by CW Crowe
Just then, a loud sound, almost like a series of explosions, came from over the hill. Fallon looked, but all he saw was the paved road that led from the parking lot. It disappeared over a rise. On the other side was a commuter parking lot beside the main road. People parked there and shared rides into town. On cold or snowy days, Fallon would bum a ride in that lot.
The sounds got louder as he saw a Harley top the hill and enter the parking lot. There was a big man up front and a girl riding behind him. The bike circled the lot slowly while the driver played with the throttle, revving the engine and making the devil's own sound.
***
Fallon hated Harley riders. Most of them were just old guys with money. But they were the snobbiest, most stuck up jerks on the planet.
He knew the Piece of Shit was nothing to be proud of, but even an eighty year old Harley rider, hardly able to get off his bike without help, would look down on him and either refuse to acknowledge his existence, or let loose with a string of insults strung together with many references to "Fucking Rice Burner."
And their damned wave. That really torqued him. When he'd first bought the Piece of Shit, he'd noticed that bikers waved to each other. They did it by lowering their left arm. He remembered the first time he'd noticed - there were ten bikers on one side of the road meeting ten going in the opposite direction. Twenty left arms went down.
He realized what was going on, so the next time he met a fellow biker, he gave him the wave.
Nothing.
He tried again a few minutes later with the same result. Maybe they hadn't seen him? Next, he met a group of at least fifteen Harleys riding together. He put his arm down early and waved it up and down so they couldn't miss seeing him.
They waved back all right - with fifteen middle fingers. One peeled off and came racing up behind him at a speed of at least a hundred miles an hour. He pulled up beside Fallon and matched his speed of around forty five. He yelled "Fucking Rice Burner son of a bitch. Wave one more fucking time and I'll break your fucking arm."
Fallon must have had shock on his face; perhaps it was fear. In any event, the biker seemed satisfied. He slowed and executed a one eighty, revved his engine and took off like a rocket.
***
And now one of them was stopping in the parking lot of his park. Fallon expected God to be pointing and laughing, but He just watched intently.
Fallon kept his back to the biker, his eyes on the lake, hoping they'd leave him alone. They stopped and the bike mercifully went silent.
"I gotta pee," said the girl. Her voice sounded young. It had a begging tone to it.
"Well, what the fuck can I do about it? Go fucking pee, for God's sake."
Fallon watched them out of the corner of his eye. The guy was wearing leather - the black kind with silver rivets and buttons. He had leather pants and a leather vest. His biceps were massive, but so was his waistline. He had a red beard and long hair.
"Ax, there ain't no place to go," the girl said.
"Listen, you dumb cunt. You can go in those weeds over there or you can squat right here. Everybody and his cat done seen your junk anyway."
Out of the corner of his eye, Fallon watched her walk to the edge of the lot, into the dirt beyond. She was wearing a jeans jacket over a tube top. She had on a miniskirt and a pair of red boots that looked like Doc Martens. She hiked up the skirt and squatted. She wasn't wearing underwear.
If Fallon had been asked an hour ago to list all the things he might be doing now, at this moment, the scene before him would not have made the top ten million on his list. He couldn’t help himself - he stared at the girl. He heard a hissing sound as she peed.
"Now what the fuck you looking at?" It was the biker.
Fallon quickly turned away, hoping God would make him invisible.
"I'm talking to you, shit for brains." There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the asphalt. They came closer and closer.
The sounds stopped right behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the square toe of one giant boot on the ground beside him. "Like the looks of her, huh? Well, you ain't getting none of that. Now get in your car and leave. Me and her wants to be alone."
Fallon felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The nice little buzz he'd had on had disappeared. God wasn't around.
He continued to stare at the lake. "I . . . I can't. You see . . ."
He saw the boot lift and then it disappeared. A half second later, Fallon felt it on his back. It shoved and he fell to the earth, face up. The biker was standing over him. From this angle, he looked eight feet tall.
