Strays

by Matthew Krause

  Something had to be done … indeed it did.

  “Hey, boy,” he said. “You hungry?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy wheezed through his nose splint in that stuffy cartoon. “Is it lunch time?”

  Big Buddy looked at his watch. “Almost eleven,” he said. “What say we grab a bite in Centralia?”

  They took the Harrison Avenue exit and rolled southeast into town, where the road jogged due east on Main Street. Big Buddy’s head rocked slowly back and forth, back and forth, as he surveyed the landscape, and at last he locked onto his quarry. It was an older storefront with a huge smoked-glass picture window, and hanging in the window were portable neon signs that said COORS, BUD LIGHT, MILLER, and OLYMPIA. The name on the awning above the door read BULLDOG’S. Big Buddy thought that would do just fine.

  “Cute little tavern there, wouldn’t you say?”

  The punk with the tattoos snorted and winced. “Couldn’t we just go through a drivethrough or something?”

  “Come on, kid. All this driving makes a man thirsty.” In fact, they had been on the road almost an hour.

  “Suit yourself,” the punk with the tattoos muttered. “Just get in and grab something so we can get back on the road.”

  It would be well past suppertime before Big Buddy and Bulldog’s Tavern parted ways.

  * * * *

  While Big Buddy settled into Bulldog’s and started making new friends, Rhino crossed Main Street and walked down half a block to a drab little diner with an awning painted like a checkered tablecloth you might take on a picnic. Once inside, the décor was considerably nicer than the façade had implied. The walls were made of oak slats, and the head of a 10-point buck was mounted behind the lunch counter. It felt like a cozy little hunting lodge.

  Rhino sat at the counter and ordered a bowl of their Soup of the Day, cream of potato, and a side salad with blue cheese dressing. He could barely taste the blue cheese and nothing else. The pain in his nose was killing him. He took a Lortab and washed it down with iced tea. It was his last painkiller; the doctor had only prescribed enough for two days, citing the addictive nature of opioids. Rhino waited ten minutes for the Lortab to take effect, then paid his bill and asked directions to the pharmacy.

  Down the street he found the drug store with the giant RX sign above its door, and he went in and bought a 500-count bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of water. He paid and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He washed down four ibuprofen, then walked back across the street to Big Buddy’s little Datsun.

  The Datsun’s doors were locked. Rhino looked at the sky for the sun. He figured an hour had passed. He went inside Bulldog’s to retrieve his traveling companion.

  Big Buddy was sitting on a stool along the bar watching a rerun of some old NFL Films program on a TV mounted above shelves of amber liquor. When Rhino tapped Buddy on the shoulder, the older man turned and offered a huge Stonehengey smile.

  “There’s my pal,” he said. “Take a load off, boy, and have yourself a beer.”

  “Shouldn’t we get on the road?” Rhino asked.

  “All in the Lord’s time,” Big Buddy bellowed. “I've gotta feeling my girl’s not that far ahead of us. Come on, what do you drink? I’m buying.”

  Rhino touched his temple. The pain wasn’t exactly going anywhere soon. “Whatever’s on draft and cheapest,” he said. “Save my seat. I’ve gotta take a leak.”

  * * * *

  It was your customary tavern bathroom, two urinals and one toilet stall, with twin countertop sinks beneath a large picture mirror. Rhino entered and stumbled over to one of the urinals. He did his business, bracing himself against the wall with one hand as the painkillers were beginning to take effect. His head was rippling like viscous oil, and he could sense each heartbeat causing a new disturbance in its surface.

  The door to the bathroom opened, and he heard the heavy steps of someone crossing the bathroom to the stall. He heard the stall door open and close, and the bolt lock on the door slid shut. The man in the stall began to whistle.

  Rhino lifted his head and turned to the sound. It was a sweet, familiar tune, rising up five notes in a stepped sequence, dropping down four, up three … where had he heard that before? Very familiar, that song. Maybe something from his childhood, something from when he was in grade school. The tune fluttered around his head like a fly, and he felt his chest tighten. He wrote off the tears that were rimming his eyes as a product of the pain in his broken nose.

