Cluck

by Lenore Rowntree

  Soon after Baker Dam, he needs to pee and pulls over at the rest stop. He walks into the cement building, past the urinals, and into one of the stalls. He puts paper down on the seat as his mother taught him to do in public washrooms. Filthy places. Horrid things can grow on your bum. Ulcers, tapeworms! He’s almost finished when he hears someone come into the bathroom. He shakes himself dry, uses a bit of paper to dab at the end, flushes the toilet with his foot and walks out of the stall.

  Can’t even make it as far as Diablo, the dark-haired man standing at the urinal says.

  Henry takes his sunglasses off, as if he might hear differently without them.

  What do you mean?

  I mean that dump last night closed the road past Diablo.

  It did? How long will it be closed?

  I dunno. Could be for a coupla days. Road ain’t hardly open this timea year anyway.

  What? The atlas shows it as a highway.

  Well, could be she’s a highway, but that don’t mean she’s open alla the time.

  The man sort of winks and walks out. For a second, Henry wonders if he might have been kidding. But when he walks to the Subaru he can see the big rig heading back toward I-90. He pulls the atlas out again and sure enough when he traces Hwy 20 past Diablo, the thin red line breaks into dashes marked ‘Closed in Winter’. They ought to make these things clearer, he thinks. Stupid map showing campsites better than highways — green teepees all over the place obscuring important information.

  This time he doesn’t fool around. He heads straight for the I-90, pushing the Subaru up over 100 km/hour. The entire state of Washington is yet to be crossed, and precious time has been wasted on the ill-fated Diablo turnoff. When he catches himself tense at the wheel, he thinks about how Jack would be. Of course, Jack wouldn’t be driving a yellow Subaru, and Jamie Lee probably wouldn’t like that either — she’d want something substantial with tinted windows — so to fill the time he starts imagining how it would feel to ride in the cab of a Chevy, high up on a padded bench seat with matching panels and flip-down visors.

  Hunger and a full bladder bring him down at a diner in North Bend. It smells good inside, like roast beef and peas. He leaves his sunglasses on long enough to be sure the young waitress sees him. He’s happy when she gives him a big smile as she walks toward the table.

  What can I get you?

  What comes with your deluxe cheeseburger?

  You can have fries or slaw . . . Oh, what the heck, want both? I’ll getcha both.

  Yeah. Both. I’m hungry.

  Uh-huh . . . And to drink? Sweetheart shake? They’re on special.

  What’s a Sweetheart shake?

  Strawberries and marshmallow. It’s yummy.

  Yeah. That’d be good too.

  Uh-huh.

  Henry can’t remember the last time he looked forward to a meal so much as this one. If he stays happy like this, he’ll have to watch his waistline. Doubtful Jamie Lee would like a paunch either.

  After the meal, he sails down the highway and the wagon scales the Snoqualmie Pass, no problem. The sign at the top says the elevation is 3,022 feet. Just for the heck of it, he tries KLUK. It comes in loud and clear!

  That about wraps it up for the Radio Ranch Lunch Hour. I gotta move over and make room for that crazy new guy, High Tech Red-Neck, Billy Wray. He’s gonna bring you folks some of the best in the West. And remember if you like country-rock, western swing, or rock-a-billy, this is the station for YOU . . . and oh yeah, if you want to win those tickets for the Opryland Express, take a ride on our fabulous party bus down to Nashville with two of KLUK’s favourite DJs, then all you have to do is pick up the phone — NOW — call us here at 666-KLUK . . . maybe we can even talk that little troubleshooter Jamie Lee into coming along . . . WOW . . . look at those phone lines light up, whole lotta people out there want to check out the Ernest Tubbs Texas Troubadour Western Store with Jamie Lee on board. And don’t forget the Music Valley Wax Museum while you’re at it . . . Okay let’s listen to what should have been a No. 1 hit a few years back take us on down the road OUTTA HERE . . . this is Gary Goodnight singing “My Baby’s Gone” . . .

