The Detachable Boy

by Scot Gardner

  Clifford turned to the crowd. ‘It’s okay, people, the cavalry have arrived!’

  Several people cheered. By the time Clifford turned around again, I’d almost made it to the Exit gate, striding and limping and whispering words of encouragement to my foot. ‘You can do it, little kicker, hang in there.’

  Finally, I pushed through the pedestrian turnstile and on to the roadside. At last I was . . . I was . . .

  I watched the cars streaming past on the road in front of me and felt incredibly small. Now what? I didn’t know which way to go or where to even start looking for directions. I felt hopelessness settling on my shoulders, threatening to drive me into the ground, threatening to crush me into embarrassingly small pieces.

  A yellow taxicab mounted the kerb and skidded quietly on the grass by my feet. The driver leaned across and opened the passenger door.

  ‘You look like you need a cab,’ she bawled over the traffic noise. She wore dark glasses and her hair looked as though it had been styled with high doses of static electricity.

  I leaned towards the open door. ‘I’m not exactly sure where I . . .’

  ‘Get in,’ she said. Her smile was warm but there was no room for negotiation in the tone of her voice.

  I did as I was told.

  The cabby leaned across me and slammed my door.

  ‘Now, where are you headed, little man?’

  ‘I’m not exactly . . .’

  ‘Give me something to work with here. You’re going home?’

  ‘No. Not exactly . . .’

  The woman sighed. ‘Not exactly. I guess that’s a start. So you’re going to school? Where?’

  ‘I don’t have any American money. I only have Australian dollars.’

  I drew the wad of notes from my jacket pocket.

  ‘Whoah!’ the cabby said. ‘That’s okay, I’m sure we can work something out. Where to? That’s the ten-thousand-dollar question.’

  ‘The Lost Head Diner. Do you know where that is?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Don’t know that one. Got a street address?’

  ‘One thousand five hundred Penny Silvania Avenue.’

  The cabby squinted for a moment. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Carcass Springs.’

  The cabby squinted again. ‘Nope.’

  ‘In Arizona.’

  The cabby’s head clunked against her window in surprise. ‘Arizona?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Even that fat roll of notes in your pocket wouldn’t cover the fare for me to take you to Arizona, little man. That’s two day’s drive. You’re in LA. California.’

  She took a map from beneath her seat and unfolded it over the steering wheel. ‘We’re here,’ she said, and pointed to a spot on the bottom left corner. ‘And you want to go here.’ She scrunched the unfolded map into her door until Arizona – the Grand Canyon State – appeared over the steering wheel.

  ‘That’s a long way,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise . . .’

  ‘The way I see it,’ the cabby went on. ‘I can either turn and drop you at the airport right there and you get a United flight to Tucson, or I can take you across town to Union Station and you get yourself a ticket on the train. What’s your preferred mode of transport?’

  I shrugged. ‘I . . .’

  The cabby leaned close. ‘Do you have a passport or any sort of photo ID?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then I’ll be recommending the train. You buy your ticket and you climb aboard, no questions asked. Okay?’

  I nodded tentatively. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Union Station, here we come. Belt up, little man, this could get bumpy.’

  I put my seatbelt on and noticed that the cab was a mirror image of the taxis back home, with the driver on the left and the gearshift operated with the right hand.

  The cabby slammed into gear, mounted the island between lanes amid blaring horns and shouts of abuse, and then pointed her car towards the city. Some things were exactly the same as at home.

  I gripped the door handle with one hand and the side of my seat with the other.

  ‘You talk funny, little man. Where you from, Connecticut?’

  ‘No, I live near Sydney.’

  ‘You’re having me on. Sydney Ohio?’

  ‘No, Sydney Australia.’

  ‘Oh,’ the cabby said. ‘I haven’t heard of that one. Is it pretty there?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’

  ‘Do you have a mom and a dad?’

  ‘One of each.’

  Well, last time I looked. I had a sudden urge to write them a postcard, just to let them know I was alive.

  Dear Mum and Dad, Camp Wobblybutt is great. The rides are great.

  The food is great. I accidentally set off the fire alarm. It was great.