  He zipped up his pants and walked softly over to the sink, careful not to make a sound lest the cheerful, haunting whistler in the stall cease his performance in mid-note. He sat against the countertop, leaning back to steady himself, and let the delightful melody sweep over him. He closed his eyes, and for a moment it was two days ago, and he was getting off his shift at the warehouse in the tiny hours of morning. He had gone for a walk down The Strip to clear his head while it was still dark, and he had met the girl at the C-store, and if he had just left well enough alone he wouldn’t be here, more or less trapped on this road trip to who-knows-where with a drunken scalawag named Big Buddy.

  Rhino opened his eyes and turned to wash his hands. The man in the toilet stall continued to whistle that haunting tune. When Rhino was done washing and pulling paper towels out of the dispenser, the whistling stopped. The man in the stall spoke as Rhino was drying his hands.

  “You there?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You better get a move on, Ryan.”

  “What’s that?” Rhino asked. “Who’s there?”

  “You know who’s here,” said the voice. “Get a move on.”

  “Jack? Is that you?”

  “You want to find that girl before someone else does,” said the man in the stall. “You still have time.”

  “Hey, I’m not driving. It’s Big Buddy. He wanted to stop, and so far, it doesn’t look like he’s ready to—”

  “Not interested in your excuses,” said the man in the stall. “Just get moving. Before someone beats you to it.”

  “How do I find her?” Rhino asked.

  “You’ll know when you know,” said the stranger. With that, he began to whistle his wistful melody again.

  Rhino threw the paper towels in the trash bin and left the bathroom. The eerie tune the man whistled was stuck in his head, and he could almost taste words to it, something he had heard long ago, sweet words sung by an elegant woman. He found himself humming the tune, trying to stir up some memory. His humming turned into a whistle by the time he arrived at the bar.

  “There you are,” said Big Buddy, more friendly than he had ever been all trip. “Got you a beer.”

  “Thanks,” said Rhino. “And then we need to get on the road.”

  “We’ll get there, man, we’ll get there.” He was calling Rhino man, not boy, and maybe that was a good sign. Maybe now Rhino could reason with him a bit. He chewed his lip and tried to think of a strategy that might pull Big Buddy away, but the older man sure seemed to be having fun right at the moment. It would not be easy, that was for certain.

  “What’s that?” Big Buddy asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You were whistling something right there. What was it?”

  Rhino licked his lips, as if reminding them not to start making sounds without running it past his brain first. “Some song a guy was whistling in the bathroom,” Rhino said. “Stuck in my head now.”

  “Oh,” said Big Buddy, “You gonna drink that beer or what?”

  “I’ll drink it,” said Rhino. “And then we need to get on the road.”

  It would be a good four hours before Big Buddy was ready to continue the quest.

  * * * *

  They left the tavern around 5:30 p.m., and of course Big Buddy was hungry. Rhino pointed to the diner across Main Street, and the two of them stumbled over to have some dinner. Rhino had spent two of the last four hours fidgeting and ready to move, but then at some point he threw up his hands. What the hell? he thought. It’s
not like it’s my daughter.

  Big Buddy was still a bit drunk from his afternoon in the tavern, so he offered to buy dinner. He took his time eating, and he drank several cups of coffee. It was after 7:00 p.m. when he finished, and paid his check.

  Once back at the truck, he refused to let Rhino drive.

  Rhino got as comfortable as he could in the Datsun and closed his eyes. At once, he was above the land again, looking at everything about them in a bas relief map. He could make out the highway, make out the towns and villages and hills, and the path they were to take seemed to take on a reddish glow. It reminded him a bit of those scenes in all the Indiana Jones movies, where Indy’s travels are charted on a map with a growing red line.

  “When you get to Salmon Creek,” he said, eyes still closed, “you want to take 205.”

  “Where to?” Big Buddy asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Rhino. “Wake me when you cross the Columbia River.”

