by Kirsten Reed
Jeez, I hope that’s not a euphemism for anything. I feel like stealing his car keys. But I also feel kind of numb about it all now.
So, as it were, Gunther went out, and I stayed in and got as stoned as possible. I watched little snippets of various crappy TV shows. I daydreamed. I missed having Gunther around to talk stoned shit with; missed him, full stop. He was a solid entity. Being stoned without him was just too floaty. I never know where the hell I am. I fell asleep. I heard Gunther come in much later. He was fumbling around with his keys. He must have been drunk, which is an exceedingly rare occurrence. Almost enough of a curiosity to warrant turning on the lights and attempting a chat. Drunk Gunther is one Gunther I am relatively unfamiliar with. He smelled funny. He crashed onto the bed like a felled redwood. God, why is he being such an anti-hero?
This room had two double beds, and we had one each. We must have woken up around the same time. The first thing I saw the next morning was Gunther lying motionless on his side, gaping bloodshot eyes pointing straight at me. He looked like a corpse. I felt the corners of my mouth turning up tenderly. (Gunther calls this my cat smile. He says cross the Mona Lisa with the empathy of the all-knowing housecat, and you have my smile.) More of a faint grin, really. I suppose Gunther and I are alike in that respect.
He said, ‘Good morning, sunshine.’
I said, ‘Morning.’
‘Might sleep a while longer,’ he said, then craned his neck toward the digital alarm clock and moaned, ‘Ach, I already have.’
There was no point in missing checkout time. Clearly Gunther had already had all the fun there was to have in this town.
I had another few hours in the passenger seat, of just staring out the window. I figure we must be getting near our destination now. America’s funny that way. You’ll feel like you’re in the middle of the most forsaken dreamless expanse of nowhere, a crater. Then you get a half an hour of strip malls, then half an hour of ’burbs and crappy townships. Then you’re in some fucking huge city. All of a sudden it rises up, like Godzilla out of the ocean. This huge factory, spewing people and money, glitz and garbage, noise, smoke, and so many promises.
Unfortunately I am only aware of one promise at this stage. The only thing I can be nearly certain of is that there will be no me and Gunther there. I can stop wondering if and where he is going to drop me. He is dropping me there.
We’re not zig-zagging around the country anymore. Not visiting friends.
‘Gunther?’
‘Hmmm?’ He shoots me a sideways glance. He is concentrating very hard on the task of operating a vehicle today. He looks even more pallid, if that were possible. Glowing, borderline light blue.
‘We never visit friends anymore. You never take me to visit friends.’ I noticed the visits stopped pretty much around the time I jumped him, and the shame started to set in. He was ashamed of me. Maybe all he was doing during his disappearances was visiting friends on his own. He didn’t like what he was doing with me, and could only feel like himself again without me. Or maybe he was trying to prove he didn’t feel a thing for me, by porking his way around the country. I can’t really imagine it; can’t really see Gunther gathering the compulsion to be intimate with that many ladies in so short a time. He’s given me several indications that he is not as motivated by lusty pursuits as he used to be. He said he just didn’t feel like it anymore. But then, he has always been the secretive one.
‘Well, we can if you want to,’ he replied, casually, and then mumbled to himself, ‘Hair of the dog.’
We stopped for lunch at a kind of truck stop diner. Gunther ordered a doughnut. It must be a cold day in hell. I’ve started bringing the typewriter into places with me, and I’ve got it here. It’s light, and I can just put it up on the table, and write about Gunther while he’s sitting there. I like lining up new blank pages, winding them into position. It makes me feel like I have something important to tell. We’re talking less lately; I may as well. He doesn’t seem to mind much. I know he minds a little, because he sits there grimacing at me, but there’s a hint of a smile there, too.
‘Why don’t you ever write?’ I asked him. ‘Or draw?’ By this stage I was doodling on a napkin. I’ve seen Gunther’s handiwork before. The first time I decided he was truly a vampire, and didn’t just look like one, was standing in front of his painting of old Glorie. It would take more than a lifetime to amass that much skill and talent, I decided. And then I found out he could play the harp. The fucking harp. Do mortals play that?