  Love, John.

  ‘Do they have McDonald’s where you live?’

  ‘Yes, there’s one in the next suburb.’

  ‘So Sydney is quite close to civilisation, then?’

  I frowned. ‘You could say that, yes.’

  We were silent for a minute as the cabby zipped through the cars ahead as though they were witches’ hats.

  I held tight.

  ‘Anyway,’ the cabby said between death-defying lane changes. ‘I’m Kerry. Kerry DeLorenzo. Welcome to LA.’

  My back was pinned to the seat. ‘John Johnson.’

  Kerry took evasive action, dodging an old Dodge, flying around a green Beetle and roaring past a big black Hummer. A pen slid across the dash and onto my lap.

  I didn’t know how much more of Kerry’s driving I could take before my body became a pile of limbs in the footwell. I never went on those wild amusement rides at Luna Park for the same reason. It’s one thing to lose a handful of coins or your mobile phone but something totally different to misplace your foot or your head. All I could do was hang on and hope. And hold my breath.

  Half an hour passed before she stopped at Union Station. Half an hour had also passed since I’d last taken a breath.

  ‘There we are, John Johnson. Union Station. That’s twenty-seven dollars US or . . .’

  She took a little calculator from the console. ‘Say thirty-two dollars Australian.’

  I unrolled a fifty-dollar note, my fingers jittery and unco-operative. ‘Please. Keep the change.’

  ‘Why, thank you, John. You have a nice day now.’

  Kerry started the car moving before both of my feet were on the pavement. The force of acceleration slammed the door and sent me spinning. I regained my balance and took stock of my body – all limbs and appendages present and accounted for. I shook my head – gently – and entered the station.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE MAN at the information counter had a smile as wide and bright as Ravi Carter’s, and I felt a pang of homesickness.

  ‘How may I be of assistance?’ the man’s teeth asked.

  I blinked hard. ‘I’m trying to get to the Lost Head Diner. It’s on Penny Silvania Avenue in Carcass Springs, Arizona.’

  The man tapped his chin. He took a pen and wrote as words exploded from his mouth like machine-gun fire. ‘You can’t get straight to Carcass Springs on the train but you can get to Maricopa by purchasing a ticket on train number four-two-two, the Texas Eagle, eastbound, departing from Platform Eleven at two-thirty p.m. Take that train all the way to Maricopa, Arizona, then you want to go south on the Maricopa Road, all the way to Route Eighty-four, where you’ll turn left then right into Stanfield Road. Go straight over Route Number Eight and along the edge of the Sonoran National Monument until you reach your turning. Penny Silvania Avenue is a short service track off the Stanfield Road. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . which train did you say I . . .’

  The man handed me a slip of paper. He winked at me. ‘Took the liberty of writing that down for you. Have a nice day.’

  ‘But I don’t know where to buy a ticket and I only have . . .’

  ‘The money exchange is next to the ticket count
ers on Level One. Have a great day.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Next, please.’

  I was buffeted aside by a man in a large white cowboy hat. Did I say large? That hat was big enough to reduce global warming where he stood. Big enough to be seen by aliens in deep space. It could have carried three refugee families and all their worldly possessions halfway around the planet.

  I made my way to Level One and found the currency exchange booth next to the ticket counter, as the man at the information desk had promised. I swapped my roll of Australian dollars for a slightly smaller roll of greenbacks and stepped next door to the ticket counter. The one-way trip from Union Station to Maricopa would cost sixty-four dollars.

  ‘How long does the trip take?’ I asked as I handed over the money.

  The ticket master fingered a chart on the wall beside him. ‘Seven hours and thirty-seven minutes.’

  ‘Are there any . . . toilets on the train?’

  ‘Yes sir, fifteen toilets, a restaurant and a snack bar.’

  I took the ticket, smiled and marvelled at how luxurious transport can be when you actually pay for a ticket.