  Gary is into his second wail of baby’s gone when the phantom air waves leave the car and bring Henry nothing but a whole lot of fabulous static. He doesn’t care. His mind is turning on the idea of the Opryland Express with Jamie Lee. It frosts him that the lunch guy used her to get callers to phone in. But it sure would be great to travel down to Nashville with her. The gang would probably meet in the early morning, a whole busload of them, and they’d leave right from the station parking lot, Jamie Lee looking her purest pretty in the early light. And she would have stopped to buy everybody donuts and coffee for the ride, or maybe she’d have the driver pull over as soon as they got out of the lot —

  But where exactly would the bus be parked? How does one find a radio station parking lot anyway? Radio stations have to be security-conscious these days, lot of important people to protect. And they always do have you phone in to win those free tickets. They never say, Come on down to see us at the corner of Main and Church, never tell you to drive until you see the big old party bus parked out front of the station. Why hasn’t he thought of this before? How is he going to find KLUK once he gets to Silverton?

  Henry wrenches at the wheel. He is so distracted he moves across a lane of traffic without looking. A speeding pick-up swerves behind him and the driver gives him the finger as he flies past. When he turns to take a look, his sunglasses glint in the side window. The glasses make him feel better, but still he has to turn down the static on the radio, so he can concentrate.

  At the outskirts of Ritzville, the soft static changes to the KLUK signature jingle sung in three-part western harmony: K L - K L - K L - U K AM 680 . . . Turn on Country. The sound perks him up.

  Hey, partners, you’re on board with the High Tech Red-Neck Billy Wray. That’s Wray with a W, in case you’re wonderin’. My pretty little bride-to-be says when we get hitched she’s going to be Ray without the Dubya. What do you think about that? Something about complementing each other without duplicating. She’s the one with the intellect. But I’m the one with the high tech.

  Billy Wray’s voice goes kind of wobbly when he says high tech. Henry’s pretty sure it’s reverb that does that to his voice. When Billy Wray comes back on he’s using his normal voice.

  It’s 4:53 and we’re having just a beeeeeautiful sunset here in our new high-tech studios overlooking the lake. I tell you, this afternoon it’s so calm and peaceful out there, I just want to pull out some loud and crazy ZZ Top and ZZ right across the water at you. But I don’t think the boss man would like that too much, might make him say, “Stop puttin’ the freak in frequency, Billy Wray,” so this cowboy’s going to be good and play a little Kenny Loggins singing “Footloose” instead. Then we’re going to fade into newshour with something real pretty, a tune from Willie Nelson just out last year: “What a Wonderful World”. You’re listenin’ to KLUK radio 680 — all the power of a light bulb just not as bright.

  This cracks Henry up. He likes Billy Wray. He’s funny and informative, tells you something about himself. Kind of interesting. And he plays good tunes.

  He pulls over to have a look at the atlas. It’s almost dark, so he takes off the sunglasses. He can see a town named Wallace just past Silverton, and another one just before it named Osbum — what a name — but he can’t see any lakes. Which could be good. Might mean the lake near the station is small enough to drive around, and Billy Wray said he was looking at the sunset, so that means he’s facing west. The station might not be that hard to find after all.

  He does a quick calculation. Assuming he’s counted all the markers properly, he still has more than 140 miles to go and part of that is through Spokane and then Coeur d’Alene. He might not make it before Jamie Lee’s show starts. His shoulders hunch up. What if he has wasted all this time driving, skipped out on work for no good purpose? The sunglasses on the dashboard calm him
. No big deal, he’ll meet her after the show. Better timing anyway.

  Back on the highway, big fat drops, lazy but steady, begin to fall. Normally this would cause him to hunch his shoulders even more, but again, no big deal. He’s got more time now and the highway is good flat blacktop with a new centre line and his wipers are working well.

  Neon cocktail signs begin to blink at him. Some are martini glasses with olives sloshing, others are tippling by themselves in the sky, a few are just the names of beer. Henry has never had a cocktail, doesn’t think he really wants one. And though he’s only had beer a couple of times, he begins to think about sitting at a bar with one in his hand. He wonders if it would be too much to wear the sunglasses into the bar.

