakota. They were so much closer. Traffic was low. The more tired he got, the more nervous he became.

  He saw flashing lights on the side of the road. A pulled-over speeder. The cop looked at Trucks as he drove by. He swore he did. Or maybe he imagined it? Trucks watched the whirring red-and-blue lights in the rearview. Saw them shrink as he drove on. Still. He had a nagging feeling. A fear he’d be followed.

  He couldn’t stop yawning. He was exhausted and losing steam. A sharp pain struck his head. Like a crack to the skull. He reached up and rubbed his aching temple.

  Up ahead. A speed trap? So late in the evening? It was dark now. It was perfect dark. Was that a web of police cars ahead? All those circling lights. What was he seeing?

  Trucks was afraid. Not of getting caught or arrested. He was afraid his girl wouldn’t get the life she deserved. He couldn’t have that. They weren’t going to catch him.

  They were just outside of Spearfish. He saw a sign up ahead for a side highway. He quickly took the exit and edged onto the old two-lane road. It was slick and icy. He pressed on as his body started to give to the weight of sleep.

  He swerved off the road and suddenly woke. He righted the vehicle and shook his head. Everything was coming in blurs and stretched light.

  He swerved off the road again. He kept hold of the wheel and got them back on the highway. It was cold and icy. That had to be the cause. It wasn’t him. He was all right. He was holding up. His head hurt. So there was that. But he was doing okay. He slapped himself in the face to stay alert. But he kept blinking.

  Black to light to black to light to black to light.

  Then he lost control of the car in a whirl of shapes. He was seeing all kinds of colors.

  He was seeing. He was seeing. He wasn’t seeing.

  THE BADLANDS MYTHOLOGY

  Trucks looked up at the dark, empty sky as he walked along. He had his girl in his arms. Blood trickling down his forehead. The car wrecked and far behind them. His mind a mess.

  “There are no stars,” he said. “There are wars of fists and the lives that men make.”

  He could hear his footfalls in the hard-packed snow. Feel his tight-throated breaths.

  “We’re near the Badlands,” he said. “It’s where we are, baby. We’re out there, you and me. You hear the crunching? That’s us moving, little baby. That’s us.”

  He breathed hard. The air stung. He took another big breath.

  “You wanna have a look at the ridges? They’re famous. I heard people talk about them when I was a kid. Wondered for years if there was any good out in those Badlands. Probably coyotes and prairie dogs and antelope dancing around and things. I don’t know. Jesus. I don’t know. But hey, do you wanna take a look up there? You can see the ridges. They’re way out there, but even under all this dark, you can see them. Believe me about how you can see them.”

  Claudia didn’t move. She was limp in his arms.

  “You’re tired, I know. But you understand we have to keep going. Only one place we need to be, and we’re getting there, little baby. We’re damn sure getting there. Moving all the time. Making good progress. That’s
what these boots are for. People write songs about it. We’re going. We’re walking, my little girl. You little, delicate thing. We’re sure as shit walking. Maybe have a look at the rocks, huh? They’re not so bad. You’re not so bad out there, you goddamn Badlands! We’re making it. You’re not stopping us. Nothing’s goddamn stopping us. Hey, I’ll tell you about them like I promised. Keep nodding off. I’ll tell you. Then you can dream about them. I’ll tell you and you can have this picture of the big dark rocks in your dream, okay?”

  He staggered but kept his footing. They were alone on the bare highway.

  “I’m not so good at describing things, but I’ll try. I’m trying for you, okay? They’re nothing but these big ridges. So you won’t have to be scared of them. Remember that. But they sparkle with snow when the sun’s out. Little flakes of gold packed in the hills. And I don’t really see any trees out there. Picture it without trees, okay? I know you’ll probably miss the trees. But there are other things. Like the rocks. Big and gray and jagged. All those ridges. But don’t imagine them like that. Think of them soft and smooth for when you walk on them someday. Something delicate. Like how you’d be kind of walking on other planets. Yeah. That’s probably what it is, I think. The Badlands dropped here from outer space, probably. Broke off some other planet way out there and landed here so many thousands of years ago. And it scared the shit outta the local tribes back then so they called it bad because of that. Because they didn’t really know what it was. And people are always afraid of the things they don’t know. So they called the lands bad. But there’s no bad out here. Just another part of the world, you know? And there isn’t anything like trees out there. So don’t think of it with trees, okay?”

  Every few feet he stumbled. And grew colder. His mind aching and more delirious. His body shivering so hard, so much closer to that final dark.

  “But the animals, they. They survive still. Cross great distances to find food. Like hope. Nuts and grass and berries and twigs. Eat it right off the ground. Even on cold nights. Like this. Oh man. Hey. A herd of. Of buffalo. Of all things, right? They’re crossing the road. Fluffy wings slapping in the wind. Sounds like bells. Wish you could hear it, little one. Wish you could see it with me.”

  He looked down at her pale face. Tried to steady her as he walked so he could kiss her forehead. But he was too shaky and weak to reach. His condition rapidly worsening.

  He relented and kept on.

  “But keep. Keep sleeping, my girl. It’s okay. Dream on. But hey. I heard you can pet them. When you see them. Because. Because they aren’t bad. Or anything. The winged buffalos. Hey. And you know. You know. Hey. Now that I think. I think. Nobody knows. Why they’re called the Badlands. Because they’re. Not. Okay? There’s nothing bad. At all. Out there. So don’t think. Don’t think bad. When you think of that. Okay? Or when you. Think. Think of us. Walking like this. All we’ve been. Been through. There’s nothing really. Bad. Out there. Okay? So. So don’t think. Don’t. Don’t think. Of the world. Like that. It’s just. Just the world. See? There’s nothing to. Fear. There’s just. There’s us. There’s. Us. There’s. The road. And. And. There is. There is.”

  JONATHAN STARKE is a former bodybuilder and boxer. He has traveled through sixty countries, hitching along the way. His stories and essays have been published in many magazines and literary journals, including The Sun, Missouri Review, Threepenny Review, North American Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Greensboro Review, Gettysburg Review, Shenandoah, and Brevity. He is the founder of Palooka, an international literary journal. You’ve Got Something Coming is his first novel.