‘You’re young,’ he said. ‘So young,’ and all the old tenderness flooded back into his face. ‘You have a lot to express.’
The waitress came over and started fussing over my napkin sketch. I’d done a drawing of the resident dog, who was curled up by the register. I said she could have it. She was positively swooning. I don’t think they get many interesting visitors through here. Or health inspectors.
She wandered off waving the picture at the dog, saying, ‘Oh, Pinchy, look! It’s you!’ Mostly I just draw to pass the time. I usually leave them behind; after all, they are napkins. So it wasn’t a big deal, giving her that one.
Not going to bother describing her. Stock standard waitress. Gunther hasn’t appeared to flirt with her. Maybe he’s over that phase. Or maybe he’s just too ill. God, he did order a doughnut. And ate it, no less.
I took another napkin out of the dispenser and drew a cartoon of Gunther’s stomach barring a doughnut’s admission. It was basically just a coil of intestines, with a speech bubble saying, ‘I’m sorry, you have the wrong stomach.’
‘Jeez, Gunther, I’m surprised your stomach doesn’t have a Do Not Enter sign for food like that.’
He grinned.
‘You’re such a fussy little eater.’ I giggled.
I’d gone back to the typewriter by now. Gunther picked the tummy cartoon out of a little pile.
‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, ’course,’ I said. He folded it into his breast pocket.
No one wants me. They only want the little pieces.
When we hit the road again Gunther headed off in an entirely different direction. We had been going east. We were now going south. Southwest, if anything. Within two hours, we were pulling up to a shack, situated in the middle of an expanse of barren grasslands. It looked like a military testing site. Barely fit for human habitation. But then, it seemed to suit the inhabitant. And there is something strangely calming about environments that sparse. And something clearly maddening…
Her name’s Delilah. She has dozens of wind chimes hanging from the roof of her seriously basic wooden cabin, encasing the front porch. I can’t imagine them ever chiming here. The wind doesn’t seem to ever blow. The sound of flies buzzing is the most prominent sound out here. The occasional plane flies overhead. And jets, too, to complete the military outpost feel. It is dreamily fucking boring here. After one glass of her Kentucky bourbon I felt like running around the porch yelling and smacking wind chimes, like a hyperactive three-year-old banging pots and pans. Environments that calm are anything but, in my book. Gunther says I have an active brain that requires stimulus.
Delilah was as drunk as a sailor’s whore when we got here, and insisted we reach the same state, A.S.A.P. She fixed Gunther up with a bourbon on the rocks, and when she pushed one on me, I glanced at Gunther. He gave me a pointed but reassuring ‘where are your manners’ nod. I guess this was one of those ‘when in Rome’ situations. Alcohol is probably Gunther’s least favorite intoxicant. He considers it poison, and generally doesn’t encourage me to partake in it. But that doesn’t stop him, on occasion.
Delilah was damn glad to see Gunther, but she was also so drunk the impact of the occasion seemed lost on her. She was acting like he just wandered over from next door or something. Like she saw him every day. But liked him a lot nonetheless. Thought he was a good sort.
‘So, little kitten,’ she slumped toward me. She was seated in a big wicker extravaganza. She gripped the arm of my
rocking chair. I had to brace my feet on the floor to keep from toppling backward. ‘Gunther usually travels alone.’
That hung in the air for a while. Then I said, ‘Yeah, well, he’s giving me a ride.’
‘Tha’s nice,’ she slurred. About thirty seconds later she blurted joyfully, ‘I’ll bet he is!’
Gunther and I both looked at her in reproachful silence.
She retreated with, ‘Naw, no. Gunther’s a perfect gentleman.’ She paused another thirty seconds or so and exclaimed, ‘Nowadays! Ah, Gunther!’ She winked, lurched over and slapped him on the arm as she said this. There was another reproachful (but bemused) silence from Gunther and me.
She retracted this statement, too. ‘No, no, you were always the gentleman…Gunther, Gunther, Gunther.’
Now let me describe her. Lots of jangly jewelry, and wild fluffy hennaed hair. Borderline chubby. She has on overalls, with daisy buttons. She looks like someone inflated a toddler. But then her face, under all those browny-red curls, is weathered and creased. There’s a black and white photo of her inside, from her flower child hey-day. She looks like a million bucks.
