The Nightcrawler

by Mick Ridgewell

  Things happen for a reason. His mother was fond of that expression. So when he felt his relationship with Beth was based on him saying what he thought she wanted to hear, he thought maybe his responses were just things happening for a reason. Then again, can anything that is based on two days be considered a relationship? He liked Beth and her family. He liked the Jeep and the camping gear. He liked the idea of coming back next summer for a job. However, dinner with the folks, he was not counting on. What he was counting on was being on the road early tomorrow.

  “Oh I don’t know if fun is a word I would use,” Beth replied uneasily.

  They had gotten through dinner without incident and Roger was beginning to think he was going to get out without the talk. He had it going through his head since they left Billy’s dealership. Jack would take him aside and give him the what for. Shit, the summer had started with him trying to convince his mother that things would be okay. Now he was trying to figure out how he would convince the Walkers the same thing. It was a pleasant dinner. Billy was late and took some of the attention from Beth. He also brought the receptionist and that rubbed Jack the wrong way. Bobbie came in alone, but was dressed in a provocative top that left very little to the imagination. That also pissed Jack off. Beth sat quietly beside Jack like the good child.

  Roger began to get nervous early on. Would Billy and Bobbie have Jack so wound up that he would rain down on him and Beth just because he didn’t like the way things were going? But that hadn’t happened, at least not yet.

  Then the axe fell. After dinner, Jack invited Roger to tour the house with him. Beth tried to go to Roger’s aid but Jack sent her off to help her mother clean up. How much help she needed with three domestics clearing the table was suspect. Roger followed Jack into his study. That’s what he called it, the study. It was a huge room with an equally huge oak desk, a stone fireplace against one wall adorned with brass pokers and a stuffed cougar over the mantle. The cougar was poised to pounce, its ears pinned and fangs exposed, ready for the kill.

  Jack caught Roger’s fixed gaze at the cougar.

  “Beautiful animals aren’t they? That one killed three of my cows and my favorite dog before I killed it. If my aim was off an inch either way, I may have been mounted on the wall.”

  Roger didn’t reply, he just made a weak attempt at looking impressed. He was sure that his effort only confirmed to Jack that he was shitting bricks. Make a run for it is what Roger wanted to do.

  “I like you, Roger.”

  Roger cringed at the sound of that. Anything that ever started like that had a colossal BUT, coming right after. His mind raced. Why had Jack dragged him in here? Was he going to buy him off? “Here, Roger, twenty grand and keep the Jeep. Just get out of here before Beth wakes up.” Maybe he was going to threaten him. “Roger, if you hurt my little girl I will mount you right up there with that cougar.”

  Before he could speculate anymore Jack continued, “I don’t know if you picked up on it, but Bethy is my favorite. I know parents aren’t supposed to have favorites but if you have more than one it’s bound to happen.”

  Isn’t this great, Roger thought, the man kills three-hundred pound killer cats for sport and his favorite child is planning to go on a road trip with him. Roger could feel his pores begin to moisten and his scrotum had drawn up so tight his testicles were pushing at his kidneys. He was sure that his face was beaded with sweat and Jack was about to turn up the heat.

  “I decided long ago to trust my kids to make good decisions. Bobbie isn’t very good at that yet, Billy is beginning to get the hang of it but he still has lapses. Beth on the other hand, I have never had to worry about. So when she came and told me she planned to join you on your quest, I had to support her. However, her little toy car wasn’t going to make the cut. Once you get off the highways around the canyon the roads can be primitive at best. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to let her hitchhike, it just isn’t safe. So I had Billy arrange the Jeep.” Roger’s mouth began to open and Jack held up his hand to silence him.

  “You seem to be as level headed as Beth so I’m not too worried about this,” Jack continued then paused again. “Don’t disappoint me kid, okay?”

  “Yes sir,” Roger said. He was desperate to think of something inspired to say to Jack. Something that would ease his mind, or maybe something that would reassure him, but ”Yes sir.” was all he could muster. Jack slapped Roger on the back and left the room. Roger stood and watched him leave unable to rationalize what was happening to him.

