by Caldon Mull
“Your emotional detachment disturbs me.” he laced his fingers together, suppressing a fidget. “I also sense another set of symptoms, possibly post-traumatic stress, but I’m not sure about that, yet.”
“As my doctor, you are in a position to comment.” I placed the cup down on the balustrade, turned to go. “If you aren’t, then it really doesn’t matter what your feelings are. I need to be able to make decisions myself. I think I made it yesterday. It’s done, life goes on.”
“Ah. A concise and accurate reply. Yet once again not entirely forthcoming, making your wishes know and yet imposing no direction on my moral decision. You are entirely frustrating, yet I will respect that in as much as you have given me to work on. I would like to believe that what you did, what you allowed me to do... has saved many more innocents from that treatment in the future.”
“Perhaps. It didn’t save me.” My face felt frozen, I couldn’t feel the smile I was trying to make. Doctor Mason cleared his throat “I will be able to move the girls in another 24 hours. Do you have enough diesel for your generators?”
“I will be getting more, even though we don’t need any for that period. I need to anticipate the weather properly before making that decision.” I moved to take Michel’s truck keys. “I will be back later this afternoon.”
“I’ll tell Michel.” He collected my cup and walked into the house.
“I thought you had a stammer, Doctor Mason.” I stopped on the top step. “I haven’t heard it today.”
“Strangely enough, I only tend to stammer when meeting very large, strange males for the first time, or am very nervous. It comes and goes.” His chuckle sounded genuine “Considering what people have been saying about you for the last two years, you could appreciate how I could be nervous on first meeting you. By and large, men your size beat up men my size every day for no apparent reason, other that they can.”
“People talk about me?”
“You have no idea how much.” “Do you have any idea why?”
“Your complete detachment encourages them. The Compound folk think you’re cavorting with the Townsfolk, and vice versa. Until they can neatly slot you into a readily identifiable pattern, they will persist until they can understand you on their terms and find a comfortable box to put you into. Either they will romanticize you or demonize you, or both, is yet to be determined.”
“I don’t think that will be soon.” I started down the steps.
“Yes.” Doctor Mason muttered behind my back before I lost earshot “I tend to agree.”
I idled down the hill and took the west turn out to Local County. To be honest, I didn’t really have a plan, except to hunt down some diesel and mull over my choices for the next few days. I saw another dark bank of clouds looming and although the heavy rain held off, I was fairly sure the back of the storm wasn’t broken.
From the beginning of the tarmac at the end of the gravel road on top of the hill, everywhere you looked glinted the molten-lead grey of standing water in the streets, town square and ground floor buildings in Storyville itself. I grinned to myself, riffled through Michel’s’ tape box and retrieved a ‘Best of Bread’ cassette from its case, and me and David Gates’ voice wanting to ‘make it with you’ headed for the high country of the Local Town.
Chapter Twelve
The road through to Local Town was wet, but not slick. Michel’s truck wipers were only on the middle setting and they coped with perfect visibility. I had played Bread through until the plaintive voice seared my soul enough before I replaced them with Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Tango in the Night’. I was humming through ‘Big Love’ when the Local Town limits loomed out of the mist. The place didn’t look especially busy, but then it was still early morning on a Thursday.
I idled through the Town and pulled up outside the ‘Trucker Lounge’. Sure enough there were three rigs parked outside and the place looked open, but quiet. I pulled up outside near the front door and sauntered through the heavy rain drops into the warm smoky joint. The smell of hash-browns and bacon wafted through a bead curtain and I balanced on a wooden stool by the big wood bar-counter.
“Howdy, there. What’ll it be?” A gnarled old-timer walked out from the bead curtain, wiping his hands on a starched white apron. Still crisp and clean.
“Coffee, please. Black.” I grinned.
“Sure thing, son. Comin’ right up.” He pulled a mug from a shelf and a jar from the percolator and brought it over. He poured while I watched, and as I took it and sipped, he put the jar next to me on a cork coaster and pushed an honour-box next to it. “Four Dollars for a mug and refill, dollar fifty after that. I gotta finish a blue plate back there. You eatin’?”