She tottered into the kitchen and started clanging pots around. She was making a pretty good stab at cooking us a big pasta dinner, given her state. Gunther and I gave her a hand. The resulting meal was a modestly good group effort. I was so damn hungry anyway, a hearty pasta went down a treat. Those two had red wine with theirs. Despite drinking hers with rapidity, Delilah appeared to sober up a tad during the course of the meal.
Turns out she’s a writer. A journalist, no less. Has assignments here, there, and everywhere. Manages to make a decent living out of freelance stuff. I can’t imagine her overheads being very high, living out here on the plateau…She’d been out to Chicago to interview homeless people. Then over to the neighboring county, to cover the trapping of a puma.
She had another crack at the subject of Gunther and me toward the tail end of dinner. We weren’t giving anything away. She asked if I had a boyfriend anywhere, and I said no. She asked me a few more questions in this vein, which I answered gruffly and noncommittally. I guess my moody indifference toward the subject of all things romantic spurred her on even more, because she leaned over my plate and said, ‘Sweet stuff ?’
‘Yeah?’ I ventured.
‘If I looked like you, I’d be giving it to everyone!’ She threw her head back and cackled joyously. She righted her head, and took a healthy swig of wine.
It was earlier than it seemed. The sun was still up. I was tired, but we headed into town. Delilah was insistent we experience the local nightlife, which was in surprisingly close proximity to her large patch of dirt and sparse grasses.
There was a crazy energy to this puny town. A few dozen drunken paces from Delilah’s, and we were in the thick of it. Main Street was bright and positively raucous. It was the old boredom + alcohol combo. These people knew how to whoop it up.
Gunther said, ‘Jack lives here, all right.’
We always laugh at those goddamn try-hard ads.
Delilah said, ‘You got that right, hot lips.’
That started a wave of giggles.
‘Gunther!’ I said, ‘did you roll us a joint?’
‘Why yes I did, sweet buns,’ he drawled.
I was laughing proper by now.
Delilah said, ‘I knew you guys had something.’
Gunther fired up the joint and handed it to me as we strolled along.
‘Hey, put that thing out!’ Delilah belted. ‘You wanna get the sheriff ’s department down on us?’
‘Cops?’ Gunther sounded amused. ‘Here? So… public drinking, fornicating, and maiming, all OK, just don’t try and smoke here. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, that is what I’m saying.’
I put the joint out on my belt buckle. I handed it to Gunther, who put it back in his tin.
‘Thanks, honey tits.’
‘Shut up!’ I snapped.
Delilah muttered, ‘Knew it all along.’
We walked three abreast through the wide entrance of a crowded bar, which was noisy of course. It seemed somehow quieter than it was out on the street. Maybe it was the music (Guns N’ Roses), acting as white noise. Underage drinking seemed to be the norm here. I saw an androgynous kid who looked about twelve slumped on the step, cradling a beer. I did what any teenager worth a dime would do: fronted up to the bar and ordered myself a drink.
Delilah and Gunther were down the bar a little ways. I was savoring my independence, probably more than my beer, which tasted kind of bitter. An affable redneck appeared at the bar beside me and ordered himself the same swill I was drinking. They had it on tap there. He looked youngish, with dark red hair and big fuzzy flaming sideburns.
He asked me where I’m from, and a few other small-talky questions. He seemed genuinely curious. I don’t think he was trying to score or anything. He nodded to those two down the bar, and asked if I was with them. I said, ‘yeah’. He said he thought he saw us come in together.
Then he gave a curt nod in Gunther’s direction and said, ‘That guy looks at you with fuckin’ love in his face, man.’
I said, ‘We’re just friends.’
‘Just friends?’ he snorted. ‘Not likely.’
‘Go ahead and ask him. He’s not into anything with me.’
He snorted again. ‘That’s the oldest trick in the book, missy. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.’
I pondered this. I’ve always found that saying idiotic. He added, ‘You chicks dig a challenge.’ His goofy smirk was widening between those huge sideburns. ‘I’m telling you: love in his face.’