  His sleep was fractured and filled with brackish shadows, and he awoke from time to time to chart the setting of the sun behind the hills to his right. At last, he settled into a trance that was rigorous and without dreams save for the sound of that tune, the one the man in the stall had been whistling.

  He awoke sensing that he should be remembering something. The sun had gone down now, well beyond the horizon, and the sky was losing its last remnants of orange, glowing on the edge of the hills like an aura.

  “Where are we?” Rhino asked.

  “Somewhere in Portland,” muttered Big Buddy. “I need a rest.”

  Rhino closed his eyes and summoned up the map again. He waited and at last could see where they were and where they were supposed to be. “You didn’t get on the 205,” he said. He was not even upset about this. After all, as he had reminded himself, this was not his daughter.

  “Damn sure did,” Big Buddy growled.

  “Not if we’re in Portland. You stayed on I-5.”

  “God damn it.”

  Rhino felt his nose begin to throb. He wondered where his ibuprofen was and realized that he must have left it at the tavern in Centralia.

  “I need to think,” he said. “My head is killing me. Find a place where I can get something for my headache and then we’ll get back on track.”

  Big Buddy drove around until he found a small truck stop, a privately owned Mom-n-Pop with the lighted sign burned out. He pulled up to the gas pumps to fill the tank, and Rhino jumped out and went into the store for more ibuprofen. He found a bottle of 100 tablets roughly the same price as the 500-count bottle he had lost. He went back to the beer cooler and saw that Olympia beer was cheapest, so he grabbed a 12-pack as well. After making his purchases, he went to the wall next to the counter where a map of the area had been pinned. He asked the clerk where they were on the map, and once he got his bearings, he knew what they had to do.

  When he walked back out to the gas island, Big Buddy was just finishing up. He had cradled the gas nozzle back on the pump, and he was putting the gas cap back on.

  “Go back north and catch 84 east,” Rhino said.

  Big Buddy straightened up and turned, tugging on his belt to keep his slacks from falling off his hips. “That’s some cheap-ass beer you got there,” he muttered.

  “You hear me? We need to go north and catch 84.”

  “Later,” Big Buddy said. “I need to rest a bit.”

  “Then let me drive,” said Rhino. “We’re only about three hours away.”

  “From where?”

  Rhino thought. “Not sure, but that’s what we’re supposed to do.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” said Big Buddy. “You’re not driving my truck. I need a rest here, and by God, that means I need a rest. We’re going to pull over there around the side of the store and I’m gonna catch me a nap.”

  Rhino knew it was no use arguing. “Fine,” he said. “Here, have a beer.”

  * * * *

  It was more than a nap. It was a full night’s sleep. Big Buddy pulled to the side of the store as he had said he would, and he settled back in his seat with his arms crossed in front of his ample belly. Rhino tried to settle in and sleep too, but the smell of cigarette stains in the car was much more acrid now that they were stopped with no fresh air coming in the vent. He reached over to the crank on the door and rolled down the window.

  “Put that damn window back up,” Big Buddy said. “I don’t like it open when I sleep.”

  Rhino obliged and sat in silence, gazing out the window. His head hurt, and he realized he had forgotten to take any pills. He opened the bottle of ibuprofen, ripped off the safety seal, tugged out the cotton ball, and dropped four tablets into his hand.

  “Sure are noisy over there,” Big Buddy muttered.

  “Sorry.” He tossed the pills in his mouth and reached down for a beer to chase it. When he popped the top, Big Buddy grumbled again.

  “How much noise do you need to make there, boy?”

  “Sorry,” Rhino repeated, mumbling a bit himself because of the pills in his mouth. He washed them down with a slug of beer and then opened the passenger’s door of the Datsun.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing now?”

  “I’m giving you some peace to let you sleep.”

  “Best damn idea you’ve had, now get out of here.”

  Rhino grabbed two more beers and put them in the pockets of his windbreaker. He stepped out, still holding the open beer, started to take a sip, and thought better of it. He closed the door of the truck as gently as he could, then stumbled around behind the store to a darkened loading dock to finish the beer. He drank the next two, and now with a nice little buzz he figured he could sleep.