  It was 1.36 p.m. when I found Platform Eleven: almost one hour before my scheduled departure. I sat on a cool metal seat and started to shake. What was I doing here, half a world away from home trying to find a needle in a haystack? A girl-type needle in the gargantuan haystack of America. What if Crystal was no longer at the Lost Head Diner? What if the kidnappers had made their ransom demand, Crystal’s mum and dad had paid them and Crystal was already back home safe and sound? How on earth was I going to get back to Australia without Ravi’s special case?

  Then my thoughts moved to doughnuts.

  Doughnuts?

  A kid walked past on the platform scoffing a big lump of sugary doughnut. All of a sudden I remembered how hungry I was. I skittered to the kiosk and loaded up with two iced doughnuts, a packet of chips, a can of Pepsi and a hot dog. With mustard.

  I slurped and chomped my way through the entire stash inside five minutes, leaving my lap covered in crumbs and my bloated stomach wishing I’d chewed more and swallowed less. I ate so fast I accidentally discovered that iced doughnut and hot dog mustard go surprisingly well together.

  In time, the Texas Eagle arrived and I clambered aboard with the fifty or so other passengers boarding at Union Station. There were women and men and children and a startling number of cowboy hats. My ticket allowed me a window seat and as we left the city, the quiet rock of the train and the sun on my face lulled my jet-lagged body to sleep.

  It was dark outside when I woke. The big man opposite had his white cowboy hat tilted over his face and his hands folded on his stomach. Perhaps he was watching a documentary about sea cucumbers on Discovery Channel under there? Perhaps he was just asleep. The woman in the corner seat beside me had her eyes concealed behind dark glasses but her head lolled peacefully with the movement of the train. The watch on the big man’s wrist told me it was five minutes to ten. I’d been asleep for more than six hours. Fifteen minutes more and I would have missed my stop.

  The restaurant was closed but the snack bar was packed with travellers. I bumped through to the counter, ordered another doughnut – with mustard – plus a cheese sandwich and a bottle of water, then made my way back to my seat. As I did so, the train began to slow. There were streetlights flashing past the window.

  ‘Maricopa,’ the big man said, stretching and yawning. He stood and collected a small bag from under his feet. ‘Home sweet home. Well, almost.’

  I smiled. I jammed my cheese sandwich into my jacket pocket and followed him to the door of the train.

  ‘You getting off at Maricopa, too?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m heading for Carcass Springs.’

  ‘Carcass Springs? Why would anybody in their right mind want to visit Carcass Springs?’

  ‘There’s a diner there. The Lost Head Diner.’

  ‘Lost Head Diner? I know the place. Greasiest, ugliest backwater filth-pit you’ll ever see. Now, what would a respectable young man like you want with an armpit of a place like the Lost Head Diner?’

  ‘My . . . uncle . . . owns it. I’m just here for a holiday.’

  ‘Oh. Well. No offence intended. I’m sure your uncle’s a mighty fine man. Is he coming to pick you up?’

  ‘No. It’s actually a surprise visit, so I don’t expect that he will.’

  The big man touched the side of his nose and smiled. ‘You want a lift? I’m heading right past your uncle’s doorstep on my way home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Do I look like the sort of man that would lie to you?’

  His smile seemed genuine. He sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. I shook my head.

  ‘You have luggage to collect?’ the big man asked.

  ‘No. I travel light.’

  The man looked me up and down. ‘I’ll say.’ He held out his hand. ‘Name’s Robertson. Bobby Robertson.’

  I took his hand and shook it. ‘John Johnson.’

  The cold night air on the platform at Maricopa smelled of diesel exhaust and dust. The big man threw his bag into the back of a rusty old ute and opened the passenger door for me. The cabin smelled of cheesy socks and armpits. I sniffed at my own shirt and recoiled. Guilty. I prayed the big man wouldn’t be knocked out by the stench of decomposing youth on the way to the diner.

  If Bobby Robertson noticed the smell, he was too polite to say anything. He talked a lot. He talked about his home in the desert, the Grand Canyon and rattlesnakes. He talked about his collection of odd-shaped pretzels. Apparently he had a pretzel shaped like Kazakhstan and another that looked like a chicken’s foot.