I looked over at Gunther. He wasn’t looking at me. He was talking to Delilah. It did seem like a long shot, but then I guess you believe what you want to believe. I shouldn’t have, maybe, but I gave the Treat ’em Mean Theory my full consideration. It gained more plausibility as the night wore on. Each beer added more weight to the subject, like little devils lining up on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, telling me it all made sense now.
The jukebox cranked out a steady stream of loud, hard numbers. Not a single song you couldn’t dance to. I danced with girls, I danced with guys. Mostly I just danced by myself, with my eyes half-closed, in a little corner of the dance floor. Someone put on ‘Venus’. I like that song. It’s an oldie but a goodie. I glanced across at Gunther. For a second I thought I could see what Sideburns was talking about. It was one of those nights when I like being pretty, I like being alive.
We stumbled back out onto the street several hours later. There were only a few stragglers out now. You could hear the rural silence; feel its presence. We were laughing at I don’t know what. Just laughing for the sake of laughing at this stage, I think. Gunther was in such good spirits I really felt I had nothing to lose.
Delilah snagged herself on the door beads on her way back into the shack. She’d left the front door open, but I reckon in this town, door beads make for pretty good security. A struggle ensued that sent several strands flying, scattering beads everywhere. And Gunther’s and my attempts to free her nearly ensnared us both. She flailed around like an octopus caught in seaweed for a while, then finally broke free with one grand finale of a bead cascade.
Three drunks attempting to traverse a room with a floor covered in slippery beads turned into quite a spectacle. Gunther made it across OK, eventually. He has longer legs than us, so didn’t have to risk as many teetering steps. Once he was on solid ground, he reached across to me. I fell on my ass in the first attempt to reach his hand. When I was at last dragged to safety we turned to Delilah, who was crawling on all fours. That proved effective; she made it across the last few feet relatively speedily, unassisted.
We regrouped by the couch. Delilah said, ‘Well, I’m gonna hit the hay.’ Do people talk that way just because they live in the country? ‘Gunther, you can take the couch, and you’—nodding at me—‘can have the guest bed.’ There was a cot set up in a room next to hers, the size o
f a closet. Then she added, chortling, ‘Unless you two lovebirds want to sleep together…’
She clumped heavily down the hall, slammed her door and, by the sound of things, collapsed onto the bed.
I turned to Gunther gleefully, grabbed his hand and spouted, ‘Why not?’
A mix of emotion danced briefly across his face. Then it was gone, and he said somberly, ‘Didn’t I make myself clear?’
‘Yes you did.’
He gingerly handed me my hand back.
I fell into my cot and passed out pretty much straight away. I woke up to find I’d dribbled vomit on myself and onto the pillow. I crept out of my room and gave my shirt and the pillowcase a good scrubbing in the bathroom sink. I wadded them up with the intention of hanging them in my room, and scurried back down the hall. I didn’t want Delilah to catch me; I wasn’t up for the wisecracks she’d deliver. There wasn’t much chance anyway; I could hear her snoring in her room. And I was in no mood to face Gunther, even though I could be sure he would be ingratiatingly helpful in regard to the task at hand.
Those two finally woke up, and Delilah and I sat on the front porch while she smoked a cigarette. Gunther was in the shower. I asked her if she truly thought Gunther and I were an item.
‘Heck no, kiddo!’ she burst forth, good-naturedly. ‘I’m just cranking his shaft. Well, mostly.’
She took a pointed drag on her cigarette and added, ‘Old Gunther’s about the only guy alive who could travel around with a pretty little thing like you and not try anything on.’
‘Hmmm.’ I meant this to sound contemplative, not dejected, and I’m quite sure I failed.
‘Nowadays…he’s like one of those Buddhist monks who tries not to step on anything…bugs. Doesn’t like to stir a thing. Good old Gunther.’
I thought about this. As it happened, an ant was making its way across the porch, inching along, toward my legs. Saving this ant from being crushed under someone’s big foot does seem like an act of mercy. Steadfastly refusing to return someone’s love for you; I just can’t see the mercy in that. Surrendering to the force of our unquenchable feelings seems more graceful, humbly respectful to the will of the universe.