“Nope. Thanks.” I grinned “Coffee’s good.”
“See ya in awhile.” He sized me up and walked through the curtain to finish up the meals.
I pulled off my bomber jacket and placed it on the stool next to me to let it drip. Cradling the cup, I swivelled around and looked over the place. Last time I was here, it was a night club with a squad-full of dancers and boozers. This morning, it was a trucker diner. From the smell of the food, a damn good one. A heavily tattooed middle aged woman and a scrawny youth with piercings sat off in the booth I had last shared with Dekker and the boys. The bead curtain was pulled back and they were busy eating their way through their breakfast.
On the far side of the bar, a bald, thickset man with a goatee sat reading a newspaper, with a cowboy hat on the bar counter next to him. A half-eaten plate of buffalo wings was on a plate next to him, but whoever was eating it wasn’t around right now.
A dark-haired young man with two days stubble sipped his way through a mug on my right, closest to the kitchen door and the passage to the heads. From what I could see he was reading a Louis L’Amour paperback, but I couldn’t see which one. I emptied my pockets of change and put seven dollars into the honour-kitty and poured myself a refill.
Three sips through a beefy, ruddy youth walked out of the toilet passage and made a bee-line to the buffalo wings. He must’ve been around twenty years old or so. Sitting next to the man with the goatee you could see the family likeness shine through. All of them must be the riggers and their relief drivers, stopped over.
The curtain beads clicked and the Dark Haired man looked up.
“Here ya are, Eugene. And to go for Lennie.” The old timer brought out a plate and a paper bag with take-away.
“Thanks, Pops.” Eugene smiled up and handed over a twenty dollar bill. “He’ll be wakin’ soon.”
“He sure loves his sleep, don’t he?” Pops clucked and placed the change on the bar top while
Eugene tucked in.
“You know it. Mam said she never had to birth the boy, he just fell out. Thing is that Doc hadda smack him a hunnerd times ‘fore he woke up.” Eugene smiled around a mouthful of toast.
“So Mister, what brings ya to Local Town? Don’t reckon I knows ya.” Pops adjusted the top of the paper bag, creasing the top closed with gnarled strong hands.
“I’m looking for diesel for a jenny, ah... pops.” I turned around back to the bar-top “We kinda short back home.”
“Ah.” There was a grunt from everyone else in the Bar. Pops shook his head slowly “Thing is, we ain’t got none last few days. Couple of folk stranded until the tankers come.” The others nodded while they watched me. “Plenty gas, though.”
“Sorry pops, gotta be diesel. Ya know where I could get some?”
“Not round here. How about Storyville, down the valley?” The old man filled up Eugene’s’ mug, walked over.
“Nah. From there. Town’s under water.” I shrugged.
“Yeah, we heard that. So it’s true!” The beefy kid piped up, breaking a chicken wing in half.
“Yeah, most of the Town. Got a jenny running an incubator at my place with a lil’ baby girl in it, and I’m looking to stock up.”
“That a fact.” Pops rubbed his cheek. “You know whose it is?”
“Sorry, Pops.” I shrugged “Ho
spital power went down an’ I was the only one with the kit. Running low now. Young girl, ‘bout twenty, blonde.”
“One of the Summer’s brides, I reckon.” The goatee man said, not looking up “I hear young Carlson and his wife were due soon. Pro’lly them.”
“Well the girls are fine.” I grinned, amazed folks from a hundred miles away had a map of every noteworthy event. “Difficult birth though. She got pulled out like a foal. Maybe fuel for two or three more days.”
“You were there?” The tattooed woman piped up from the stall.
“Nah, Ma’am. Fainted dead away. Cracked my bean on the floor.” I tugged off my beanie showing the purple egg on my forehead. “I’m still shy ‘bout that.”
The woman screeched with laughter and banged her fist on the table-top. “It’s always the big- un’s that fold as soon as the birthin’ gets messy. Timberrr...” she wheezed and wheezed and started to cough, all the while hooting with laughter. The metal-spike kid grinned lopsidedly. I felt myself blush. I started to tuck my braided hair back under the camp.