"Watching her pee getting you off, is that it? Well, cocksucker, I gave you a chance to get in your fucking car and leave, but if you like seeing someone pee so much, then I'll let you see it real close up."
He reached to his crotch and unzipped his fly. He pulled out his dick. Fallon was surprised; it wasn't very big.
The biker looked up towards the heavens as he made the internal adjustments necessary to start his flow.
Fallon tried to wiggle out of the way even though he knew it was too late. His hand struggled to find a purchase on the ground when it closed around a large rock. Without thinking, Fallon threw the rock with all his strength.
It hit the biker right in the dick.
For a moment, there was no sound. It was as if God had hit the world's mute button. The biker looked down at his crotch in surprise. His knees slowly gave way and he sank to the ground. He looked at his hand in surprise - it had blood on it.
Fallon sprang to his feet. He had been peed on his whole life - by his wife, by his boss, by the fuckers at district, by just about everyone. But today, at this spot in the universe, he would not get peed on. Not by this biker, not by anyone. His pent up anger exploded in rage.
He picked up another rock and hit the biker a glancing blow to his head. He fell over, his eyes still open. His mouth opened and a tooth dropped out. Fallon's anger intensified and he kicked him again in the stomach but it was like he'd kicked a fat pillow. The biker groaned and rolled over, unconscious. Fallon kicked him in the balls.
He was just about to work his way back to the head, when he felt hands pulling him away. "Please Mister, we've got to leave. He'll kill us when he wakes up if we don't."
It was the peeing girl. "Take me away, please! He owns me and he's mean. Oh God, Mister, he'll kill both of us for sure. Take me with you, please! I'll do anything, I promise! Oh God!"
She started to cry and pull him towards the Escort.
"Wait," he said. He took a second to calm down and think.
"That's not my car. Come with me."
He picked up his tackle and the fish and led her, still crying, to his lake house.
Samantha’s Story
If Mary didn't drop by the garage with lunch for Victor, the odds were good he wouldn't take the time to eat. She walked into the office at one p.m. and Samantha Davis smiled at her.
"I was thinking you might not come in today. He hasn't even taken a break all morning. I told him I'd get him some KFC, but you know how he is."
Mary certainly knew how he was - their ten years of being married to each other was proof of that. To say that Victor was a hard worker would be a severe understatement. Five days a week, he left their house at 6:30 every morning and drove to Missoula to his "Fix it Right Garage." He did just that for the next ten hours, before returning home to chores around the house and to spend time with her and the kids. On Saturdays, he only worked in the shop until noon.
"Sam, would you set out the lunch? I'll go make the big lug get washed up."
"Sure Mary, he's stubborn today though. He's got a bad one."
A "bad one" was a problem car that didn't want to be fixed. Victor had been in charge of a vehicle shop in the army until he volunteered for Ranger school. If any of his mechanics failed to fix something right the first time, Victor made them stay on the job until they got it right. After Ranger school, he no longer worked on vehicles; he was assigned to
do other jobs – things he was never allowed to talk about.
But he never lost his love of being a mechanic, of solving problems and making things work right.
So when a "bad one" appeared in his garage, he tended to obsess over it until he discovered and repaired the problem. Normally, it didn't take long - Victor was very good at diagnosing. He could see in his mind how one part fit into another, how the energy flowed through a machine. He charged less than most shops, but had the best equipment and was the most efficient. He repaired roughly twice as many cars as a normal mechanic. Mary knew he worked hard for her and for the kids - and for himself. She knew how he was.
When she walked into the garage, she didn't see him at first, but she heard a tapping sound behind an older looking SUV. She walked around the side of the vehicle and smiled at the sight of him - seated on a little stool, just staring into the wheel well, tapping parts with a small hammer. It reminded her of how she could test the reflexes of a patient by hitting their knee with a little rubber hammer.
"What so interesting?" she said.
