The bus filled with a gradual stream of people, but my seat remained safe. Then, a few minutes before departure, a moment of tension—a huge woman attempted to breach my defenses and claim the adjacent seat. I cringed as her enormous thighs enveloped my knees. The sweaty heat was palatable. She was just settling in when she finally discovered that her next two days would be soap opera free, and with a huff, she beat a hasty retreat further down the aisle.
My ward had worked perfectly. I was grinning broadly, when at 10 A.M. sharp, the big blue bus rumbled to life. As we turned out onto the street it struck me like a bag of potatoes to the chest:
My childhood was over. I was on my own.
My father was my only family, and despite our inability to co-exist, saying goodbye had been hard. He didn’t approve of me heading out on my own. He argued it was too risky, said I didn’t understand the dangers. (I hoped that was dad-code for: “Don’t go. I’ll miss you if you’re far away.”) But in the end, he couldn’t argue with the full-ride scholarship. Our finances were in the toilet. We were in danger of losing our house. I told him they would be paying both of us, and he just sat there real quiet. He didn’t know what a stipend was nor that it was really for my living expenses, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why the school would be paying us both. I said it was complicated—part of some government program—and I joked that we would finally be getting some taxes back from the Feds.
The next day, he had nodded stiffly when I told him I was accepting the offer. He said, “Dieter, You’re a man now, and I won’t try and stop you. If there’s one thing that’s true, it’s that all men have to make their own mistakes. You got some learning to do, and I guess it’s learning I can’t teach you.” I had hoped at least part of him was proud of me, but if he was, he didn’t show it. Then again, he never could express feelings like that with me. You may wonder how I could love a man that would just as soon strike me in the face. I can’t tell you that. I don’t know myself. But you would understand better if you saw the look on his face when I walked away. It felt like it was for the last time…My lip trembled as I turned away. It felt like I was leaving him behind.
I took a deep breath. It felt real now. Everything I knew was in this valley: the pizza place I liked, the friends I hung out with, all the roads I knew the names of. Where I was headed, I didn’t know a single soul. In fact, I only knew a single name, Dean Joseph Albright, III, the lone correspondent from my future home in Connecticut. My stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I hadn’t even considered Elliot College before they sent me the offer of a full-ride, didn’t even remember Dr. Montgomery telling me she planned to recommend me. I was grateful, sure. She had given me the chance to get out of the black hole that was Las Vegas. She had granted the wish I had held for countless years. I had even tried to track her down at the hospital and thank her. Unfortunately, I had missed my chance by then. The staff told me Dr. Montgomery was float—a doctor who swings into town to cover for others when they are on vacation and the like—and that she was already onto her next assignment. I thought that was strange. I could have sworn Dr. Montgomery said she had been at the Nevada State Science Fair the year before. I decided to try and track down her email address when I got to Elliot. I was in her debt. Without her help, I would have been still flipping burgers. Still, I had to admit that the whole application process had left me bitter. I had busted my ass, delivered the best GPA and SAT scores possible, taken all the AP classes I could afford, and still, still it hadn’t been enough. That pseudo-acceptance from Washington University had been the most galling. To have only been offered a partial scholarship—a scholarship they knew wasn’t enough to allow me to attend—it had felt like they were laughing in my face.
As the bus sped onto the freeway, I shook my head.
“Snap out of it asshole,” I said out loud. “You have a chance. Be thankful for it.”
Judging by the other passengers’ looks, I had spoken a bit too loud.
Turning red, I sank down in my chair.
I wanted to go home.
+
The bus made rapid progress through Mohave Desert. We were bound for Utah where I-15 linked to I-70 for the crawl up into the Rockies. Then it was on to Denver, where we would meet I-80 for the descent into the plains of the American Midwest. Transcontinental drivers switched off every eight hours at the way stations placed along the route. (The system made sense. Labor was cheap; buses careening off mountains were not.) Our first stop was in Grand Junction, Colorado. It wasn’t much of a town, but the way station sure was impressive.