  Somewhere past Coeur d’Alene, just at the edge of Kellogg, he spots a giant neon can frothing and pouring golden beer into the parking lot in front of the Shop-Mart. He pulls over to watch the beer for a time before reaching for his sunglasses on the dash. He puts the wire frames over his ears and walks into the mart. It’s noisy and bright inside. A pretty but slightly plump woman about his age in a too-tight, red-gingham, southern belle dress walks toward him. Her breasts poke out of the bodice which has been cinched in tight with a drawstring.

  Howdy. Welcome to Shop-Mart. What’s your name?

  Henry.

  Hi there, Henry. My name’s Charity.

  Charity uncaps a felt pen and writes something down on the roll of paper she’s holding. She peels a tag off and comes up close to pat it onto Henry’s chest. When she’s standing near, his heart begins to palpitate. Especially when he senses his mother is hovering nearby. To calm himself he tries to concentrate on the spray of freckles that seems to be painted across her nose. But as soon as he looks at the freckles he wants to reach out and touch her face, or is it the freckles themselves he wants to touch? They’re friendly rusty polka dots, practically dancing on the bridge of her nose. Oh for goodness’ sake, Henry, touching a stranger’s freckles is inappropriate. I taught you better than that. He shifts his gaze to the tag she’s pressing onto his shirt. His name is neatly printed with a happy-face beside it.

  Are you single? Charity asks.

  Yes . . .

  Thought so . . . But that’s good. You can join the party. Singles’ Nite at Shop-Mart. All party snacks, chips, dips, soda are half-price for singles. Enjoy!

  Another young woman — this one not so plump but wearing too much green eye makeup and a tag that says Mary Lou with two happy-faces — walks up to Henry.

  Wanna be my partner in the three-legged singles swipe?

  He doesn’t know how to respond. He feels torn, like somehow he should be on the road. And what is a singles swipe? Is a person just supposed to let themselves get involved without knowing what is going on, and with a cheap piece? Then it comes to him. Jack would play. He wouldn’t care what a singles swipe is, he’d just play. Besides, he’s already made up his mind not to rush at Jamie Lee, he should have some fun while he waits for her show to end.

  Sure. Singles swipe sounds good, he says.

  Okay, partner. Let me hog-tie your right leg to my left . . . Jimmy . . . Jimmy . . . come on over here. You and Angie, you swipe with us. Okay?

  Jimmy and Angie are tied from hip to calf. They shamble toward Mary Lou, who is bent over just about finished hog-tying herself to Henry. Then Charity at the front door spins a giant egg timer and yells, Aisle three.

  Mary Lou drags him to the stack of shopping carts and shouts, Take a cart. Take a cart.

  He pulls a cart out of the conga line and they charge, the best they can, their carts banging into each other, down aisle three where Mary Lou begins pulling bottles of vitamins, aspirins, and cough syrup from the shelf. Underneath the cough syrup he sees a bunch of happy-face stickers like the one on his nametag. While he stares at the stickers, Jimmy and Angie swipe by and clean off the hand lotion, then Jimmy bumps him out of the way to take what is left of the vitamins. There’s a bit of a scrum around the canned meats and tuna, but Henry manages to snag a dozen cans of smoked oysters and mussels, which brings a smile to Mary Lou’s face. Next he reaches down to put a big bag of Huggies into the cart and Mary Lou shrieks.

  Put it back. Put it back. Too bulky. Take something else.

  He is putting the Huggies back while Mary Lou knocks jars of Cheez Whiz into her cart when Charity with the egg timer calls out, Time — come on over here and let’s tote up those buggies.

  He and Mary Lou lose by $11.47, and Jimmy and Angie win the maple-cured ham, leaving them to put back the merchandise from all four of the carts. When they’re at the vitamin shelf, Mary Lou says, That’s okay, Henry. It was your first time. Jimmy and them play singles swipe every Friday so they know what they’re doing, get all the expensive small stuff first. You can make it up by buying me a six-pack of Michelob, if you want.

  He isn’t sure, but he thinks Michelob is a beer. He saw a sign for it on the highway. He goes to the rear of the store and looks into the cooler. Sure enough, there’s a bunch of Michelob lined up in bottles and cans. The cans look tastier to him, the silver-gold colour just the way he expects the beer to taste. And even though he wonders if he is being conned, he thinks what the heck, it’s only beer. He reaches in and pulls out two six-packs. One for her and one for himself. As he lifts the second pack he notices something hanging above the cheese just to the left of the beer. A pair of fuzzy knit mice is looped over the grill swinging in the current of cold air coming from the cooler. He looks at the mice, then remembers seeing a knitted fish skeleton hanging from the shelf near the cans of tuna.

