by Craig Moody
“What the fuck, Gauge?” I scolded, snatching a wet towel from the corner of the bed and tossing it into the open bathroom door. “So having dinner with some people is now considered ‘gay shit’?”
I mocked him with a mimicked expression and voice. He eyed me, obviously annoyed, and then slid his body deeper beneath the bedspread.
“Whatever, Gauge,” I said, angrily storming back to the door. “Just stay in here and be an asshole. I don’t want you out there acting like this anyway.”
He didn’t respond or even look at me.
Instead, he adjusted himself against the pillow and rolled over.
I exited the room, forcefully closing the door behind me. The group looked up as I reentered the living area.
“Everything okay?” Paul asked as I took my place beside him at the spool.
“Yeah,” I responded, annoyance and anger still flooding my voice. “He’s not playing. He’s already in bed.”
Paul gazed at me a moment, his eyes lifting to the bedroom door, and then back to me.
“Must have been the wine,” he said, smiling.
“Yeah,” I laughed, knowing full well that Gauge never touched his glass. “Must be.”
I could hardly keep my eyes open as the night progressed. Soon, the game board and pieces began to swirl around in my vision, the peering and staring faces of the men joining in as some hypnotic haze.
Slowly, I felt myself begin to lean against Paul. He patted my head as I fell into a very deep sleep.
***
I opened my eyes, the blurry scene of the room a multicolored fuzz. My skin was cold. I lifted one of my arms, its weight heavier than I could ever remember it being, and placed it over my stomach. My skin was bare. Where was I?
Where was my shirt?
Slowly, I slid my hand further down, my fingertips running through the coarse tangle of my pubic hair. I was naked.
“He’s awake,” I heard a voice say, the unclear pillars of color moving around me like fish beneath a rain-disturbed lake.
Suddenly, one of the faces leaned toward me, its presence just close enough for me to make out the detail. It was Paul. I recognized his eyes, though his face was covered by some sort of mask. Then, as if someone turned on a light, I began to see more clearly. The moving figures focused into a wall of bodies, all of them naked and facing me.
***
I dropped my arm beside me, the familiar roughness of the wooden spool running under my touch.
I mumbled, trying to speak, but it felt as though my face was covered in a thick glaze. My voice was weighted, my speech slurred, as if I were attempting to speak through glue.
“Shit,” Paul said, returning to the group. “He must not have drank enough.”
I rolled my head from side to side, taking in the sight of the different skin tones of the seemingly endless sea of naked male bodies. A slow-moving wave of terror oozed over me as heavy as the presence that overwhelmed my face and head. I couldn’t speak. I could hardly move. I attempted to raise my head, but my body did not respond to my brain’s command. Instead, I lay helpless, every limb of my body paralyzed to my repeated mental attempts to move them.
“What do we do?” a voice asked, the bodies shuffling closer. In my dizzy haze, the vision of a variety of penises, some dangling above me, some erect and throbbing, filled my clouded view. The alarming echo of pure fear that soaked around me began to quicken and intensify its pace and calling. I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming. All I knew was that I could not move, though every bit of my willpower was shouting for me to raise up or scream.
“Do you still have the syringe?” another voice questioned.
I began to see more clearly, the naked bodies disguising their faces behind an array of masks. My heart began to pound so loudly in my ears that I could no longer hear the voices. Instead, I felt the presence of cold hands and fingertips gliding over my exposed flesh like ants scurrying over a picnic basket.
“Here,” one of the voices said as someone lifted my head from the spool. “I’ll open his mouth.”
In the haze, I could see the bodies parting, a semi-clear visual of Paul coming into view as he neared me, the glistening needle of a syringe rising from his hand.
The surge of panic and fear that clouded around me like a suffocating fog began to lift as something inside me started to bellow and scream. It was several seconds before I realized that the sound was now echoing around me, reverberating around the room like a panther falling victim to a steel trap.
I felt myself being lowered back onto the spool as another voice broke into the sphere of warbled sound.
I felt someone fall onto me, the voice screaming expletives at the room around them. It was Gauge. I could smell his skin beneath his t- shirt and feel the familiar vibration of his deep and powerful voice as it boomed through his chest.
“We didn’t touch him!” a voice called out, the wall of bodies retreating into the distance.
Gauge placed his hands around my face, pulling me toward him.
“It’s okay, baby, I’m here,” he said, his face smashed against mine. “Did they touch you? Are you hurt?”
I shook my head, my voice still locked behind the solidified clamp of my throat.
He pressed his face harder against mine, tears running between our compressed skin.
I felt him lift into the space above me, the sound of shouting echoing through my skull like an explosion.
In the distance, I could see the remaining bodies scooping up garments and disappearing into the shadows. The sound of panic and shock accented the audible scurrying.
“Fuck!” I heard Paul scream, a loud crash following his outburst.
In the ever-clearing, sloth-like crawl of the haze, I could see Gauge pounding his fists into Paul. Paul’s head jolted from side to side with each of the forceful blows.