“Heh!” Eugene piped up and I looked over to see him staring at my hair “You that wide receiver of theirs, runs like the wind. City boy from up north, they say.”
“Yeah, ‘sparrow’ or ‘hawk’ or sumthin’. Couldn’t place that square jaw anywhere, but the pony-tail, definitely.” Pops stared at me blatantly.
“Ah, Finch.” I gulped, feeling like a bug under a lens, pulled my cap low.
“That’s right.” Pops grinned “You did those nekkid pictures last year with that fo-reen kid. My wife took them. Says you both must’ve lost a bet or sumthin’, cause you looked sure nervous as hell.” Pops chuckled fondly “She was quite riled afterwards. Took a bottle of Jack and a whole weekend to sort that one out.” The picture Pops was painting of geriatric sex with the coin-jingling, chain-smoking gypsy senior completely floored me. I gulped my coffee and blushed scarlet.
“...It wasn’t nak... Ah, I mean... We didn’t... Heck...” I spluttered, gave up.
“Still, Pops... Mebbe what Mams was saying is true, an’ we really gotta lock up our girls from them valley stallions.” The tattooed woman wheezed again and slapped her thigh. Raucous laughs rang out in the bar. “With enough sun and water, mebbe all the corn gets that size... and they gits a-plenty water now...” For ten minutes the bar howled with laughter, wheezing and spluttering... all except me. I just cringed and sat it through. The heat from the back of my neck felt like it could clear the whole cloud-bank.
“Ah... Diesel?” I squeaked, cleared my throat and hoping my weak grin wouldn’t invite more merriment at my expense.
“Ehhh, son...” Pops guffawed and wiped a tear from his eye “Best you try Dry County. There might not be a tank full for a rig up’n there, but you c’n bet the Dekker’s got enough fer a few jerry cans for a bebbe Summers girl at their show-shop floor. If’n nuthin’ else, you could also try the Army base up there.”
“Thanks, Pops. Much obliged.” I scooted my bomber jacket off the stool and headed for the door.
“Mister Finch.” Pops called. I cringed and froze. My heart pounding in my throat. “Yessir!” I closed my eyes, vainly hoping they were finished with me.
“You still got a refill in the kitty. You come back any time fer it, yer most welcome here.” Pops chuckled.
“I will sir, Thank you.” I bee-lined for the door and out into the rain, towards the truck. Even as I was getting into the car I could hear the ribald humour gaining volume once again. I can only imagine what it was this time, but I was sure I caught “... as long as his pony-tail...” from the tattooed lady as I swung around and headed for the main road. I was convinced every single last living soul in Local Town had heard this morning’s joke at my expense.
I drove out through the deserted streets in the morning glow wondering what the deal was with the need for local folk to poke fun at strangers... I sighed and cranked up REM as I drove towards Dry County. I relaxed a bit and thought that none of the statements were actually malicious, and I supposed they felt they could joke with me specifically because they felt comfortable enough to do so. I was just being stupid and oversensitive. I chewed the inside of my cheek and thought about how little other general company I had spent time with while I had been in this part of the world.
I had been building a wall around myself and -fuck it, let me face facts- I was not the most social of individuals right now. My social skills, always at best rudimentary had almost completely atrophied. I get a single dose of good natured teasing and almost choke from the attention being shown me. I had never been like this before... well, everything.
I pulled over onto the verge and let the engine idle. I was nauseous and had to concentrate hard on not puking. I took several deep breaths and tried to relax. I tried to count to myself. One, they meant me no harm. Two, they were friendly and knew of me by some or other means and felt comfortable enough with me to tease me. Three, they admired my football game. Four, none of them was going to pounce on me and stick a fist up my ass...
There it was! That was what was bothering me. My breathing calmed itself. I felt cold, sweaty...but back in control of myself. Instinctively, I had been associating the presence of strangers with the threat of possible violation. My subconscious was working to make me wary of any situation involving people I didn’t know... or thought that I did know... where I could feel isolated and at risk.