He turned and looked at her in mild surprise. "It's the damnedest thing. I think I figured it out though."
He rose and walked toward her. "Get yourself washed up before you touch me, Grease Monkey," she said. She was wearing her white lab coat over a set of blue scrubs. Above her breast pocket was embroidered, "Mary Hammel, PA-C" and below it, "Physician's Assistant."
He laughed and walked toward the bathroom. As he did, Victor lifted his right hand above his head and inscribed a circle in the air - kind of like a halo. It was their private signal, it meant, "Everything's okay. I love you." Mary went to make sure his lunch was ready.
***
Mary walked back to the break room. "You look great today, Samantha." As expected, she'd set three places at the table. Their break room was spotless and so was the garage - Samantha saw to that.
"I thought I'd let my Indian flag fly." She had her thick dark hair in two braids that were tied with beaded leather thongs she'd made herself. Her long face with its brown eyes and high cheekbones made her heritage obvious. She wore a western shirt and jeans.
Samantha's mother had been Chippewa. Sam’s father was white, but he had abandoned his family before she was even born.
***
Four years ago, when she was fifteen, Samantha and her mom had brought their beat up Subaru in for repair. Victor knew immediately that it needed an expensive head gasket replacement. Even at his rates, that was over a thousand dollars.
That night, he'd told Mary the story. "I looked at them out of the corner of my eye. I could tell the woman was nervous, expecting bad news. You know how it is, times are tough and with some people their car means they can work and earn and live. Without it . . . well, you know."
Mary understood. She saw it in the schools and in the free clinic practically every day; kids whose parents had nothing, who were on welfare, who had given up. It made it very easy for the kids to give up too.
"All the time the damned phone kept ringing. I tell everyone that if I don't answer, I'm busy and to try back later. But it kept ringing until the daughter picked it up. 'Fix It Right,' she said like she owned the place, 'How can I help?' I was surprised, but she seemed to know what she was doing. I heard her say, 'Yes ma'am. I'm Sam. I'm just helping out. Okay, I'll ask him.'
"She put her hand over the phone and said, ‘It's a Mrs. Mosby. She wants to bring in the Buick for a tune up on the twenty third. Got an appointment book?' Mary, I laughed. I told her to just tell her that date was fine.
"The mother seemed to be embarrassed, like her daughter had stepped over some type of line. She tried to explain, 'I work at the desk of a motel. She helps me sometimes, answering the phone when I'm busy.'
"Darned if the girl didn't say, 'I can help you too. Looks like you need it. I could come over after school; it's only a couple of blocks. I could answer the phone, get you organized.' Before I knew it, Mary, we had an employee.”
There was one part of the story he'd left out. Mary asked, "What did you tell them about the car?"
He looked sheepish. "Ah . . . well, I told them it would be seventy five bucks. You should have seen the mother, Mary. She was so relieved. She looked like she was almost crying. She said, 'I thought it was going to be bad, real bad.' Samantha was watching me, Mary. I think she knew what was going on.”
Three years later, Samantha's mother died of cancer. It was mercifully quick. At the end, Mary was with the two of them every day, offering comfort and a shoulder to cry on. Samantha was on her own now and going to junior college. She also was a part of their family.
***
Samantha normally set the topic of conversation at lunch, but today there was only one thing everyone was discussing - the attack yesterday in Chicago. The radio had been broadcasting the story all morning.
"I just heard there are a hundred twenty four confirmed dead, but they expect that number to rise."
Victor nodded, "Yeah, it's an old trick. They plant a bomb and then a second one where they figure people will gather to try and help the first victims."
Mary handed them each a wrapped Reuben sandwich. She knew it was Sam's favorite for lunch. "I just don't get it. How can people do such things? They must be evil, deep down inside."
"Lots of people are," said Victor.
They ate in silence for a while. Samantha took a giant bite of her sandwich. Mary was amazed at how much that girl could eat and never put on an ounce.