The transcontinental carriers had built these oversized fuel depots after long-distance buses came back into vogue. They separated the paying travelers from the bums and ensured no third party restaurants got a piece of the action. Once off the bus, signs for men and women guided the passengers to Potty Land (a new American marvel). Row after row of gleaming white porcelain awaited us. Arrows etched into the tile floor pointed the way. After making your deposit, it was a straight walk down a corridor to sinks and the self-cleaning shower stalls. I listened to the music as I walked. It had a steady percussive beat. I stomped in time. It was fun music to march to—and a subtle prod to keep on moving.
The Champions of Industry had thought of everything. I trekked past the hand dryers, shoeshine machines, and toiletry dispensers and out into the din of the massive food court. Feeling a bit like livestock, I tried to re-establish my status as a top line predator. I ordered a hamburger. Said food product was un-bagged and microwaved bun and all. I stood next to the sleepy-eyed “cook” and watched the burger rotate.
Pathetic.
Finding a seat, I sniffed at the micro-burger. It was unworthy of the same title as the king of foods, but everyone else seemed happy with them. “Know your place, peon,” I mumbled, and bit into the soggy bun. There was a moment there where I almost spit it out. Then I remember I only had about a hundred in my wallet and swallowed it as fast as I could.
A few minutes later, a calm but assertive voice announced that the LCN Line was departing, and my compatriots and I shuffled outside and back onto our big blue bus. They didn’t even need to break out the prods. I shook my head. Our grandparents had been speculators, cattlemen, and farmers; but somewhere along the line, things had got flipped on their heads. The evil designers of the micro-burger must have anticipated my impudence and slipped in a roofie. Once we were on the road, I passed out in seconds flat. I didn’t wake up until we stopped in Denver. A few folks got on and off, but the defective TV next to me continued to ward off any prospective seatmates.
To pass the time, I made valiant strides in my effort to read Ulysses, but feared I was losing the war. A hundred pages in, I was getting the sneaking suspicion that James Joyce might have been an asshole, and by Nebraska I was in a foul mood. I had clawed my way into “Episode 8,” where the main character (I think) purchases two delicious cakes (I think) only to throw them into a river (perhaps).
My stomach grumbled in protest.
“The bastard,” I mumbled. “How could Bloom toss out a dessert like that?”
One or two droopy eyelids turned toward me in confusion. However, I had an ally. The enormous lady nodded in agreement.
“Ulysses, right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said with a grim nod.
“Don’t take it too seriously. Bloom is a madman.”
I was grateful when we arrived at our next stop in Lincoln, Nebraska. The book had descended into a languid discussion of the merits of advertising tactics and STDs. Fear of having to read more inspired me to purchase another micro-burger and—for good measure—one of their tiny apple pies.
“In-the-eye, Joyce,” I mumbled, sinking my teeth into the apple-esk product. I gagged. Maybe I should have thrown it into a river instead.
Before I even reached the bus, I felt the micro-burger kicking in. I nodded off before we even left the station.
+
Acres of dead grass s
tretched out before me. Alone on a darkened plain, an icy breeze caressed my flesh.
Lightning cracked, and the clouds belched fire.
Distant thunder rumbled a protest.
My lips were chapped. My mouth, parched. The air was bone dry and grating. My body ached with fatigue. So thirsty…how long had it been?
Thunder shook the air once again. The hairs on my neck stood in response.
The winds were shifting; I could feel the pressure change.
The bolts of lightning and thunder chased one another off into the distance.
The clouds above me opened.
I raised my hands in relief as the rain poured down. Heavy sheets of it coated my exhausted frame. The drops soothed my lips. Warm and heavy, the rain was more metallic than well water—yet oddly sweet.
Another flash of light lit the crimson clouds.
+
I was jarred awake by a passenger’s laughter.