  Tomorrow he would be driving southwest toward Arizona in a brand new Jeep. Beth, a beautiful girl he hardly new was going to ride with him. Beth’s father who seemed to own most of the state of Nebraska had just given his blessing and there he stood, in the study of a huge mansion unable to make a simple decision like rejoin the group in the dining room.

  He stood in the middle of the study when Beth walked in.

  “Hey Vermont, you still alive? When you didn’t come back I thought maybe Daddy skinned you and mounted you up there with the cougar.”

  As Roger turned to look back at the cat, Beth charged him, screaming some kind of battle cry and jumped up on him, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs around his waist. Roger caught her, barely maintaining his balance.

  Jack entered the room and raised an eyebrow. Roger realized that he was holding Jackson Walker’s favorite child by the cheeks of her ass.

  “You two aren’t going to make me regret my decision, are you?” Jack asked.

  Beth released Roger and ran over to Jack jumped up on him the same way and kissed his cheek. “Calm down, Daddy, I’m just trying to cheer him up after you scared the crap out of him.”

  “Well, let’s get back to the others. Your mom’s got a big jug of lemonade or sweet tea waiting,” Jack said, leaving them behind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  At the Prairie Inn, sure, the staff was courteous, and the facility was clean and well- maintained. After the day Scott Randall just had it should have felt like Xanadu. In spite of the hotel’s amenities, a state of unease pressed in on him. He hoped work would take the edge off his agitation. He answered all his emails then sat in front of his computer staring at an unchanging screen while the urge to bolt from the room percolated between his ears. There was nothing in particular he disliked about his room or the hotel, but he wasn’t comfortable.

  His irritation started when the clerk at the front desk said, “Okie-dokie” while handing Scott his keycard. He had come to hate that expression from the first time he heard it come from the mouth of The Nightcrawler in front of Thomas Andrews’ office. Now what about that, he had given his hallucination a name. A name that came to him in a dream, well, in a nightmare was more like it. Maybe it was neither. Maybe it was a window to hell. Anyway, when questioned, the clerk claimed that what she said was “you forgot your room key” not okie-dokie, but Scott knew better. She said, “okie-dokie”. What the fuck does okie-dokie mean anyway?

  Then the bellhop in the lobby did that finger gun thing and made the clicking sound with his tongue. Is there anyone in the heartland who doesn’t do that? What is this, cops and robbers? It is not my finger; it’s a gun, you dork. For Christ’s sake, he thought. It’s like there’s a discussion group going in my head. Hello, my name is Scott and I’m a fucking whack job. Then the group says, “Hi Scott”. He goes into a history of Whack Job Scottie, and then there’s applause. Shit, that does it, fucking clapping in my head.

  To escape the group session, Scott went for a walk, dressed in the same clothes he had changed into at the hospital. The air was still hot, no hint of a breeze, the rain from the afternoon storm evaporating into a haze that hovered over the area. The moon was full, the sky clear and cloudless, but the lunar glow lacked luster, its reflected rays subdued by the haze. It was quiet, too quiet; eerie was how he would describe it. The only sound was an occasional whoosh of a car speeding by on the interstate a quarter mile away.

  He felt like he was twelve
. The night he had run away from home was just like this. His dad had scolded him for not trying to stretch a double out of a line drive to left center. When he got home, he ran to his room. He sat there for what seemed like hours, just sitting on the bed stewing over his dad’s tirade. Why couldn’t his dad be happy that he got a base hit? He moved the runner over to third and was safe at first. Then Robbie hits one right at the shortstop and poof, double-play. Scottie improved his batting average but his team lost the game. Sure, if he stretched his hit into a double, there would have been no double play, but that didn’t make the loss his fault. So, he ran away. When it got dark, he opened the window, threw his glove out on the back lawn, and climbed down using the TV antenna tower. He went to the ballpark and sat on first base. He screamed into the darkness, “I’m still safe.” Then he got scared. He lasted about an hour out there, in the night. Crickets chirped, an owl hooted and the wind was moving the trees, but Scottie didn’t feel any breeze. He just saw the trees move and heard the leaves rustle. He had to fight back the tears that welled in his eyes. He ran home, picked up his glove from where it fell on the back lawn and climbed back through his bedroom window.

