The Drive

by Tyler Keevil

I rolled down my window. The air out there felt like the backwash of a jet engine. My seat-rest was sticky with sweat and made squelching sounds whenever I moved. I was still naked – clothing chafed my skin and irritated my sunburn. All I had on was one shoe. My right shoe. I had to wear it to work the pedal. I didn’t need the left, since the Neon was an automatic and there was no clutch. So I was driving along in my right shoe, going nowhere. But it was important, that shoe. Without it, I wouldn’t even be going. I’d just be nowhere.

  As I drifted along, I heard a humming in the distance. At first I thought I was having another hallucination. Then I saw the car. It appeared in my rear-view, emerging from a blur of heat and burning towards me. I slowed down. The other car was going fast. It must have covered the distance to me in about ten seconds, like a land-rocket, and then swung wide to overtake.

  It was a blue sedan. Probably a rental, like mine. As it drew alongside, I caught a glimpse of the driver – this teenage kid, with freckles and a baby-face. He twisted his neck around to gawk at me, as if he was passing the site of an accident. I was still driving in the nude. My face was a pulpy mess and my upper body was pink as a lobster shell.

  I raised a hand in greeting. He didn’t wave back. He just floored it and barrelled on, hurtling towards the horizon. He was driving on the left-hand side of the road too. Maybe everybody did that, out there in the desert. I wanted to tell him to slow down and take his time. This was a dangerous place, full of unruly characters. He needed to be more careful.

  But he was way ahead of me, now. The car dwindled to a blue disc in the distance. The way it gleamed reminded me of my visor. I’d taken it off before meeting those hunters, and I’d been lost ever since. Maybe it was time to get un-lost. I reached over into the back seat for the visor, pulled it on, and drove in the direction the kid had gone. It was possible that he was headed for Reno too, and might know the way. If nothing else, I figured I could warn him and keep him from picking up that fucking hitchhiker.

  chapter 39

  A diner popped out of the ground on the horizon. I only realised how hungry I was when I saw it waiting there, squat and square and garish, like a well-made cake. It had pink siding and a frosting of white trim. In front, anchored to a cherry-picker, was a big sign with those changeable marquee letters: Kane ’n’ Abel’s Diner. All The Ribs You Can Eat.

  My belly gave off a low moan. I’d sampled some eagle, and tried those peyote buns. Maybe it was time to finish this fast of mine. While I was at it, I could ask them for directions out of the desert.

  I pulled into the parking lot. It was full of vehicles, including a blue Chrysler sedan – the one I’d seen the teenager driving. I parked next to it and hopped out, forgetting that I was naked except for my visor and one shoe. The diner windows were bleached with sunlight, so I couldn’t see inside, but I would have been in full view of anybody eating. I ducked down behind the car to get dressed, tugging on some jeans and slipping on a shirt.

  Once I was ready, I crossed the lot and trotted up the steps to the porch. At the top I nearly tripped on a cat – a dirty white cat, tied to a leash in the sun. She was just lying there. I knew that couldn’t be good for her. I’d had a white cat once, and both her ears had turned cancerous from being sunburnt too many times. It had killed her, eventually. And here was this cat who looked just like her, making the same mistake. I scooped the cat up and moved her into the shade. I stroked her back. Through her skin I could feel her ribs and the bumps of her vertebrae. Two bowls sat nearby. One was full of water, and the other was full of meat. I brought them over to her. She wouldn’t touch the meat, but she lapped at the water, at least.

  I left her there and went in. A bell hanging above the door dinged to announce my arrival. I stood beneath it, blinking as my eyes adjusted, piecing together an impression of the place: flesh-pink walls, lino floors, tables draped in red chequered tablecloths, settings laid with plates and cutlery, all of it clean and polished and gleaming.

  Off to the left was the counter and till. Behind it stood a boy, plump and round as an apple. He wore chequered trousers that matched the tablecloths, a white apron, and a peaked cap. He waddled over, smiling. A burgundy birthmark leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Will you be eating alone today, sir?’

  I didn’t answer right away. I was looking at all the chairs and tables. They were empty.

  ‘Where are the other customers?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re the first we’ve had today, sir.’