  Mary Lou is waiting for him at the checkout. Want to play swinging taste testers with me? she asks. She points to a large blue swing in the corner where a blindfolded woman is being fed some kind of red chips by her partner.

  No thanks.

  I’ll be easy on you this time. If we lose, I’ll only make you buy me a bag of Doritos. She laughs. Half price for Singles’ Nite!

  No, it’s not that . . . it’s just that I got a date and I have to get going.

  Well aren’t you the lucky one . . . Say, before you go, can I have a look at you under those sunglasses. So’s I knows it’s you when I see you walkin’ down the street.

  Sure, he says, feeling confident. But as soon as he lifts the glasses, he feels exposed and his face flushes. His palms begin to sweat.

  Mary Lou surveys him. Okay, Henry, looking good.

  He drops the glasses and feels protected enough to get the money out of his pocket and pay for the beer. That is until he’s up close to Charity again and sees her freckles. His fingers flutter and he drops several Canadian quarters on the floor. After he picks them up and plops them on the counter, Charity jokes, Gonna have to charge you twenty percent for those wooden nickels.

  What?

  Canadian money doesn’t work so good here in the U S of A.

  Oh, that’s okay. Charge me what you need to.

  Charity punches some numbers into her cash register. There’s a tiny knitted skull hanging beside the cigarettes. The place is beginning to remind him of his mother’s Day of the Dead phase. And Charity seems to be taking her time, bent over the moving grocery counter, reaching for something underneath, her bodice drawstring dangling precariously close to the mechanism, threatening to pull her ample bosom into the works. His hands are practically crawling up his sides, itching to reach out, to do what, to stop a catastrophe, to stroke her breasts? Touch one of her freckles? Which is exactly what happens when his hand reaches out involuntarily and hits the big freckle on the right side of Charity’s nose.

  Ow, she says.

  Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought your string was going to get caught.

  It’s okay, it didn’t really hurt. Just sort of freaked me out.

  She puts the change in his hand and her hand touching his helps to calm him. Then she reaches out to touch him on the chest right around where his heart is and she says, Really, it’s okay. Nice to meet you. Come on back sometime
. She removes his name tag for him.

  He regains his confidence enough to give Mary Lou her beer and walk out. He’s able even to put a bit of a swagger to his stride. But as soon as he exits, he can hear his mother’s voice, Stop, Henry — nobody wants to see you posturing that way.

  He grips the beer bag tight. Once he’s safe behind the wheel, he takes a can from the plastic yoke. That’s when he notices a little knit piece in the bottom of the bag. It has a tag attached to it with a handwritten message: Beer cozy courtesy of Charity. There is a ♥ over the i in Charity. He slips the cozy over the can, pulls the tab and takes a sip. Not bad, tastier than he’d imagined. He decides to go back inside and thank Charity for the cozy.

  Hey there. You again?

  Yeah. Me. Just wanted to thank you.

  You like it? Cool. Why don’t you sign my invitation list? I’m hoping to have a show of knit things at the art gallery next year, sort of a knit-reactor theme. I’ll keep you posted.

  Okay.

  She pushes a list of names and addresses toward him. He writes his name and address even though he has no idea what a knit reactor is. After he’s finished, he walks out of the store, without intrusion from his mother, but this time Charity follows him. He’s at his car about to get back in when she calls to him.

  Hey there, just wanted to say we don’t get many folks from Canada. It’d be a real pleasure if you’d come back down for the art show.

  While she speaks she holds up a cozied beer of her own and Henry reaches inside his car to get his can so the two of them are able to toast. As their cans touch, there’s a flash from behind a nearby parked car.

  What’s that? he asks.

  That’s Peter, my boyfriend. He’s a photographer and likes to take random shots of people using my knit things.

  For what?

  For what, Peter? Show yourself, boy.

  A dark-haired young man holding a camera pops up from behind a Chevy truck, then disappears behind it again.