I was big and strong, no stranger to self-defence, and provided I wasn’t blind-sided, fairly fierce and more than capable in a brawl. I made a mental note to keep this process in mind when being people I didn’t know for the near future. Or at least, until I could work through this period under my own steam. I pushed the truck into gear and slipped back into the lane. Rain drops pounded on the screen, and I turned up the wiper setting to full as I rode through the winding road up the bluffs to Dry County.
I had never been this far from my home base, by myself. I realized I was not of the visiting kind, and perhaps I should make this a habit, start casting my net wide, as it were. The scenery was dulled and muted by the heavy rains and swirling mists. It was getting wetter and more insistent. I cut my speed down to25mph, and switched on the yellow fog lights to improve my vision. In the back of my mind was the thought that all of the water falling from the sky up here was going to end up in Storyville before long. Here I was thinking that things were going to get better before much longer... I was looking at proof that it wasn’t.
It was about half-past ten when I crested into the bluffs above Dry County limits. The roads were good, although wet and the truck was handling well. I grinned to myself and realized Michel had probably had every service on the vehicle within two or three miles of the warranty advice. So fastidious, lover.
A side road lead off as I wound down a pass towards the valley floor. It had guard huts built into a stone Gateway. These huts had military uniformed guards standing to attention in slickers in front of them. Interesting, I hadn’t thought Dry County had a Base anywhere near it. A mile down the road, towards town was a low-slung series of building with a large car-park calling itself ‘The Pine’. An entertainment centre of some kind. Not unusual for a dry county, I suppose. What would they do in there, I wondered.?
Shrugging I drove past at a leisurely 15mph and turned left past the town square and the Town Hall with its clock tower. All the streets were steep on the one side and sloped towards the river that wound past the bottom of the town.
The running water might have been a trickle for the most part, but looked angry now. A few more feet of water and it would be lapping towards the Square. I imagined the people living in the houses at the bottom of town were casting nervous glances towards the bottom of their yards right about now. I couldn’t tell which was North or South in the gloom, but all the streets that ran from top to bottom were named after plants, and all the ones running at right angles to them were called after people, probably Town Fathers.
If my memory served me correctly, Will
had said he lived in a flat above his showroom. I was looking for a building that fit the description and imagined there would not be too many like that in town. I thought correctly, and on the corner of Dekker and Sumac I found a cut-stone building with a glass front displaying Harvesters and gold-and-green vehicles of all descriptions.
I pulled up in front and looked for a door off the curb. There was one, with a dark wood door and brass plate decoration. An intercom was placed on the wall next to it. Underneath the intercom was a name-plate which read, obviously ‘Dekker’.
I stood in the torrent for a few minutes, dithering. Hell, I thought eventually... I haven’t driven one hundred and fifty-odd miles to turn back. I tried to calm my beating heart, took a few deep breaths and pressed the buzzer.
“Yeah” came the response a few minutes later.
“Will? It’s Andy from Storyville. Got a few minutes?” I swallowed thickly.
“Andy? My God, C’mon up!” Will sounded pleased, so I put aside my misgivings at intruding and pushed the door open as it buzzed and clicked.
I walked up the twenty slate steps that were leading up to apartment. Along the stuccoed walls were various pictures of all descriptions, all sepia and faded of what Dry County looked like a hundred years ago. Obviously they were all real. I didn’t know why Will would collect things like that, he didn’t seem much of a history buff to me. But then, who could tell from first impressions. I stopped at another wood door which sprang open as I reached to knock on it.
“Hey, how you been? What a surprise, how long you here? Can I get you something, coffee, tea?” Will pumped my hand enthusiastically, half dragging me off balance. “My God, you’re soaked. You been outside long? Can I get you a towel?” He blurted out, wide smile on his handsome face.
“Whoa, Will.” I grinned back, suddenly warmed by his infectious manner. “I’ll get to all of that. How’re you been?”