"So Vic, what happens to the airports now? Will they move security outside the building? Will they make everyone go in naked?"
Sam was serious in her questions. She figured that Victor would know just about everything about terrorists - he'd been in the Middle East. Her cousin was in the Army and when she told him that her boss was a Ranger, he was really impressed, "Those are some bad ass dudes, Sam - actually, more than bad ass. They only accept bad ass dudes into their Ranger school and almost sixty percent of them fail. The ones that make it are super bad ass."
"I don't know, Sam. It's a big problem. If they move security to the entrance of the terminal that would just create another choke point where people will gather and terrorists can target. If I had to guess, I'd say they'll not allow any type of baggage to be taken into the airport. It'll all have to be shipped via FedEx or something. It'll still be on the plane, but passengers will have to drop it off somewhere other than the airport a few days in advance."
"Well, that sucks," said Samantha. "Why keep going after airports, Vic?" She finished her sandwich and was eyeing the uneaten half of Mary's. Mary slid it over to her and smiled.
"Because the ability to go just about anywhere we want, just about anytime we want is a symbol of our civilization. It's a symbol of our freedom. They want that to crumble."
Mary took Samantha's hand and squeezed it. "How close are we, Vic - to when the shit hits the fan?"
"Closer today than yesterday." He face showed his certainty. "But it's probably a year or two or three away. Things will get worse though. You can feel that. It's like it's in the air."
They knew what he meant. The slow decline of their civilization was accelerating. Sooner or later, things would hit a tipping point and all hell would break loose. Everyone could feel something was just not right.
Mary looked Samantha directly in the eye, "You have your bug out bag all ready, right?"
Samantha smiled. Sometimes Mary seemed to act like a mother, but most of the time they were close like sisters. Either way, it felt good to have someone who loved you.
"Yes, of course. It's all ready. I sleep with it every night," she said sarcastically.
"Maybe you ought to think about moving in with us. I don't like the idea of you being God knows where when things get bad."
They'd had this discussion before. "Mary, I'm nineteen. I want to sow some wild oats. I want to see the world before it turns to crap. I want to go to college and date boys and stay out late."
Mary looked
at Victor. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "You're on your own."
"And besides, if things get bad, I'll find a way to get out to your place. Or maybe I'll just go to the rez. I'll call myself Twin Feathers and I'll ride ponies and they'll make me chief. Maybe the Indians will finally get the land back."
They both smiled at her. "And you two are welcome to join us and be honorary Indians. I'll call Vic 'Mighty Warrior' and Mary will be ‘Squaw Who Brings Lunch.' We'll live primitive lives, hunting and fishing. Zack and Zoe will grow up on the land, but we'll be happy like a family should be."
For just a moment, Mary thought that didn't sound so bad.
Dymond Calls Fallon “Mister”
As soon as they left the trail and entered the woods, the peeing girl stopped crying. Fallon knew she was following him because he could hear her footsteps behind him. She didn't say a word as they walked uphill.
When they got to the clearing, he heard her stop right at the edge - she'd seen his home. He put his gear away under the Airstream and went inside to get a pot and some water. When he returned, she hadn't moved.
"You hungry?" he asked. She looked thin, her knees were bony.
She thought for a second and then answered simply, "Yes."
Fallon put dried wood in the grill and lit it. He went to work cleaning the crappie. Each would provide two small fillets. He'd done this many times before, so he was good at it.
"You like your fish grilled or fried?"
This time the delay lasted longer. It was as if she was searching her memory. Finally, she said, "I don't know."
He shrugged and went inside to get a pan and oil and flour. Normally, he would just toss the fillets on the grill, but for the first time in years, he had a guest to dinner. He would fry this fish - it was his favorite method. Inside, he realized that God was back, studying the events down below intently.
When Fallon first returned, he didn't see her. She had moved to the uphill side of the clearing. She was squatting Indian style, her arms crossed in front of her knees. She was right beside the Piece of Shit. She watched him intently.