  Twenty years later as he walked beneath the streetlights he again felt frightened. He looked up at the trees and watched them move in the wind. Scott did the Boy Scout test, finger in mouth, hold to the air, feel the breeze. Nothing there and yet the trees swayed to a rhythm of some unheard music.

  Crickets chirped all around, louder and louder, as if amplified. At first, it was just chirping, and then it became a raucous chorus of catcalls. It seemed like the whirr of noise that comes from a crowd of people all speaking at once. Then the whirr seemed to slow into a rhythm. The kind the sports fans get when they chant a player’s name in unison. But it wasn’t a name he heard, it was, “okie-dokie.” Scott clamped his hands over his ears. The chant was muffled, but still audible. He squeezed harder, his hands like a vice now, pressing against the side of his head. His ears started to ring, he sat on the grass eyes closed, hands over his ears, rocking to the chant, “okie-dokie, okie-dokie.”

  Then a voice broke the chant, “Are you okay, sir?”

  It was quiet again, even the chirping was gone. A cool breeze brushed Scott’s cheek as he opened his eyes to see who stopped the noise. A woman dressed in green scrubs was standing on the sidewalk looking down with a concerned expression. She was an average looking woman, not pretty, not ugly. One of the many someone’s, who could walk into a room and not be noticed. Her hair was cut in a bob, she wore no makeup, and her purse had straps like a child’s backpack and was strung over her left shoulder.

  “What, I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

  “I asked if you’re okay.” She still had a worried look on her face and added, “Do you need any help?”

  “No, I’m fine thanks.”

  “All right, but you really should get up off the ground, I work in this building and the sprinklers will be coming on in a…” Sure enough, they did. Scott managed to jump to the safety of the sidewalk with just a few water spots dotting his shirt and shorts.

  “Well, it looks like you saved me from a cold shower.” By now they were both laughing, the controlled laugh you enjoy when you’re with someone you don’t know.

  “Hi, my name is Scott. Let me reward you by buying you a drink.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Scott.”

  “Look, I’ve been on the road for what seems like forever, I’m just looking for some friendly conversation. How about it? Just drinks and conversation.”

  “I tell you what, Scott, I just got off work. My house is a couple of blocks from here.” She paused, almost as though she was debating in her head whether to continue with her current response. “If you like I could run in and change and then I might be open to grabbing a quick bite if you’re interested.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Scott answered with an enthusiastic resonance. It was a tone reminiscent of his response to an invitation from his dad to Dairy Queen after a ball game.

  His childlike demeanor had brought on another giggle that she tried to muffle by putting a hand over her mouth. Before he could say anything more she said, “My name is Gwen, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Scott.”

  Gwen started along the sidewalk without saying anything and Scott followed suit, walking slightly behind and to her left. A luminescent glow gave the trees along the road ahead of them a surreal spookiness. They walked along without speaking. Scott stared at the freakish skeletal shapes of the tree limbs, like he was waiting for someone, or something to jump out at them. Or maybe he thought the trees themselves might just come after him. After all, if worms could mold themselves into people, and crickets could chant, “Okie-Dokie,” then why couldn’t trees chase him through the streets of Salina, Nebraska.

  “Yer kinda quiet there, Scott, you sure you’re alright?”

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “I said, you sure yer okay?”

  “I’m good,” he said. “Gwen, what’s that light up ahead?”

  “Oh, that’s Heritage Park. Most likely a little league game’s goin’ on. Usually three or four at a time every night. They also got some old farts playin’ slow pitch. I stop and watch sometimes. The kids are fun, I call slow pitch ‘toss and giggle’. It’s a pale comparison to baseball.”