I could feel my head beginning to respond to my brain’s command to move, when I was scooped from the wooden spool and carried to the couch. I could feel my underwear and jeans being lifted over my legs and pulled to my hips. I saw Paul, a bloodied stump in the corner of the room, as Gauge lifted my shoulders to put on my shirt.
I stared in a dreamlike silence as I watched Gauge disappear into the bedroom, reappearing a few minutes later with our oversized knapsack.
He pulled me from the couch and into his arms, the striking outline of a pendulum etched over the surface of the spool filling my vision as we moved through the room.
I could hear Gauge’s feet scuffing the narrow stairs as we descended to the first level of the building. Kicking open the front door, the vacuum-like suction of the desert air pulled at us as we walked down the sidewalk.
He sat me beside him as he fidgeted with the lock and chain, freeing the Indian and moving it from the sidewalk to the street.
My eyes continued to waver in clarity as I saw him fasten the knapsack to the back of the bike. Placing one of the helmets over my head, he pulled me against his chest, stood to his full height, and carefully boarded the Indian. Tucked between his arms, he secured my limp body against him before kick-starting the engine. I felt the motorcycle vibrate into the dry night air as the world around me went black and I once again fell into the unwelcome arms of unconsciousness.
***
I awoke to the sound of Gauge frantically shuffling through the knapsack.
“Babe,” he said, noticing that I was awake. I found myself seated beside the Indian, where it was parked before an old-fashioned gas pump.
I trailed my eyes over the scene before me, the purple glow of the rising sun painting over the desert horizon like a silk curtain.
“The money, babe. Where’s the money?”
The panic in Gauge’s voice sobered my lingering haze. I took a deep breath and stood to my feet, a slight dizziness spinning around my head like a dozen or so flies surrounding a freshly smashed roadside carcass.
“Here,” I croaked, my voice dry and painfully hollow, “let me find it.”
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Gauge stepped aside as I swept through the giant knapsack with both hands. Complacency became horror as I realized that none of the divvied-out, hidden stashes of cash remained where I had stored them. Our money was gone. All of it. Gone.
“Fuck!” Gauge shouted when I looked at him, my face confirming his fear. “Those motherfuckers! We have to go back. We have to get our money.”
“No!” I screamed, the sudden power of my voice both surprising and excruciating. “We can’t go back there.”
He stared at me for a long moment before tossing his hands into the air.
“Then how the fuck are we gonna keep
going, Dustin?” he cried, panic frozen across his expression. “We need gas, and we have no money.
Nothing!”
I lowered my eyes to the ground. Witnessing Gauge’s extreme reaction had signaled a void of defeat within me. I felt my brain firing off clouded ideas that I couldn’t comprehend. The lingering effect of whatever I had been drugged with still clouded the blood in my veins like spilled oil over the surface of the sea. As much as I tried, I couldn’t think. Just standing and slightly speaking had worked my current cognitive ability to its capacity.
“I need water,” I whispered, my voice too dry and cracked for use.
Gauge looked up at me, his eyes wide, as though he only just now realized I was awake.
“Babe,” he said softly, pulling me into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I’m just scared. I don’t know what to do.”
I opened my eyes, spying what appeared to be a water pump standing beside a rundown outhouse.
“Water,” I choked, pulling from Gauge’s
embrace and shuffling toward the pump.
“Let me help you,” Gauge offered, grabbing my hand in his.
A churning flow of desperation zipped through my core as I watched Gauge lift and lower the pump handle with all his strength. Nothing happened.
A tear jumped from my eye as I turned to look away. Never in my life had I experienced such a longing thirst. It felt as though my insides had become as dry and barren as the endless, dehydrated ground that spread for miles beneath our feet.
“Y’all all right?” a soft voice asked.
I looked up to see the gas station attendant, her brown hair wrapped in a bun, her gentle face glowing yet makeup free.
“Can I help you boys with something?”
Gauge dropped the pump handle, its fruitless labor heaving one final squeal into the dawning of the day.
“I need water,” I whispered, the walls of my throat aching as though the glide of my breath were somehow scraping and tearing at its dried lining.
I watched as her face shuffled from a look of puzzlement to one of fear and concern.
“I think you boys need to go,” she said, her attention locked on Gauge.
I followed her stare, realizing her eyes were fixed upon the splattered blood that spread over Gauge’s white undershirt. I too was shocked by the crimson stains that streaked across the fabric as if left by the hoofprints of some dancing demon.
“Are we able to get him some water?”
Gauge asked, nodding toward me.
The attendant followed his movement, locking her eyes onto mine, her brain scanning my face for any visible signs of danger.
“What’s going on?” she asked, bringing her attention back to Gauge. “Why are you bleeding?”
Gauge looked down at his shirt, pulling it forward so that he could view it better. It was obvious that he was just as surprised at the presence of the blood as the attendant.
“We were robbed,” I managed to choke out, my voice rough and waterless.
“Oh dear,” the tiny woman replied, her eyes widening in horror.
“Please,” she began, motioning for us to follow her. “I have water in my cooler. Let’s get you two cleaned up and situated.”
We followed her to the back of the tiny building that housed the cashier counter. Pulling open a small door, she leaned down to a small white cooler, retrieving several thermoses of different sizes and color.
