The Ice Age

by Kirsten Reed

  Gunther drove and drove and drove, and didn’t say anything. It started to get darker. We pulled up at a motel with an all-night diner attached. We’d traveled a long way today. Although it was still fresh, I wanted to think it was all behind us now.

  We cleaned up and strolled into the diner. A woman with a blonde beehive hair-do and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth was seated at a booth, reading the paper.

  And wouldn’t you know it, there was a fucking picture of us. This one was smaller, and it wasn’t on the front page. But sure enough, she raised her neon blue-shadowed eyes and narrowed them to a slit when she saw us.

  ‘Oh Gott in Himmel,’ muttered Gunther, with extreme exasperation. He doesn’t speak German very often, but I kind of like it when he does. It’s another vampirism about him. Most vampires started out on the Continent, I figure, and picked up a few languages over the centuries. ‘Why choose this life now, though?’ I thought to myself. It’s not very glamorous. Or distinctive. And why wouldn’t you just rise up and rip all these people’s throats out?

  ‘You know,’ he said partly to me and mostly to the awful patterned carpet, ‘I think I would just like to sit down and order a fucking meal.’

  Gunther doesn’t swear very often.

  But he added, ‘Fuck!’ and strutted over to a booth on the far side of the room. The old bee-hived battleaxe said something to the waitress, who never came to our table. No menus, no ‘Hi, what can I get ya?!’ Not even a glance. No waters, no bottomless coffee.

  Gunther said, ‘What is it with these people?’

  ‘People hate the P word, Gunther.’

  We talked about driving around looking for an open supermarket or another drive-through fast food hole. We didn’t feel like it in the end, and wound up getting potato chips and lemonade from a vending machine and going to our room. I noted internally that this was first time I had ever hit the vending machines with Gunther. Thus a new standard was set in vending machine companions, grumpy or not.

  He said he wasn’t going to scurry away like a fucking fugitive just because some fat blonde looked at him funny. So we sat in our room and smoked. And watched a James Bond movie. We both just stared at it. Those type of movies don’t do anything for either of us, and my mind had plenty of chance to wander.

  ‘Y’know, Gunther.’ I leaned toward him. ‘Some would say now we got nothing to lose.’

  As I spoke, James Bond was gliding across a swanky hotel room to bed a vixen. Gunther blinked lazily at the screen. I was trying to cheer him up, give him some encouragement. But I had that little devil on my shoulder again, too. I can never tell if I’m a good person or not.

  ‘Christ, girl,’ Gunther muttered, finally. ‘Your stitches—you’re not even healed yet.’

  ‘I mean later,’ I said, ‘I meant…’ I was going to say ‘love’, but why bother mentioning that now? Even though by rights I could. To say that I love him is no overstatement. He rules my world; has me hypnotized in some sort of fevered love trance. I can’t hold it all in, like a miser hugging all my riches to my chest, making sure none fall. I feel like it will all burst and go scattering. Like so many door beads.

  I looked over at him. He looked tired.

  Then he muttered with deadpan lethargy, ‘Maybe when you’re older.’

  It surprised me to hear him say that. And it all but confirmed my theory regarding his savoring his moment to freeze me into a love-locked eternity. Still, I can’t believe he’s putting me on the shelf. What the heck is wrong with starting your happiness now? What’s wrong with loving someone who loves you; loving them forever? I think that’s what everyone wants.

  I smoked and typed on the old red machine for the rest of the evening, which pretty much brings us up to speed.

  Someone wrote ‘pervert’ on our door; we noticed it as we left, very early in the morning. Only they misspelled it. What they had actually written was ‘prevert’. I just incorporated it into my lingo. A couple times today I teased Gunther with something like, ‘Why, Gunther, you old prevert.’ He’s been so down in the dumps lately, he barely cracked a smile. Maybe he’s getting sick of my wisecracks. But I like to laugh, what can I say? If there’s something to laugh at, I will. If that makes me immature, so be it. Glorie says it’s good for your abdominal muscles, laughing.

  We drove in complete silence, and I replayed Gunther’s blandly put but promising projection. There was the ‘maybe’, but there was also the ‘when you’re older’. How much older? I don’t want to start losing my looks. Or my personality. People do say age gives you character. But for my money, most people, it just takes what character they have and pickles it into goo.