  ‘But all those cars…’

  ‘Those are for sale. My family runs a car lot, too. See the tags?’

  He gestured outside. I hadn’t seen before, but I did now. The other vehicles had price tags hanging in their front windshields. All except for the blue sedan I’d parked beside – the one I’d thought belonged to the teenager.

  ‘Oh. Looks like it’s just me, then,’ I said.

  He led me to a table in the centre of the room. I sat down at one of the place settings, and he cleared the others away. Then he brought me a menu. As I studied it, he hovered over me. The menu was a single laminated sheet. One side listed the buffet items: ribs, coleslaw, corn fritters, mashed potatoes. I turned the menu over. The other side was blank.

  ‘All we do is the buffet,’ the boy said. ‘It’s the Kane ’n’ Abel special.’

  ‘Are you Kane or Abel?’

  He giggled – a high-pitched, squeaky sound, like dishes being scrubbed. ‘Oh, no. Kane’s my dad. He does all the cooking. Me and my brother just help out.’

  ‘What about Abel?’

  His smiled dropped. ‘Abel doesn’t work here any more.’

  ‘Because he isn’t able to?’

  I laughed at my own joke. He didn’t, so I stopped. I handed him the menu. ‘I guess I’ll order the buffet – if it’s all you have.’

  He made a mark on his pad and hurried over to the counter. Beside it was the buffet table. It had a glass canopy and heat lamps and aluminium warming trays. Apparently the buffet hadn’t been prepared yet, because he had to fetch the food from the back. I sat and watched him go to and fro through a swinging steel door. Each time it opened, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. A man was at work in there. He stood with his back to me, wielding a cleaver. It went up and down, making this thick, meaty sound: thock, thock, thock. He was cutting up ribs, I guess.

  ‘All set,’ the boy called. ‘Come and get it.’

  I stood up and walked over with my plate. They had huge racks of ribs, a mountain of mashed potatoes, fritters as big as my fist, and a tub-sized coleslaw bowl. I stood and stared at all that food. The heat lamps gave it a golden glow.

  The boy rubbed his hands together, waiting. His face was sheened with sweat.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’

  Taped to the canopy was a handwritten note, partially covered by a stack of napkins. I moved the napkins aside. The note read Take what you want, but you must eat what you take. ‘Must’ had been underlined three times. I asked him what that meant.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind that old thing,’ he said. ‘Abel put that there ages ago. Just fill up your plate. That’s the important thing. It’s a buffet, remember. All you can eat.’

  The mixture of smells – meat and grease, butter and barbecue sauce – worked on me like a narcotic. My stomach quivered. My hands trembled. I was tempted to pile my plate high, but I didn’t know how much I’d be able to keep down, so I started with small portions.

  The boy frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t want more?’

  ‘I can always have seconds.’

  ‘But doesn’t this look good?’

  I agreed that it did. He kept offering me more, and I kept refusing. Finally he let me sit down. He stayed where he was, watching me. I tried the fritter first. It looked delicious: golden and crispy and fresh. But it wasn’t. It was soggy with fat – the kind of fat that’s sat in the fryer for days. I put the fritter aside. The rest of the food was the same. The coleslaw had gone sour, and the m
ashed potatoes tasted like play-dough. The ribs, though – the ribs were the worst. Beneath the gooey sauce, the meat was barely cooked. It was red and raw and clung to the bone. It didn’t taste like pork, either.

  ‘How is everything?’

  The boy was standing right over me. I hadn’t heard him sneak up.

  ‘It’s great, thanks,’ I said. ‘What kind of meat is this, by the way?’

  ‘Pig meat,’ he said. ‘A special kind of pig, that we keep here.’

  He went back to stand at his counter. I poked at my plate, and tried to nibble here and there. Each bite seemed to get worse, as if the food was deteriorating.

  ‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ I asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ the boy said. ‘The taps are bust.’

  ‘What about pop?’

  ‘Shipment’s due in later today.’

  I ate a bit more, pretending to really enjoy myself. You could tell that pissed him off. After another five minutes, I asked if they had a washroom. He nodded and pointed to a door in the corner. I stood up, taking my plate with me.