“Here,” she said softly, placing the largest of the plastic containers into my hand. “Please, drink all of it. It’s okay.”
She handed one to Gauge, eyeing him slowly as he took it from her grasp.
“Where you boys headed?”
“LA,” answered Gauge, removing his shirt and dropping it to the ground. “You have some place I can toss that?”
The attendant stared at him, her eyes bouncing between his as if viewing a tennis match on fast-forward.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she replied, allowing her eyes to drift down Gauge’s exposed torso and to the crumpled T-shirt on the ground.
“Why?” Gauge asked, tilting his head to the side.
“I am not comfortable with having something with blood all over it on the premises,” she responded, keeping her eyes fixed on the fallen garment. “Not that I don’t believe you or anything, I would just rather not have it here.”
“Fair enough,” Gauge replied, sighing. “I’ll keep it with me.”
“We have no money,” I chimed in, absorbing the final drops of the thermos. “They took everything.”
The attendant stared at me, her bouncing gaze now attempting to read my thoughts.
“I see,” she finally responded after a long hesitation.
“We need gas, though,” Gauge added. “We could work for it.”
The woman stepped back so she could eye both Gauge and me at the same time. It was obvious that she was listening to several thoughts at once, seemingly searching for the certain tone of her inner voice.
“No,” she declared. “You can’t work for it.”
Gauged sighed and leaned down to retrieve his shirt. I started to follow him as he began to shuffle back toward the front of the gas station.
“I will just fill it for you.”
We stopped, stunned by her unexpected offer.
“I can tell you boys have been through something,” she continued, her voice wavering slightly. “I know what it’s like to be robbed. It’s happened to me here on more than one occasion. It’s terrifying and invasive. I would never wish it on anyone. So I feel like the good Lord wants me to help you.”
We could only stare at her, both of us at a loss for words.
“Just go back to the pump, and I’ll turn it on.”
I lost my breath, my emotion making way for tears of relief.
“God bless you both,” she concluded, smiling as she handed me the remaining thermos in her hand.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice carried off by the strengthening desert wind.
She nodded, turned to close the small door, and then made her way to the side of the building. Gauge topped off the tank as I chugged the second thermos. Though I was steadily drinking, I couldn’t quench my seemingly endless thirst.
Hopping behind Gauge as he steadied the bike, he started the rejuvenated engine and throttled us out onto the open road.
I rested my head against his back, listening to the gentle beating of his heart as it rivaled the deafening groan of the motorcycle’s engine. I closed my eyes as the sun continued to rise above us, the promise of its relentless glare fulfilled by the absence of a single cloud. I exhaled, uncaring as to how much further we had to go. Instead, I just rode.
***
We broke down just outside of Barstow, California. I watched in an exhausted silence as Gauge cursed, kicked, and fiddled with the smoking Indian. It had begun to stutter not long after we left the gas station, evolving into a consistent, stammered choking that resulted in the engine overheating and us being stranded on the roadside.
I stood still as several big rig trucks sailed past us. I was tempted to flag one down.
“What are we going to do?” I asked, squatting beside Gauge.
“What do you think we are gonna do?” he responded, his frustration and annoyance clear. “We’re gonna have to walk.”
“We could
try and get someone to stop,” I suggested, turning my head back toward the road.
“Let’s not count on that,” Gauge replied, standing to his feet. “Let’s just face it and go. We don’t have that much further before we get to this next town.”
I dreaded the walk. My head continued to spin, and my thirst remained unquenched. I didn’t say anything to Gauge, but I felt that whatever drug I had been given was still very potent within my bloodstream. Several times during the ride, my dizziness had become so overwhelming that I nearly fell off the bike. I didn’t want to worry Gauge. Plus, there was nothing either of us could do about it anyway.
We entered Barstow after an hour’s walk in the scorching desert heat. Gauge pushed the Indian while I taxied the knapsack. I swore it was filled with iron weights by the time we entered town.
Stopping at a small gas station, I quietly tiptoed behind the building to vomit while Gauge searched for the attendant.
I didn’t tell him what had happened.
Apparently, the station was closed, and we were forced to keep walking.
Motels and fast food restaurants lined the main street of Barstow. Facing heat stroke and exhaustion, we stopped at one of the motels.
Gauge went inside the office while I snuck behind a tree to vomit again. Without food or water, I began to produce nothing but a brown bile. I thought I saw a trace of blood, but I wasn’t certain.
Gauge reappeared, a worried look accenting his tired face.
“The office called the police,” he announced, exhaling loudly as he sat beside the Indian.
“What for?” I asked, quietly wiping some lingering saliva from my chin.
“I told him we were broke down and broke, and he said the police would be the best option for help.”
“Well, don’t you think they might ask a lot of questions? I mean, what if Paul called the police in Vegas? What if we’re wanted?”
Gauge lifted his eyes to mine, his weary gaze heavy and weighted.
“Calm down,” he answered. “Do you really think Paul is going to call the cops after he drugged you and tried doing whatever the fuck it was they were doing in their little devil orgy?”