by Bella Knight
Thandie and the guys got a few hours in a hotel room just outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, and then they hit the road again. They had breakfast in a coffee shop outside Amarillo, Texas.
Jerry was pacing, gun in hand. Frank heard the bike come up, and opened the window onto the dusty, hammer-bright day. Pomp got off the bike, and hung the brand-new helmet on the handlebar. The other one was in the seat storage. He pulled out a six-pack of Cokes and a mess of tacos, and carried them in. He handed one bag and four of the Cokes to a dispirited Frank, and padded his shoulder.
Pomp pointed his head toward the house. “Go in, be with the family,” he said.
Frank stared at the food and the plastic ring with Cokes hanging from it, as if he’d never seen anything like it before. Pomp gave him a tiny shove, and sent him out the door.
Pomp stared at his friend, and tried not to let the shock show on his face. Jerry had lost fifty pounds. He looked like a cancer survivor. A shy skin hung loosely down from around his middle. All those muscles were gone, attacked and eaten by a body on a starvation diet.
“I brought tacos,” said Pomp. Jerry stared dully at him. Tacos take two hands, thought Pomp. He popped the top on each can, and put them on the floor. There was nothing but an ancient, stained futon with a blue sheet haphazardly spread on it. Pomp stood in the corner where he could watch the door of the shed. The floor had been swept.
Jerry wore an ancient blue shirt, with “Running” on it, with a dog pacing a man in silhouette, and black shorts that had faded to gray. He was in the corner where he could see the door and the window. Pomp unwrapped the end of a taco and handed it to Jerry. Jerry took it. Pomp reached down and unwrapped a taco for himself, stuffed with chicken, tomato, salsa, lettuce, and sour cream. He handed Jerry a napkin. Jerry put the gun in his sagging waistband, and took the napkin. They ate. Pomp handed over the Coke after Jerry inhaled two tacos, and he drained it. Pomp only drank half his Coke and ate one taco. He gave a third taco to Jerry, and Jerry ate it all. It was like watching a starving wolf eat. It was horrible to think he had lost so much weight.
“You talked about tacos nearly every day in Kandehar,” said Pomp. “It’s Taco Hell, but it works.” He took one last sip of Coke, and handed it to Jerry. Jerry drained it. “You got anything you wanna take with you, ‘cept your ID and social security card and birth certificate?” Jerry slowly swiped his head back and forth. “Got an opening. On a farm, with Robert.” He hadn’t said a word to Robert, but he knew the kind man would do what he needed to, and that Vi would feed him in the farm kitchen.
“You can live with Mike, but that’s fucking loud. New baby in the house.” Jerry shrugged. “So, you’re bunking with us. We live in a three-bedroom. Fuckin’ company owns the whole apartment building. We’re full up, but you’ll get your own room later.” Jerry tilted his head, as if he heard the “wah wah” of Charlie Brown’s teacher. “Where’s your birth certificate?”
Jerry pointed to the futon. Under the futon was a blue accordion folder, battered and torn. Pomp opened up the folder, and found the birth certificate, the social security card, Jerry’s discharge papers, his diagnoses, and a pathetic pile of letters. From Jerry, then an attorney, then Jerry’s brother, Frank. A letter to get the medical and psychological attention that Jerry needed. He scanned but didn’t read. He’d give it to Thandie to take to Wraith, and Jerry’s frightening weight would be thrown onto the problem. He felt something in the bottom, and quailed when he realized it was a Purple Heart for bravery in battle, out of its box, sliding around in the bottom of a plastic accordion file.
He closed it up, and put the band back on the accordion file. “Let’s go. You want to say goodbye to Frank?” Jerry gave Pomp the side-eye, so Pomp just nodded as if Jerry had already spoken. Pomp walked over and took the detritus of the tacos and the cans from Jerry. He crushed the cans, and put all the trash in the bag. “Let’s go,” he said, and walked out the door. Pomp threw the bag away in the trash by the street, and he then walked back to the bike. He took a deep breath when he realized Jerry had entered the sunlight, blinking slowly like a sloth in the sun. Pomp walked back, and took the second helmet out of the storage. “Gun here,” he said, and passed over the helmet.