  ‘Where are you going with that?’

  I looked at my plate.

  ‘I like to eat on the toilet.’

  ‘Sorry. House rules. No food in the washroom. See the sign on the door?’

  It was there, all right – and it really did say that. I left my plate at the table and went in empty-handed. The washroom was a tiny cubicle, the size of a closet. The toilet seat was broken, and brown stains streaked the inside of the bowl. The door didn’t have a lock, so I shoved the garbage can against it. Above the sink, a window overlooked the parking lot. It had been nailed shut. As I fiddled with it, I saw movement outside. It was a chubby kid in dungarees. He looked just like the one who was serving me, only younger. He crouched next to the Chrysler. He had a hose, which he slid into the gas tank. Then he started siphoning the gas into a jerry can. When the can was full, he carried it across the lot to a big wooden shed.

  Behind me, the garbage can shifted. Somebody had tried the door.

  ‘All right in there?’

  ‘I’m on the crapper. Do you mind?’

  I rustled around a bit, pretending to take a dump. Then I flushed the toilet. When I came out, the boy smiled at me, as if he knew exactly what I’d been up to. I sat back down and stared at my plate for a long time, thinking. Then I stretched and faked a yawn.

  ‘This is delicious,’ I said. ‘I’d love to take some home. Do you have a doggy bag or something?’

  His smile widened. ‘We don’t do doggy bags. You have to eat what you take. That’s the deal, remember?’ He came up close to me again – close enough for me to smell him. He smelled sour and yeasty, like bad beer. He had both hands buried in the pocket of his apron. I could see he was holding something in there. ‘But if you can’t finish…’

  ‘No – no. I can finish.’

  This time he went to stand by the door, blocking my exit. In the kitchen the cleaver was still going, steady as a clock. Thock. Thock. Thock. I stared at the mess on my plate. There was only one way to eat this food: all at once, without thinking, so that my stomach didn’t have time to react. I grabbed the fritter first, and swallowed it in a few bites. Then I shovelled back the mashed potatoes and coleslaw, holding my breath, trying not to chew or taste anything. Lastly I attacked the ribs. I tore at the meat, gnawed at the bone. Blood and juices dribbled from my chin. I was thinking, thank God I didn’t take more than this…

  I threw the final bone down on my plate and stood up. The kid gawped at me, his mouth half-open. In his hand he clutched a six-inch butcher’s knife with a curved blade.

  ‘All finished,’ I said.

  He rushed over to check the plate. ‘He finished!’ he said, practically shrieking. ‘Daddy – he finished!’

  The thocking stopped. A second later the door swung open. His father stood there, in a bloodstained apron. The cleaver dangled at his side, dripping red. He looked just like his son. He even had the same birthmark on his face. We stared at one another.

  ‘Then he can go.’

  Keeping my eyes on them, I backed towards the door.

  As soon as I stepped outside, I puked up all the food in one clean shot. It was as if my stomach had realised what I’d given it, and decided to say, ‘No, thanks.’ A pink mix of meat and mash and coleslaw and fritter splattered on to the porch. The cat they had tethered out there noticed, and perked up. She crawled over to sniff my puke, then wrinkled her nose and drew back, disgusted. She knew what I should have known, this cat. No wonder she hadn’t been eating the meat in her bowl.

  I walked over to my car, popped the trunk, and got out my gun. They had knives, and cleavers, but I had a gun. I went back inside. The man was cuddling his son, who’d started crying and sobbing. ‘He ate it all, Daddy. He ate it all and he got to go!’

  ‘Shhh. I know, bubba, I know. It’s okay.’

  They stopped when they noticed me.

  ‘I’m taking your cat,’ I said.

  ‘Now he’s taking my cat!’ the boy wailed.

  ‘And I’m going to report this place. To somebody.’ I waved my gun around – just to show that I had one. ‘Don’t try to stop me.’

  They didn’t. I tucked the gun in my waistband, adjusted my visor, and strode out.

  The cat was waiting for me. I had a hard time unfastening her collar, but got it in the end. Then I scooped her up. She was so light – just a scrap of fur, like an old scarf. Cradling her in my arms, I carried her over to the Neon and lowered her into the passenger seat.