  ‘Actually, I’m on my way home from a pretzelhunting expedition right now. I’ve been way up in the mountains, in the upper reaches of the Amazon. Man, those pretzels from Peru are particularly pointy.’

  The lights on the old ute illuminated the lines on the road and little else. The road was long and straight for the most part, broken by the occasional cluster of dark, ramshackle houses. I could see a light in the distance and as the light got closer, the ute began to slow.

  It was a single lonely streetlight on a wire, moving in the breeze and animating the shadows over an intersection. The sign on the roadside declared the track that branched from the main road as ‘Penny Silvania Avenue’, and in the gloom I could see a building. The paint had peeled away in patches, giving the shopfront the look of a second-hand jigsaw – with missing pieces on every weatherboard – but the shop’s name was still mostly legible.

  THE L ST HE D D ER.

  The big man killed the engine. ‘Sure don’t look like anybody’s home,’ he said. ‘Shoot, what will you do if your uncle isn’t here?’

  Now that we were here, I was scared. I didn’t want Bobby to go.

  I swallowed. ‘I . . . I have a key.’

  I patted the sandwich in my jacket pocket but it didn’t jangle like a set of keys.

  ‘You want me to hang around here until you’re settled in?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine. Thanks, but I’m really okay.’

  ‘Well, remember, my house is the next on the left about a mile down the road. Has a sculpture of a fine pretzel over the gate. Can’t miss it.’

  The door creaked as I let myself out. ‘Perhaps I could give you some money for fuel.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, boy. Was my pleasure.’

  The ute roared to life and crunched back onto the road. I watched the tail-lights until they disappeared.

  The street lamp rocked. The breeze made the wire howl and somewhere on the other side of the building, a shutter thumped listlessly against a window frame.

  I’d never felt so alone. It was worse than the time I got up and went to school but nobody else was there and it took me a full hour to realise it was a Saturday. That was bad, but this was worse. I was a twelve-year-old on the shaky trail of my kidnapped friend who might have been and gone from here days before.
It was the middle of the night in the middle of the desert and I was a million miles from home. I tugged my jacket around me and curled up at the base of the street lamp.

  What had I got myself into?

  CHAPTER 12

  I DOZED the way I sometimes did in class – fitfully, as if Mr Bomba or somebody was watching me. Trucks rattled by from time to time and just before dawn, one drove in to Penny Sylvania Avenue. Its headlights lit me up and I froze like a mime with stage fright. The lights eventually faded and I hurried across the road to hide behind a large boulder – less like a mime and more like a rabbit. As the sun coloured the morning in, I could gradually make out my surroundings.

  This was the desert, complete with tumbleweeds and towering cactus. I had been deposited in the Wild West. I thought I heard a roadrunner meep-meeping as it tore down the road at breakneck speed. Weathered rocky pillars dotted the plain like the ruins of ancient office blocks. They looked perfect for a coyote to drop Acme products on unsuspecting birds. The sky stretched as an uncreased blue tarp from horizon to horizon. Sunlight flashed off my exposed skin, making me squint and warming me to the core.

  From my hiding place, I watched trucks arriving and driving into a large shed at the back of the diner. The shed was taller than a fully laden semi-trailer and longer than the actual diner. A truck would drive into the shed and half an hour later drive out the other side. Undercover parking while the drivers ate.

  By daylight, the diner looked bleaker than it had in the night. The windows were dusty and except for the occasional flash of movement inside, the place seemed . . . well . . . deserted. I felt the hope leaking away from me. At least I thought it was hope. Smelled more like mustard doughnut and I excused myself. Why would a kidnapper bring Crystal halfway around the world and choose this place as a hideout? And if she was inside, what could I do about it? My stomach rumbled and it was easy to translate from gut language to English – it was saying “Forget the hero rubbish, where’s breakfast?”

  In time a family of travellers parked at the front of the diner and sent a bell tinging as they entered the shop. The sound of the bell made me dribble. I was getting crazy with hunger; fantasising about doughnuts mixed with Skippy’s kangaroo stew, hot dogs and icecream, lemonade and mints. I couldn’t take it any more and I exploded from my hide and stole across the road.