by Pete Hautman
Everybody goes home in October.
—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
“Walking in London”
Concrete Blonde
6:49
I go west, I go south, I go east, I go out of the suburbs, out of my life. I have no destination, but with every mile the bindings stretch, become thin. I turn left, I turn right, I pass a Fleet Farm, a Walmart, truck stops, cornfields, dead deer by the side of the road.
I roll through Red Wing and take the arching bridge up and out of Minnesota, over the Mississippi River, across the flat causeway spanning the Wisconsin Channel. The bluffs ahead are ablaze with red, orange, and yellow. I am blazing too.
My phone chimes. A text. I look at it. It’s my mom. I lower the window and sail the phone out over the embankment, into the river. A cord snaps, my heart thrums, my blood fizzes, my arms and legs seem to stretch, my hair is alive.
Then I remember that all my music is on my phone.
Well, shit.
It doesn’t matter.
I am not thinking about Garf, I am not thinking about Gaia, I am not thinking about my father.
I’m gone.
• • •
I set the cruise control and tip my seat back so my fingers barely reach the bottom of the wheel. I pretend I’ve got a trunk full of hundred-dollar bills, instead of $407 in cash and my mom’s Visa card. She’ll probably cancel it when she realizes it’s gone.
To my right, the Mississippi River flows sluggish and murky; tree-covered bluffs tower above on the left. I imagine a beautiful girl standing on the shoulder next to her broken-down car.
Hop in, I say, and she does.
Nice wheels, she says. What is this, a Camaro?
Mustang, I say.
She’s wearing a black T-shirt, and she has black hair. That makes me think of Gaia, so I change her T-shirt to red and her hair to blond. I change my dirt-colored hair to blond, so now we match.
Where to? I ask my imaginary passenger.
Same as you, she says. Nowhere.
She’s already boring, so I stop imagining the girl and just watch the scenery slide by and don’t think about Gaia.
Every few miles I have to slow down for some little town. Bay City. Maiden Rock. Stockholm. I guess there are towns like that all up and down the river, beads on a wet muddy chain. I suppose people have to live someplace—I mean, I grew up in Saint Andrew Valley, just another crappy little suburb.
Pepin. Nelson. Alma. I’m getting hungry and the Mustang is getting thirsty, so I stop at a Kwik Trip. I use my mom’s Visa card to fill the tank, then go inside and grab a microwave burrito and a Dew. While the burrito is heating up, I look at a spinner rack of caps. Most of them are Green Bay Packers caps, but I find one with a John Deere logo. I like the way it looks, and it feels ironic: Dear John, only backward.
“What are all those signs I see?” I ask the guy behind the counter as he rings up my purchases. “The ones that say ‘Great River Road.’ ”
“You’re on it.” He gestures proudly at the highway, as if he built it himself. “The Great River Road.”
“What’s so great about it?”
His smile fades a bit. “It’s just what they call it.”
“So it goes all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico?”
“There’re a few twists and turns—it goes on both sides of the river—but yeah, I guess you could take it to the gulf. Never driven it myself. There’s a map on the freebie rack.” He points at a wire stand with all sorts of tourist info.
I grab a Great River Road map and a few random brochures on my way out.
Back in the Mustang, still sitting at the gas pump, I unwrap the burrito and take a bite. It could’ve used another twenty seconds in the microwave. I open the map and spread it across the steering wheel. There are dozens of red triangles marking “points of interest” along the river, all the way from northern Minnesota to Louisiana. I take another bite and chew slowly as I find Alma on the map. I follow the highway south with my eyes until I get to Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin. I close my eyes.
Just seeing the words “Prairie du Chien” makes me want to puke. I crumple the map with one hand and throw it into the backseat. I can hear myself breathing. Prairie du Chien Gaia. I’m not going there. No way am I going there.
I shove the rest of the burrito into my mouth. It’s too much. I have to force swallow and wash it down with half the bottle of Dew.
A car horn blasts. A guy in the pickup truck behind me wants to pull up to the pump. The half-chewed burrito is still slowly descending my esophagus. I look back and give him the finger. He gets out of his truck, and he’s huge. I start the car and screech out of the gas station. For the next couple miles I keep checking my rearview, expecting to see the big grill of the pickup bearing down on me, but I guess I’m not worth the trouble.
Twenty minutes later I hit Fountain City. I cross a bridge back to the Minnesota side and continue south, now with the river between me and Prairie du Chien.
Not thinking about Gaia, not thinking about Garf, not thinking about my dad.
Instead, I’m thinking about the moonfaced cop.
Happy Birthday
The cop thing happened weeks ago, but it feels like yesterday. I had talked my mom into letting me drive to school because it was the first day, and it was my birthday. I wanted to take Dad’s Mustang, but she wouldn’t let me.
“Why not?” I said. “It’s just sitting in the garage!”
“You know why,” she said. “Take my car.”
Her car was a Toyota Corolla, but whatever. Better than the bus.