  Across the lot, opposite my parking spot, was that shed I’d seen the other boy going into with the gas. He’d left the door ajar. I glanced at the diner – I could sense them in there, watching me – and went to check out the shed. Inside, it was packed with jerry cans. Some were full, some empty. I hauled two full ones back to my car and lifted them into the trunk.

  Then I got the hell out of there – really flooring it. The cat cowered on the passenger seat. She was shaking. I was, too. I kept checking the rear-view until the diner disappeared. Even once it was gone, I could still feel it in my mind, lingering like a nightmare.

  chapter 40

  The cat stood in the passenger seat, stiff as a goat. I got the impression she couldn’t believe how fast we were going. I don’t think she’d ever ridden in a car before. It must have been like flying in a spaceship. The desert world that had always been her home was now whirling around us in a vortex – this colourful wormhole of scrub and sand and sky.

  Once she recovered from the initial shock, she began to explore her spaceship. She hopped down and padded around in the footwell. She sniffed at the bag of eagle feathers. She slunk, eel-like, under the seat, and reappeared in the back. Then, for no real reason, she became insanely excited and raced back and forth across the seats, tearing the upholstery with her claws. At one point she leapt up on to the headrest, and perched there like a gargoyle.

  Eventually she returned to the front. She crept down by my feet, and started rubbing against my ankle. It made it hard to drive. I scooped her up with my left hand and put her back on her own seat. She crawled into my lap. She was purring. It might have been cute, if she hadn’t been so filthy. I placed her back on her seat a second time. She crawled into my lap again, and I put her back again. We played that game for a little while.

  ‘Look, cat,’ I said, ‘I get that you’re grateful. But we both need our space, if this is going to work. Trust me, I’ve been in relationships before. You’ve been tied to a stake at that terrible place your whole life. So I get to call the shots. You sit there, and I sit here.’

  The cat looked at me. One of her eyes was weepy and cloudy, like a half-cooked egg. But at least she seemed to understand. She knew who was in charge.

  ‘Attagirl. Good cat.’

  As soon as I looked away, she crawled back in my lap.

  Once she got accustomed to the car, the cat began to enjoy herself. She placed one paw on the armrest and held
the other cocked, like a pointer hound, as she peered out at the scenery. Whenever something interesting flitted past, her head swivelled to track it. I rolled down the window a crack, and she put her nose right up there, letting the wind blast her whiskers back.

  ‘What are you, some kind of puppy-cat?’

  We drove along contentedly for a few minutes. Then something stung me on the leg. I looked down. I couldn’t see anything, but I felt it, all right. It started itching immediately. Then there was another one. And another. I glanced at the cat. She was avoiding my gaze, but her fur seemed to be rippling and shifting.

  ‘For God’s sake, cat,’ I said. ‘You’ve got fleas?’

  She pretended not to hear me. After a bit, she twitched and attacked her own leg – gnawing on it like a chicken bone. They were biting her, too. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed before. They were everywhere: all over her, all over the seats, all over me.

  I slammed on the brakes.

  Leaving the cat in the car, I got the cooler out of the trunk and removed the lid. I emptied three cans of Lucky and a twixer of whisky in there. Then I opened the passenger door. The cat tried to make a break for it, but I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, and hauled her over to the cooler. She squirmed and clawed at me, raking my wrist.

  ‘Bathtime for bonzo.’

  As I lowered her, she spread her legs apart, like a cartoon-cat, and clung to the edges of the cooler. I had to push her butt down to force her in. As soon as she hit the liquor, she went completely limp. I dunked her in up to her neck, and held her there. She whimpered at me.

  ‘Look, cat,’ I said. ‘I know this sucks. But it’s for your own sake. For both our sakes. And let’s face it – you can’t get any dirtier. Beer and whisky is an improvement.’

  It wasn’t much consolation. I could feel her trembling, but kept her in it for a few minutes. I spotted black specks in the beer bath. Some of the fleas were abandoning ship.

  ‘Okay, cat,’ I said. ‘Up we go.’