He was watching The Simpsons. How many decades old was the show now?
A real storm had opened up outside. Wave after wave of rain pummeled the bus.
I touched the glass. These drops were icy cold. I could feel the engine humming away, indifferent to the weather. The big blue bus churned onwards, and I faded back to sleep.
Chapter 5
ENTER THE DRAGON
When I woke, warm sunlight was streaming through the windows. A new guy across the aisle was snoring loudly. The brim of his White Sox cap pointed straight into the air. I scratched my stubble and yawned. It was midday by my watch. I was impressed. That micro-burger had taken me out of circulation for quite some time. Looking past my neighbor’s gaping mouth, I noticed the countryside looked different. The land was still flat as a board, but lush green crops spread out as far as the eyes could see…so that’s what they meant by “breadbasket.” The air’s texture had changed as well. Even in the air-conditioned bus, I could feel the humidity pressing in.
I was making a mental note to get a haircut when I sensed something was…off. At first, I thought it was just a slight bout of nausea, simply my empty stomach demanding immediate attention, but as I focused, I realized the strange sensation was coming from my Sight. The feeling reminded me of leaning out over the edge of a very tall building, that vague sense of unease. And the sensation was faint. It didn’t feel like I was in that great of danger. That confused me. It wasn’t normal for this sixth sense of mine to fire up unprovoked. There were rules to my Sight. The adrenalin had to be flowing. I had to be scared out of my mind. Stranger still, there were none of the focused waves I’d come to expect. Heck, I couldn’t even see anything at all. This was more of a tactile sensation, like a cat brushing up against my thigh. The feeling wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t a blanket of blades either.
I scratched my head. I was on a bus cruising steadily down the highway with not a single schoolhouse bully in sight. The little girl sitting next to the snoring guy giggled as Sponge Bob jumped around on the TV in front of her. Diagonal to me, a couple talked casually. I frowned. All was well in the Dieterverse. Why was my Sight firing off?
And then—as quickly as it appeared—the sensation vanished.
Weird…I sat quietly and tried focusing on my Sight—but nothing was there anymore. My Sight had gone back to sleep.
After a minute or two of waiting, I gave up.
Well, I reasoned, nothing’s reliable 100% of the time. Maybe all this traveling is whacking me out. I resolved to solve my problems with the usual remedy—I reached into the overhead and retrieved my thermos. At times of like this, there was only one thing to do: acquire coffee immediately. My Japanese designed, vacuum-sealed thermos was one of my most prized possessions. I had filled it up before I went to sleep so there were no worries. This baby laughed in the face of entropy. The coffee inside would probably stay warm for another day or so. I poured out a steaming hot cup and drew it to my nose. And what an aroma! I wasn’t a morning person. Coffee was the only reason I could tolerate them. Even before the first sip, the black goodness set to work kicking my neurons out of bed.
Rejuvenated, I stretched my bones. The bus had filled up quite a bit while I slept. The cabin was crowded. I grinned. This seat rocked. I must have been the only person with a row to himself, but with the added people, it was sure getting hot. Last night, I had thrown on a sweater because of the cold jet of air the AC had been throwing out, but now the combination of extra people and midday rays were winning out.
I took off the sweater and turned to toss it—right onto the girl sitting next to me.
I froze, coffee in one hand, sweater in the other.
Keen senses. I had them in spades. Growing up, I always got accused of cheating in Marco-Polo, and I never once lost at hide-and-seek. I was the go-to-guy when you needed a lookout. I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with my Sight, but I was certainly more cognizant of my surroundings than the other kids. You didn’t sneak up on me, you didn’t enter a room without me noticing, it just didn’t happen. Besides, people are easy to sense. Even when we aren’t talking, they’re still making plenty of noises. We do our breathing loudly, our walking loudly, and even our fidgeting loudly. We ain’t mountain lions; those cats can sneak. You might be lucky enough to spot a mountain lion, or you might be lucky enough to hear one, but never both at once. They have PhDs in stealth. They make their living off quiet. I could track a mountain lion if I put my mind to it, so it came as quite a shock that I’d been awake for over ten minutes and hadn’t even noticed the standard-issue person sitting twelve inches away from me. That sort of thing just didn’t happen.