  This brought a chuckle to Scott’s lips that he didn’t bother to hide. He had played on the company slow pitch team in the past. It was just an excuse to go out on a weeknight and swill beers with the boys. With the exception of a few guys, the talent pool on the team was weak, but the after-game libation made the embarrassing losses on the field tolerable. He quit playing the year Tad McKinney took a bad hop off the side of the head that turned him into an idiot for the rest of his life. Tad was his best friend and an up and coming star player in the company, but now he needed help tying his shoes.

  “Hey Scott, there’s always a weenie wagon at the park when there’s a ball game. You up for ballparks and a Coke?”

  “Now that, my friend, sounds like a winning plan.”

  “Great, then I won’t need to go home and change.”

  They walked the rest of the way without talking. The sounds of the ballgames at the park ahead gradually broke the silence. A car full of teenage boys sped by, first honking then one of them yelled, “Fuck her, I did.” Gwen flipped him the bird but didn’t say anything. Scott just shook his head; he figured he was probably just as obnoxious when he was as young as those kids are now. They watched the car’s taillights disappear around the next corner, and their attention focused on the sound of the kids’ voices at the park. A light breeze carried the mouth-watering smell of hotdogs and sausages.

  When they got to the corner of Partington and Ashland, there were no more trees to obscure their view of the park. It was clear that all the games were little leaguers’. The hotdog vendor set up between the backstops of diamond’s two and three. The park, illuminated by large lights mounted on fifty-foot high poles, gave the whole place the glow of midday. It was like sitting at Dodger Stadium for a night game. Swarms of flying insects hovered around the lights giving the effect of living halos. The air was filled with the drone of young boys, chatting it up in the field, “um batter, batter”, “give him the heat”, “he ain’t got nothing”, the sounds of kids who play a game because they love it.

  Scott began to think about some of the spoiled millionaire athletes he’s dealt with at Cobra, and then looked back to the kids. There were four games going on, fifteen, maybe twenty kids per team. Eight teams in all, which meant there were as many as one hundred-fifty kids out on those fields. Maybe, not very likely, but just maybe one of those kids was going to be a star on a pro team. When that happened, the fun will have left the game for that kid. Some of these kids will play ball and enjoy it until they can’t find the time, or they can’t swing a bat because age has taken away their ability, but the kid who makes the pro’s will lose the fun when the game becomes a business and not
a game. What a shame that will be; taking the fun out of a child’s game should be against the law.

  Scott and Gwen crossed Ashland and went directly toward the gap between field two and field three. When they arrived at the hotdog wagon a boy about ten, wearing a Kansas City Royals jersey and hat was just walking away with a Cherry Coke in hand. A young woman, wearing a Cardinals shirt and a Royals hat was tending the weenie wagon. She was a pretty girl with a smile that glowed as bright as the lights surrounding the park.

  “What can I getcha?” She asked, her smile not waning as she patiently waited for an answer.

  “What’ll it be, Gwen, dogs or sausages?” Scott asked.

  “Sausages, absolutely sausages, and Dr. Pepper, if you have it.”

  “Same thing for you, sir?” the girl asked Scott.

  “That sounds about perfect,” Scott replied smiling back at her. He wondered if she ever worked at McDonalds, where they used to have “Smiles are free,” up on the menu. “You are quite a fence sitter aren’t you?” Scott said as she handed him two sausages.

  “I’m sorry,” she said her smile fading a bit, not understanding what he meant.

  “Royals hat and Cardinals shirt. You couldn’t make up your mind?”

  She handed him two cans of Dr. Pepper and said, “That’s eight dollars.” Scott handed her a ten and told her to keep the change. She thanked him then said, “It’s the people around here, some like the Cards, and some the Royals. Me, I like the Yankees but if I wore a Yankees cap or shirt I would never get any tips. Her smile returned bigger than ever as she stuffed Scott’s change into the back pocket of her jeans in a deliberate motion as if to accentuate her point.

  When Scott returned his attention to Gwen she was handing him one of the sausages. “I hope you like mustard and onions.”