  And, hang on a minute…maybe he’s just trying to get me off his back. Like a parent. ‘Maybe when you’re older’—goddammit, it’s not like I asked him for a puppy. This is love. He should give me a fucking straight answer. Leave me dangling…

  I turned my head slowly sideways and gave him a contemplative squinty-eyed glare. He didn’t see me. He was practically collapsed over the wheel. It was nearly check him for a pulse time. I wasn’t about to get on his case about this latest quandary of mine, or anything else. No matter what happens, what’s going on, when it comes to a future with Gunther, I still want to be in the running. So I try to behave myself.

  It doesn’t feel like we will ever escape this fucking hellhole of a county, which seems to be populated entirely by seething semi-literate pitchfork-wavers. It seems to be expanding as we try to reach its borders. Elliot, back at the hospital, had told me about a porno he’d seen at a party. Most unsexy porno, ever, he said. It was called Airtight, and consisted of a lady being fucked by several men trying to plug every hole they could think of. He said she didn’t look like she was having much fun. So I guess a couple of local fellas trying to play Airtight with me behind some shacks was the most excitement this region has seen for a while. At least there were only two of them.

  We got pulled over for a broken taillight, of all things. In broad daylight. The cop wrote Gunther up a ticket, told him to get the hell outta there, and spat when he said it.

  Gunther suggested we stop only for gas; keep moving until we reach civilization again. I agreed.

  It was at one of these gas stations that I did a scan of the magazine stand on my way to the ladies’ room, and came across Delilah’s article. I’d been wondering when that was coming out. I thought maybe at least it would clear up some of the nasty rumors floating around; clear Gunther’s and my names. Or, at the very least, Gunther’s. I didn’t have to look far, either. It was staring me right in the face. The cover. Of a proper nationally syndicated rag. The headline: Little Girl Lost. Well now, that really boiled my potato.

  I bought it, and showed it to Gunther. In the end, Delilah hadn’t taken any pains to make Gunther and me appear above board. It was full of vague innuendo and half-assed disclaimers. (‘Perhaps he is just a kind soul giving a waif a lift…’)

  Gunther rang her from a pay phone. He told her with sinister composure that if she didn’t rectify this situation with a forthcoming truthful article, he was going to sue her for libel and assassination of character. Apparently she said she had already written that article, it was her editor who insisted on giving it that risqué slant. And she assured him she is as upset as he is.

  He said, ‘I doubt that very much.’ And returned the handset slowly and heavily to the receiver.

  When we got back to the car, he said, ‘Maybe she’ll get a fucking Pulitzer,’ and threw the mag as far as he could. Which wasn’t very far. But magazines aren’t very aerodynamic, I guess. It landed all folded out and crinkled on the other side of the pumps. And then he just sped off. It’s not like him to litter.

  A few miles down the road he did something even more un-Gunther-like. He screeched the car to a halt, nearly in the ditch, got out, and just wandered off. Went trudging through the tall grass.

  ‘Gunther?’ I shouted behind him.

  He mumbled, ‘I’ll be right
back.’ (I think.)

  I thought maybe he was going to take a piss. After all, the world is one big men’s room. However, Gunther always prefers to use proper facilities, so I doubted this theory. But I decided to give him some space anyway. He took ages though. I felt like it was getting darker. I got out and headed in the direction he had. He hadn’t gone very far from the car, really. He was leaning against a weird sharp rock formation, smoking.

  I said, ‘Since when do you smoke during the day?’ He lowered his eyes toward the joint and I took it from him. I didn’t intend on smoking it. I just placed it lightly on my palm, like a little burning caterpillar.

  ‘Gunther?’ He didn’t answer, and I hadn’t thought of anything to say, anyway. My chest hurt, right through the middle. I took a drag of the joint. I took about five more, than handed it back to him. We made our way back to the car.

  Then he just sat there, in the driver’s seat. Sulking, I would say. I stared at him for a while. Then I said, ‘Maybe we should keep driving.’

  He said, ‘Yeah…Can you?’