On the way to school I got stuck behind this minivan doing twenty-five in a thirty. I figured it was some lady texting. I gave her a blast with my horn. She slowed down even more. I pulled into the opposite lane and floored it. As I passed, I looked over and saw it wasn’t a woman; it was a guy with a big white face like the moon. I showed him my middle finger as I passed. What a jerk. I swerved back in front of him and slowed way down for a minute just to give him a taste of his own jerkiness.
I got to school a few minutes early. My plan was to intercept Gaia as she got off her bus and talk her into skipping the first day of school. We could drive around and do whatever we wanted because it was my birthday, and I had a car, and it would be fun. But things didn’t work out the way I’d planned.
I don’t want to think about it.
Anyway, later that same day, in the afternoon, I was driving down Flagg Avenue making a mental list of all the assholes I’d run into recently. There were a lot of them. I figured I must be an asshole magnet. Like, I was giving off some sort of radiation that attracted them. Because I kept running into way more than my share.
That was when I saw the lights flashing in my rearview.
• • •
The cop had thirty pounds of junk on his belt, and a pair of mirrored aviators he probably thought made him look badass. They didn’t.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. I’d been going maybe five miles over the limit. They don’t usually pull you over for that. I thought maybe I had a taillight out.
“Let’s have a look at your license.”
I handed him my driver’s license.
He read my name to me out loud, as if I didn’t know it. “Steven Gerald Gabel. Born seventeen years ago today. How come you’re not in school, Steven?”
“I dropped out.” I hadn’t, but I was thinking about it.
“Why would you do that?”
Why is he giving me a hard time? I wondered.
“Calculus,” I said. “It’s bullshit.”
“Is that a fact?” Like he had any idea what I was talking about. “Don’t go anywhere.” He took my license back to
his car to run me through his computer. I knew what he’d find—a speeding ticket from April, and maybe that thing that had happened at Wigglesworth’s, which wasn’t my fault. I watched him in my side mirror, sitting in his copmobile. I was a little nervous because maybe he’d find something I’d done that I’d forgotten about, but mostly I was just pissed off about the whole thing and feeling trapped because I knew I’d have to just sit there not saying what I was really thinking, or he’d write me up.
Finally he came waddling back, all his cop junk slowing him down.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.
Oh, so we’re playing this game now.
“You already asked me that,” I said. “No idea.”
“A citizen complaint, Stiggy. You were driving erratically, speeding, and making obscene gestures. You know anything about that?”
“When was this?”
And how does he know to call me Stiggy?
“Seven twenty-seven this morning, on Trident Avenue.”
“Oh.” I was a bit startled by the precision of his response. “So I flip a guy off, and he SWATs me?”
The cop took off his aviators and regarded me with a flat smile, his big round face pinking with triumph, and I recognized him.
“You were the guy in the minivan,” I said to the moonfaced cop.
“That’s right. I was on my way to work. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
I figured it was time to shut up, so I did. He leaned in so close I could smell the triple bacon cheeseburger he’d had for lunch. “I could tag you for reckless driving, Stiggy. You passed me going forty-five or fifty. But I’m not gonna do that, Stiggy. You know why?”
“No idea.”
“Because it’s your birthday. And because I used to be a little pissant like you, and look how I turned out.”
It was all I could do to not say, You grew up to be an asshole cop?
“So I’m giving you a break,” he said. “But I want you to take it easy, Stiggy.”
I had to ask. “How do you know to call me Stiggy?”
Is he smiling? I wondered. I think he’s smiling.
“Seriously,” I said.
He said, “Remember Old Navy?”
Oh, shit. I’d forgot about that.
• • •
It was all my mom’s fault. Last year she bought me a hoodie from Old Navy for my birthday.
“All the kids are wearing Old Navy clothes,” she said. “I knew you’d like it.”
Like it? Well, I didn’t hate it, but when I put it on, my wrists stuck six inches out of the sleeves.
“Aren’t you a medium?” my mom said.
“Not at Old Navy,” I said.
“Oh, well. You can exchange it,” she said cheerfully.
So that’s what I did. Except when I got to Old Navy, all the clerks were really busy and I didn’t feel like waiting in line, so I went to the hoodie display and swapped the medium for an extra large, and as I was walking out, this mall cop with a big stupid-looking mustache grabbed me and accused me of shoplifting. I tried to explain, and I showed him the receipt, but he was having none of it.
“What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Justin Bieber,” I told him.
“Okay, have it your way.” He hauled me over to security and told me I was going to stay there until I gave him my real name and my parent’s phone number.
“This is kidnapping,” I said.
“You want me to call the cops, Justin?” he said.
“My name’s Stiggy,” I said.
“Stiggy? What’s that, your street name?”
What an idiot.
“It’s a nickname,” I said.
“How about a real name?”
“How about you kiss my ass?”
I probably shouldn’t have said that, because that’s when he decided to “make an example” of me. He called the cops, and they hauled me to the station. It must have been a slow day. They booked me, the whole routine with fingerprints and my real name: Steven Gerald Gabel, aka “Stiggy.” What a joke.
Mom was great when she showed up. She gave the cops a piece of her mind, telling them I didn’t steal anything, that I was just exchanging a shirt. They didn’t believe me, but they believed her. I think they were a little embarrassed by the whole thing—but not embarrassed enough to tear up my arrest record.