I looked down at my legs. They were still stretching down under the seat in front of me. How the heck did she get around me without waking me up? I shook my head. It must have been that stupid burger. I swore I’d never eat another.
My curiosity piqued, I decided to investigate my new sneaky seatmate. I opted for the “I’m-just-looking-out-the-window” approach because it’s time-tested and stalker-approved. More importantly, it would help me avoid any and all conversation.
At first glance, the interloper appeared to be young and female—but that was a rough guess. An oversized black hooded sweatshirt covered most of her body. The hood was monstrous. It reached well past the brim of her baseball cap. She sat, her long legs tucked up in front of her, sleeping in a ball. Her head hung between her knees, with her arms holding the whole package together. Below her hoodie, the girl wore a loose pair of black cargo pants tucked into a pristine set of laced leather boots. I had just been forced to ditch my sweater, so I was impressed Ms. Sneakums could tolerate all that clothing with the sun beating on her through the window. It must have been pushing 90 degrees outside, but even her hands were covered by a pair of thin black gloves.
I scrunched my face in thought. This was not my area of expertise, but in my limited experience with females, I was aware there existed a subset of the gender that—regardless the ambient temperature—remained cold at all times. They were known to utter a variant of “ohmygosh, it’s freezing in here” when entering any room. They displayed an intense fear of movie theaters and lecture halls. They considered fleece and down the pillars of modern civilization. And were known to query, “That sure is a nice looking car…does it have seat heaters?” when evaluating boyfriend prospects.
I nodded sagely. This particular specimen must have been a member of their inner circle.
It also occurred to me that I should stop staring.
I grabbed Ulysses and began another torture session. I read the first paragraph three times over before giving into the urge to glance over at her again.
She hadn’t budged.
I tried it myself. I lifted up my knees, wrapped my arms around my legs, and bundled up into a man-ball. I could barely fit my feet on the seat and could only last thirty-seconds before everything below my waist went numb. Untangling myself, I shrugged. To each her own, I guess. Sure, it was strange, but what did I expect? I was traveling across the U.S. on a long-haul bu
s. There was bound to be plenty of weirdoes. I should have been counting my blessings that I hadn’t run into a band of cannibals yet…I frowned. Yet.
I turned back to Ulysses. It was time for Dieter Resnick to get back to doing what a Dieter Resnick did best: mind his own business. After all, this foray was just another attempt to dodge my summer reading assignment. With new determination (and coffee) I marathoned into the early evening. It was a tough push. If it weren’t for my self-imposed personal challenge, I would have set the thing on fire. I wasn’t even sure who was who anymore, and I was almost certain that the main character died two chapters ago. (This was confusing, because there were still a few hundred pages to go.)
When we arrived in Cleveland, the sun was finishing up its shift in the sky. I got off the bus, made a deposit, and grabbed some dinner. Twenty-four hours on the bus had done a number on my butt. In fact, my whole body was tight, so after I grabbed some snacks I went back outside to stretch out a bit. Paranoid it would sneak off without me, I stayed right next to the bus. (My puny bank account couldn’t take many more hits before it was out for the count.) The sun was setting, and the heat was beginning to back off. It was the perfect time for Dieter Resnick’s Keister Resuscitating Callisthenic Routine—patent pending. I swung into motion, pumping my arms and stretching my legs. It was good to move again, and I really liked the smell of the air around here. If you ignored the diesel fumes, the vague septic stench, and the giant dumpster behind me, there where all sorts of cool scents to sample: grasses, flowers, and trees—the smells of life. It was like standing in the supermarket fridge with all those bouquets.
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