Jerry shuffled forward, and put the gun in the helmet storage. Pomp used a single finger to engage the safety, but he was terrified to have a loaded weapon in between his legs. But, in reality, he had to get Jerry on the bike before Jerry changed his mind. Jerry fumbled with the strap, but got the helmet on. Pomp made sure the helmet was on (after he put on his own) by poking it. Jerry backed off, but realized Pomp was only checking the helmet, and let Pomp poke his helmet. The helmet stayed put. Pomp stepped back, got on the bike, and stood it up. He turned the key, and revved the engine. Jerry stumbled forward, but got his leg over without burning his calf on the exhaust. He straightened, and Pomp nearly lost it. Jerry used to make entire Jeeps dip upon getting in them. Now, this was a shell, a cancer patient, but the cancer was in his nervous system, his functionality.
Jerry got his feet on the pegs, those still-large feet, in (badly abused) gray jogging shoes, scuffed and battered. Pomp got the bike backed up, turned around, and made his way back to the I-22. He got on, and headed to the 269. They got on the 40, and he pulled off at a rest stop just past Memphis.
He took the helmet from Jerry, and put it in the seat. Jerry lumbered toward the rest stop at a fast clip, giving Pomp enough time to get the bullets out of the gun. He put the bullets into his saddlebag, and replaced the gun under the helmet. He went in; himself, and gave Jerry some dollars to purchase candy and soda from a machine. He came back out to find Jerry consuming a Baby Ruth bar and finishing off a Coke. They got back on the highway, and they rode for a while.
“He’s on the I-40 heading toward you,” said Wraith in Thandie’s ear. “They’ll be in Little Rock in a few hours. I suspect they’ll stop for lunch at (or before) there.” She sighed. “He’s on a used, and expensive, Harley-Davidson Road Glide, gold and black.” She rattled off the license plate.
“That should be easy to spot,” said Thandie. “We’ll stop before Oklahoma City for food, and maybe crash.” She snorted. “Tell us when our pings start to merge so we can get turned around.”
“Will do,” said Wraith.
Pomp tried to get Jerry to talk, but his eyes remained closed, stony. He used rest stops to send texts to Jerry’s brother Frank. Jerry didn’t have anything on him but a battered wallet containing his old military ID, no driver’s license, and an entire dollar. Pomp took him to a used clothing store and got him shorts, jeans, T-shirts, work boots, motorcycle boots, and tennis shoes. He bought another pair of jeans and two more T-shirts as well. He bought a package of underwear at the dollar store, and duffel bags for each of them. Pomp threw out Jerry’s old clothes. Jerry had absolutely no reaction to being dressed like a doll. Pomp was terrified; Jerry used to talk, a lot, about food and jazz, and everything else under the sun.
Thandie, Star, and Sayan found a red-roofed hotel, right next to a Denny’s coffee shop. They ate pancakes and bacon, completely mechanically, like cows chewing cud. Thandie received a text, with an ATM photo of Jerry.
The next was his military file. Thandie cringed at the difference. It was like a linebacker became a pencil-pusher. “He’s a signal support systems specialist. Army. Took a lot of information system courses, has certificates, was five classes away from a bachelor’s degree in information systems. Then he got blown up. The communications tent was bombed. Six died. He singlehandedly saved two, pulled them out of a burning tent and put out the fires with his own clothing. His hands are scarred, but usable. He has burns on his chest, and he conducted first aid. He has a chunk missing out of the muscle of his left arm, and is in perpetual pain because of it. He watched people he’d worked with and trained with, die horribly. He got a purple heart.”
“Fuck,” said Sayan. “We gotta help this guy.”
“We can’t help him by falling on our faces,” said
Thandie. “Let’s sleep, and meet them. Six hours?” Everyone nodded. They finished, paid, and went next door to crash.
They met the next day on the other side of Oklahoma City. They stopped at another coffee shop, and they all ate like pigs, with plates of biscuits, bacon, eggs, and hash browns. Pomp looked exhausted. Jerry looked like a shell, a people-sized robot. He ate mechanically, like he didn’t even taste the food.
“We’re going to take it slower on the way back,” said Thandie. “Get enough sleep.”
“Yes, Boss,” said Pomp. He called her that in the field. “Wraith check in?”
“She’s delighted we’ve joined up. She says she hopes you’re not too in love with the bike.”
Jerry showed the first stirrings of interest. “It’s mine,” he said. “Pete has one.”