• • •
“That was bullshit,” I said to the moonfaced cop. “I was never charged with anything.”
“Yeah, well, you have a record,” said the cop. “Listen, Stiggy, you want some advice?”
I didn’t, but I just shrugged.
“Okay, here it is. Don’t be such a dick. Your life will improve.”
I wanted to say, Why don’t you learn how to drive? Maybe you’re the dick.
“My life is fine,” I said.
“You’re seventeen, you’re not in school, and you’re flipping off strangers on the road. I don’t call that fine.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you deserved to get flipped off,” I muttered. I couldn’t help it.
Unfortunately, the cop had good ears. He stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “You know what? I lied about not tagging you.”
He gave me a ticket for speeding and illegal passing.
“Happy birthday, Stiggy.”
“21st Century Schizoid Man”
King Crimson
3:32
Turns out the Great River Road is a total crock.
In the first place, it’s not just one road; it’s, like, a hundred different roads that sorta-kinda follow the Mississippi on both sides, and if you happen to miss a sign, you can get completely lost. Even if you manage to stay on the right road, most of the time you can’t see the river. It might be a mile away, or ten miles—there’s no way to tell. The road zigs and zags and shudders and twists through all these little towns, most of which look half-abandoned. This one town I went through, the biggest building has a sign that reads UNDERTAKER • FURNITURE • CARPETING. Like the owner couldn’t decide.
That was an hour ago. Now I am hopelessly lost on a dirt road that apparently leads nowhere. I think I’m going south, but it’s cloudy and I can’t tell for sure. Being lost on a dirt road makes me think of Gaia again. I pull off to the side and grab the crumpled map from the backseat. It’s no help—this is the sort of map that shows only the places it wants you to go, not the roads where you’re totally lost. I rummage through the glove compartment, thinking maybe there’s a real map in there. I find no map, but I do find my dad’s iPod. I’d forgotten all about that. I try to turn it on. Nothing. It’s dead. Duh. It’s been dead ever since Gaia found it under the seat, and that was three months ago.
I keep digging, and find a charging cord. There’s a USB port inside the console. I plug in the iPod. A second later the screen lights up. I wonder what I’ll find in there. I keep driving and let it charge.
A few minutes later I come into a small town. Really small. A café that’s been closed for years, a couple churches, and an old-fashioned service station. My gauge is on empty, so I pull in. It’s not the sort of place I’d normally go on purpose. There are only two pumps. When I get out of the car, I see that there is no credit card reader. Every other gas station I’ve been in, I just swipe my mom’s credit card to pay. I figure I should use the credit card as much as possible before she cancels it.
I’m standing there looking confused when this greasy old dude comes limping out, wiping his hands on an even greasier rag.
“Hep ya?” he says.
“Um . . . do you take credit cards?”
“Sure do. Fill ’er up?”
I nod. The man twists off the gas cap and shoves in the pump nozzle.
“Check the oil?” he asks.
“No, I think it’s okay.”
“Suit yerself.” He unhooks a spray bottle from his belt and starts spraying the windows and wiping them down with the gray rag. He does a good job, making sure to clean th
e glass right to the edges. It’s weird. I never had anybody do that before.
The pump clicks off. He hangs the nozzle back on the pump and screws the gas cap back on. I hand him the credit card. He takes it back into the office. A minute later he comes back outside and holds out a sort of tablet with a strip of paper clipped to it. He hands me a pen.
“Need your John Henry,” he says.
“It’s John Hancock,” I say. “Not ‘Henry.’ ”
One of Dad’s pet peeves was people saying things wrong. Like, if somebody said the word “irregardless,” he would correct them on the spot. That’s not a word, he would say. It’s just “regardless.” Mom would roll her eyes and look away.
“ ‘Hancock,’ eh?” says the old man. “Whadya know! Always thought it was ‘Henry.’ ” He does not seem to be offended. He reminds me of Garf, if Garf were sixty years old. I could say anything to Garf. Well, almost anything.
I sign the slip. He tears off the top copy and gives it to me. “All set,” he says.
I get back into the Mustang, hoping to find my way back to the twenty-first century, thinking about Garf Neff.
Garf
After my birthday encounter with the moonfaced cop, I stopped in at Brain Food Comics and Collectibles. I found Garf flipping through the used comics, something he did most days after school.
Garf’s real name was “Garfield,” but everybody called him Garf.
Tobias was watching him from behind the counter, hoping for an excuse to kick him out, because Garf hardly ever bought anything.
“Where were you today?” Garf asked me. “I didn’t see you in school.”
“Getting a ticket,” I said. “Do you believe in asshole magnetism?”
“You mean animal magnetism?”
“If I’d meant ‘animal,’ I’d have said ‘animal.’ ”
“Oh. In that case I got no idea what you’re talking about.”
I explained my theory to him. One thing about Garf, he’d listen to ten kinds of crazy without blinking.
“Maybe it’s like a psychic power,” he said. “Like, you expect people to act a certain way, and they pick up on your brain waves.”