  ‘Gunther!’ I laughed, ‘You know I can’t drive… Well…I can sort of…Do tractors count?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bumper cars?’

  ‘No.’ Now we were both smiling, a little.

  He pulled off the road, onto a dirt road that was basically part of the prairie, nearly indistinguishable from the grasses growing up around it. He proceeded to teach me how to drive his old beast of car.

  ‘About time you learned,’ he said.

  Seemed a strange time for a driving lesson.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ he said.

  ‘Been watching you.’

  He chuckled, and kind of rolled his eyes.

  There weren’t many cars around, so after a couple of hours I ventured out onto the road. I was a little shaky, but I did OK. Gunther reckons I was speeding.

  When we started nearing a town, Gunther took over the driving again. I’m not quite up to negotiating traffic yet. And all the stuff you have to do in towns; parking, stopping, starting, indicating. But I’m fine out on the open road.

  Gunther checked us into a hotel. I stayed in the car. We brought everything up to the room. Gunther took a shower. I sat on the bed and typed up all the day’s adventures: my driving lesson, Gunther’s mysterious wander. It feels like we are finally out of the scope of the horrible vengeful hicks. Like we’re back in the world again.

  When he got out of the shower, I was watching Bambi on TV. He sat next to me on the bed and said, ‘Oh, my small thing,’ and I was reminded English isn’t his first language. He stroked my hair. I nestled into his chest. He put his arms around me and held me for so long he fell asleep. I probably seemed asleep, too. But I couldn’t sleep. Being close to him again was just too electric. I didn’t want to miss out on any of it. So I stayed awake. Besides, I could hear his heart beating. So I just stayed up, listening to that, until I got too tired, and shuffled down onto my pillow. By then it was practically dawn. A bird was singing.

  Gunther woke up and disentangled from me, efficiently but not without tenderness. He went through his morning routine to the letter. He was a little withdrawn still, but seemed basically composed. I really want him to get his old composure back. I find it reassuring. I don’t like seeing him all frazzled. I don’t know what to do. But he’s a pretty sturdy old horse, I guess.

  We went out for breakfast. I got pancakes. They were damn tasty, too. Big and fluffy, just like I like them. This place was a family-run restaurant. One of those ones with a slew of adorable kids serving you. A big lady who resembled Aretha Franklin waved at us from behind the counter with a wooden spoon. It was nice to be somewhere normal again. It didn’t seem boring at all now. Normal seemed fantastic, sent waves of relief through me. They were all so nice to us, so friendly. I don’t even care if it was put on. I’m not about to get picky. Our waitress even had pigtails.

  As soon as we got out of town a ways, I took over the driving again. I really think I’m starting to get the hang of it. It’s funny to look over and see Gunther in the passenger seat. He looks so helpless, just sitting not doing anything, not controlling anything. Well, not controlling the vehicle, at least. Truth be told, I don’t glance over that way much. I really have to concentrate.

  As we got further out into what felt like the middle of nowhere, I got my confidence up, and indulged in a lingering study of Gunther. He looked like road kill. Or maybe a particularly down-trodden hitcher. Looked like I’d just scraped him off the side of the road, exhausted and defeated. He was peering back at me with haunted eyes, filled with such desperation. I was overcome. A cat smile was spreading across my face. I wanted to squeeze him, but I stayed where I was. He said, ‘That smile…that smile is…like a blanket.’ He sounded like Brad Pitt in True Romance. He sounded stoned. Which wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, except Gunther never acts stoned, even when he is. His diction is always perfect.

  I stopped for gas and scanned the magazine stand for tales of the heartland. It looked like our story had stopped spreading. Hadn’t felt like it ever would, felt like it would just keep growing like a wild fire. But it had thankfully been eclipsed by a genuine tragedy: a proper rape, a girl murdered. Her face was plastered everywhere. Our little incident was all but forgotten. When I got back to the car I tossed a magazine onto Gunther’s lap and said, ‘They’re not interested in us anymore.’

  He glanced down at the cover and droned, ‘Stupid fucking world.’

  I imagine it would be, if you’d lived through several different eras. I guess this one would look pretty ridiculous.