“Good to know,” said Thandie. “It’ll be a perk if you get picked up by High Desert. You’ll learn every single millimeter of it.”
Pomp, aka Pete, sighed with relief. Jerry had been speaking in grunt language. He was beginning to wonder if Jerry had become a zombie. “Cool,” he said.
“Let’s reverse,” said Thandie. “Where’s Jerry going to sleep?”
“My room,” he said. “I’ll take the couch.”
“We can hang a pod, but then you’d have to take it down,” said Star.
“Naw,” said Pomp. “Jerry’s gonna get bigger, fit into his shoes again. He’ll end up on a king-sized bed again.” He grinned. “He’ll need his own room.”
“Gotta get ya trained first,” said Sayan, smiling at Jerry.
“That’s gonna happen,” said Pomp.
“Word,” said Star. “So, we can do it in shifts.”
“Robert,” said Pomp. Everyone nodded.
“I’ll text him,” said Thandie. “And, a little piece of Damia sunshine will do him some good.”
“He’ll learn how to build bikes, paint Zuni designs, and learn how to clean tack,” said Sayan. “Takes me back to my peoples’ roots.”
Thandie grinned. “Arabian horses?” she said. “Don’t they have mostly painted ponies on Henry’s farm?”
“Be happy for the moment. Your moment is your life,” said Sayan.
“Omar Khayyam was Persian, not Arabian,” said Thandie.
“I’m eating the last of the bacon, and getting out of here,” said Star. She took it and headed out to the parking lot. “Getting too deep in here.”
Pomp used the company card, and they hit the road again. They retraced their trip, heading through the grasslands of Oklahoma to the badlands of Texas. They ate a fast food lunch. They slept in an inn just past Amarillo, after a huge barbecue meal. Sayan had the chicken; the rest of them ate pulled pork, fries, and sodas.
“We need to get you a Nevada bike license for you to keep the bike,” said Pomp. Jerry grunted. “We can give you a rundown, get you started.” Jerry grunted again.
The gun and ammo were gone; Thandie had them. But there were cars, trucks, even just leaning the wrong way on the highway. Jerry could still kill himself, quite easily. Pomp didn’t know what to do with the shell of a man in front of him. This man was a zombie. The man he knew who loved music, who always had a foot tapping or a finger moving. The music didn’t make him move anymore. Did he have to bring Jerry to a dance club? He pulled up his cell phone, and found a jazz club in Amarillo.
“I’ve got a side trip,” he said.
“We’ll come with,” said Star. “Where?”
He passed her the cell phone. She passed it back. “Drummer?”
“Saxophone and trumpet,” said Jerry. Pomp nearly fell out of his chair. Jerry actually spoke. “Where are we going?” Jerry asked.
“To hear some trumpet,” said Pomp. Jerry held out his fist, and they bumped fists. Thandie let out the breath she’d been holding in for two days.
They entered into blue and purple lights, a bar along one side, with tables along the other. The blues were smoky. A man in a white hat sang Sting’s Moon Over Bourbon Street, in an achy growl. They ordered Cokes. Thandie slipped out, and waved her fingers. Pomp gave her the company card. She vanished out the back.
The song ended with a wolf howl, and people clapped. A stunning African-American woman in a golden dress that barely came to her knees sang the torch song Fever, in a growling way. She went into a jazz version of Meghan Trainor’s All About That Bass, then Snarky Puppy and Lalah Hathaway’s Something, including the nonsense scat, minus Lalah’s amazing ability to sing chords. The band swung into Daft Punk’s Lucky. Then, together, the man in the porkpie hat, black suit, and white string tie and the gorgeous woman sang such a smoky version of the song, and the audience danced in their seats, and on the tiny floor in front of the band.
Thandie bounced her way back in on the heels of the song. She handed over a battered black trumpet case, complete with a mute. She handed it to Jerry, and slid past Star to get into the booth on the other side of Sayan. Jerry ran his fingers over the case, and then opened it. He stroked it, felt the golden metal under his fingertips. He opened the case, and while the band drank water, and the bassist played a few chords, he stood, trumpet in one hand, the mute in the other. He played a few notes, stopped, and then played again.