  When he got back to the truck, Big Buddy had stretched out, propping his feet—still clad in those ugly gray work boots with mud caked on the soles—into the shotgun side of the cab. There was no place for Rhino to sit, let alone sleep.

  Shaking his head, Ryan went around to the front of the store and went inside. He gave the man at the counter a ten-dollar bill and asked for a roll of quarters. Once he had it, he settled into the game area near the beer cooler, where there were two pinball machines and some old arcade game with an eight-bit Ninja taking out bad guys with a throwing star.

  It was the beginning of a very long night.

  * * * *

  When the dawn came, Big Buddy was ready to go. Following Rhino’s instructions, they went back north on I-5 until they hit the Hwy 30/I-84 junction and headed west. They were driving into the rising sun, and Big Buddy was none too pleased.

  “Should’a woke me up earlier,” he said. “Maybe we’d got there before the sun started burning the hell out of my eyes.”

  “Sorry,” Rhino muttered.

  He did not think he could possibly care less than he did the previous evening, but this morning was proving otherwise. This was a hell of a trip, all for a mere $500 in reward, plus the approval of Jack, who had spoken so highly of him. Rhino thought back to the previous morning, he himself standing in the doorway of his apartment, Jack on the stoop, and this obnoxious drunk with the cheap cowboy shirt sitting by his truck in the nearest parking spot. At that moment, when Jack sent them on this mission to retrieve the girl, it had almost—but not quite—seemed like a good thing. Now he was not so sure. Now, with the light expanding before them, he had a pretty good idea of where they were going, but he had no idea what to do when he got there. All he had was a sense of the map laid out in his head and that eerie song whistling in the ether.

  You'll know when you know.

  Rhino started at the voice. He looked to see if Big Buddy had spoken, but he knew better. The words had not been slurred and croaking with a smoker’s throat. No, this was his old friend, the one who had sent him on this quest, coming to him from somewhere far away.

  Rhino looked about for the familiar face and did not see it, but somewhere to his right, dancing alongside the car in an open field south of 84, he saw Jack in what would turn out to be j
ust one of his many forms.

  Rhino had heard about dust devils in school, small whirlwinds that coughed up arid soil and spun it upward, creating the impression of a tiny cyclone doing a back-street boogie across the prairie. They were hardly in the prairie now, but there were wide open spaces with plenty of dry earth, and the devil he saw was like a miniature tornado, skirting about on the edge of the interstate not more than ten yards beyond the shoulder.

  Do you know, Rhino? Do you know where to go?

  Rhino leaned against the glass on the passenger-side window, pressing his forehead against. His eyes never left the devil, mesmerized by its twisting curls of boiling dirt, spiraling upward, coughing into the air like a rooster’s crest, then swishing back into the vortex before it could touch the earth. Rhino had never seen a dust devil before, but he had heard stories of them, sometimes lasting for hours, sucking up an ample amount of dirt for sustenance and in rare cases carrying the dance out of the bush and into city limits to taunt and distract local traffic.

  He pressed his shattered nose as close as he dared against the window and spoke to his old friend. “No,” he whispered. “Where do we go?”

  Jack’s earthy chuckled pinballed about in his head. You will know, he said. Trust your senses. Get the girl.

  Rhino nodded, his sweaty forehead streaking on the glass. “I will,” he said.

  Listen. Jack’s voice was louder now, teasing the edge of rage. Get the girl. At all costs, get the girl.

  And somewhere in the crisp morning air, Jack began to whistle his melancholy tune.

  “Yes,” Rhino said, no longer whispering. “Oh yes.”

  “Who you taking to?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were talking just now,” said Big Buddy. “You going loco, boy?”

  “Hmm. I don’t know.”

  “I don’t need you going loco,” Big Buddy snarled. “Just try to keep that crap in check, you hear, boy?”

  “It’s in check,” Rhino grumbled. “Don’t you worry about that, mister.” He pressed his lips together and shielded his eyes against the sun and decided that these next three hours could not go by quickly enough.