  On the third day of me driving, he curled up in the backseat. He moved a bunch of stuff up to the front and stretched out as best he could. He said there’d been a change of course. We had been driving almost dead south. Now he directed me northeast.

  I drove for a few hours with the radio on, eating corn chips. Gunther eventually poked his head up. I told him I was kind of tired, and asked if we could stop early today. He draped a hand heavily on my shoulder and said, ‘You’re not used to driving, I’m sorry.’

  We agreed to stop in the next decent-sized town. His eyes looked weird. I put this down to a shortage of prey, a departure from his vital, secretive habits. He’s been with me nearly all the time.

  The approach to a ‘decent-sized town’ was heralded by a marked increase in doughnut signs. The number of pizza signs escalated, then fast food outlets of all description. We got stuck behind a funeral procession, making its way down the main street, then pulled into a motel.

  We got to the check-in counter. We always pay up front. It was fifty dollars a night. Gunther took two wrinkled twenty dollar notes out and stared at them for a while. He held one in each palm, like he was comparing them. Then he said, ‘Be a dear and pay the man, will you?’

  I took each twenty from him, added a ten, and handed it to the clerk, who looked too bored to judge us. He was watching The Young and the Restless, and had a pink sweaty half-eaten burger sitting on his desk in a styrofoam container, which he was also using as an ashtray. Surely any distraction was a good distraction, but he seemed eager to get back to it; gave the distinct impression we were bothering him. Of course there were flies, buzzing around him in slow motion. They didn’t seem to be bothering him. One even landed on his greasy forehead. He didn’t bother to brush it off. I felt like swatting it for him. Felt like swatting him.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Um hmmm,’ was his reply. He couldn’t even manage an ‘Enjoy your stay’, but when I got to the room I could see that would have been a stupid thing to say. It was a musty shit hole. We may as well have slept in his burger container.

  ‘Gunther,’ I said, ‘I’m so tired and hungry.’

  ‘Yeah’, he smiled, and we ventured out.

  The funeral procession was still crawling along when we got onto Main Street. We were traveling in the opposite direction, so passed each creeping car. We were passing a metallic b
lue American rustbucket. The driver shouted, ‘Well, what do you fuckin’ know!’

  It was Football Shirt. I said, ‘Gunther, that’s…’ I didn’t know how to put it, so I just said, ‘That’s the guy who crammed his dick in my ass.’

  Gunther snapped out of his lethargy, or rather he incorporated the following actions into his lethargy, somehow: he glided smoothly over to the driver’s door and with one graceful sweep of his arm, opened it and pulled Football Shirt out by his… football shirt. (Yes, he was wearing a football shirt to a funeral. But it looked like it had been pressed. And he was wearing what he probably considered dress jeans.) It was a shock to see this asshole again, full stop. We must have been a thousand miles from that fucking town. I was practically healed.

  The guy in the passenger seat yelled, ‘Hey, what the fuck!’ and lunged across in a tardy attempt to play tug-of-war with Football Shirt. He jumped out and crossed to our side of the car, to the aid of his friend, who now had Gunther’s knee in his balls.

  I shouted, ‘Gunther, no!’ He was so clearly out-numbered. There were these two horrible creatures, and then there was the rest of the procession behind us, peeling out of their cars, rolling up their sleeves.

  I’ve never known Gunther to resort to violence. I’ve only known him to string a lot of long words together. He was doing all right for himself, I must say. There was something very ninja-like about it all. I guess I could add martial arts to his bag of tricks. But I was too petrified to be impressed. These guys were trying to hurt Gunther. And they were encroaching on us like Dawn of the Dead zombies. Any second now, they would hurt Gunther, I just knew it.

  Someone grabbed his hair, and pulled him backwards. I was on that guy in a second. I swung my leg up and kicked him in the balls. Like I say, I was nearly healed, and I only had one stitch anyway. But a high kick was ambitious, and I felt something tear. My jeans started filling with blood. Nothing major, just like I’d forgotten to insert a tampon.

  Some of the people coming over were trying to stop the trouble. But most were joining in. I wanted to run away, but we were surrounded. So we just had to claw our way around this circle of hicks, like a couple of alley cats. Then a really hefty fellow arrived and put Gunther in a headlock.