A man came up with a Spanish guitar, the band settled, and somehow Jerry knew what to do. He walked forward, and took his place. The female singer moved away from her mic, and gave it to him. He played some notes, and then the cellist came up, moved the bassist over, and played a gorgeous coda. The Spanish guitarist played the opening bars to Sting’s Fragile. The female singer got another mic, and sang with a beautiful, haunting voice. The cellist, guitarist, and Jerry came in at different times. It was beautiful, and truly haunting. Pomp found himself crying. He’d been annoyed when Jerry went on and on about the YouTube video with YoYo Ma, the famous cellist; Sting on a lute; Chris Botti on trumpet, and Dominic Miller on guitar.
The singer slipped into Joss Stone’s Right to Be Wrong, followed by About a Boy, then Miz Independent. The audience bopped in their seats.
Then, Jerry started playing a song everybody knew. The woman stepped aside, the man got up and sang, in full Louis Armstrong mode, about their beautiful world. Now everyone else was tearing up in their desert group. They’d all been blown up, scarred, damaged, in places both seen and unseen. He hit the notes beautifully, growling and loving at the same time. The cellist and bassist played together, and the song finished. The band stood back, and the woman came up. She sang a perfect acapella version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. The notes died out, and they all sat in silence. Then, the standing ovation came.
Jerry came back, and drained his Coke. “We can go now.” And they did.
The next morning, the road back was a smooth ribbon of road. The sun beat down like a hammer. They wore full-face helmets to keep from eating dust. They listened to a bizarre mix of shit-kicker country music, Tom Petty, AC/DC, and torch songs. They screamed the lyrics out on the highway, especially the Live 1985 version of Tom Petty’s Breakdown, AC/DC’s Highway to Hell, Big & Rich’s Save A Horse (Ride a Cowboy), and a very slinky version of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On.
They taught Jerry the parts of the bike at truck stops, rest stops, and diners, and Star took it upon herself to quiz him in the middle of conversations about the farm and High Desert. They ended up teaching Jerry how to ride on a wide stretch of open road off the I-4o somewhere in New Mexico. He was more awake, more alive. The bike pleased him, excited him. It woke Jerry up. They let him take flat stretches of road every few hours, getting him warmed up, inside and out.
They found a jazz club just outside Albuquerque, and they spent time hearing songs like I’ll Be There and In the Still of the Night, Unchained Melody, and a very upbeat and jazzified Stop Dragging My Heart Around. The musicians let Jerry play, and he did them proud, despite missing a chunk of his arm and still being far too thin for his frame. They crashed there that night.
They made it into town at three in the morning. Pomp parked the b
ike right next to his own. In the apartment, Wild Bill was waiting up, and he gave Jerry his room. “Got someone in town,” he said, and took off, duffel on his back.
“That was weird,” said Jerry. “Who was that guy?”
“One of our brothers,” said Pomp. “I get the shower first.”
“Fuck you,” said Jerry. “I’m dirtier, and I ain’t sharing.”
“Fine,” said Pomp. He went into his room and dropped his duffel. He put Jerry’s open duffel into his room; Jerry had gotten more clothes out. And the toothbrush from a hotel. Soon, both men were showered and sleeping.
They got Jerry to the motorcycle course, and he got his license eight hours later. Pomp picked him up, and took him out to the farm. They got there in time for steak, potatoes, biscuits with honey and butter, and salad. Both men had limeade, welcome after a hot day.
Henry put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “Welcome,” he said. “Sit next to Robert.” Robert grinned, pulled out a chair, and said, “I bought some tools,” he said. “They’re old, but they still work. We need to clean them after dinner.”
Jerry nodded. He buttered the biscuit and poured on honey from a pot. Robert introduced everyone. He was stunned at the noise. The baby, Tarak, who screamed bloody murder, passed from mother to mother, to Henry, to Nantan, his father.
He instantly stilled, and looked into his father’s eyes. “Now there,” said Nantan. “My little warrior. Is that any way to act?” The baby burped loudly, making everyone laugh, and grinned at his father. Chayton looked over Nantan’s shoulder, and grinned down at his son.
A trio of girls came in, sat down, and began speaking over each other in Mandarin. Ivy came in, kissed each one’s head, and made sure they ate their vegetables. Callie came in behind her, kissed her wife, and sat down across from the girls. David brought in the raw green beans, put them down, and kissed Henry’s cheek. He sat down, kissed Tarak’s head, and grinned.