Damascus Road

by Charlie Cole

  He was right. But I realized, I had just gone from the frying pan into the hellstorm.

  Ignition

  TYRELL SHOOK MY HAND AT THE STATE LINE. He followed me in his squad car until we reached the border, him in his squad car, me in the Hemicuda. The Cuda had been a shock to me. Bill Beck showed it to me in their garage. He pulled back the tarp, and I saw it. I saw the handiwork of Chris Beck. Bodywork and engine work and tuning. Starburst yellow with black accents. Wide tires and heavy rims. Leather seats and shifter.

  I settled into the car and hit the road. The leather seat was home now. The windshield showed me my kingdom. I had nothing but miles ahead of me. I stepped on the gas and watched the center line click past me in a steady beat-beat-beat of yellow. It stretched out in front of me like an endless ribbon, hugging the road, riding it over hills and around corners.

  I was following the Mississippi River down out of Lake Itasca in Minnesota and pointed the car south. I knew where I was going without GPS or maps or directions. I watched the sun rise on my left and drove with the intent to continue on until it set on my right.

  I stopped at midday and pulled off the highway. I accelerated up the off ramp and found a diner to the right. I pulled into the lot and found an open slot near the door. I walked inside and found a seat in a booth.

  “Hi there!” It was the waitress. Her name tag proclaimed her name as Karen. She looked like she had worked the diner for a few more years than she intended, jockeying coffee pots and going home smelling of cheeseburgers and western omelets, but with her pockets full of loose change and a fist full of singles from tips.

  “Hi there,” I replied. I smiled my best smile.

  “Coffee?”

  “Was there ever any question?” I replied, trying to be pleasant. I flipped my cup over to accommodate her pour. She filled the stoneware cup to within a fraction of an inch of the lip.

  Karen giggled. Actually giggled.

  “Do you need a minute?” she asked.

  “For what?”

  “Your order of course,” Karen said.

  “I’d be wasting your time if I came in here without a clue of what to order, wouldn’t I?” I said.

  “True,” she replied. “So?”

  “What’s good?”

  “The restaurant up the road,” she said with a straight face.

  I laughed. Couldn’t manage a giggle.

  “The cook makes a halfway decent Farmer’s Omelet,” Karen went on. “Hash browns and sausage on the side.”

  “Sold,” I replied.

  Karen giggled again and disappeared toward the kitchen. I sipped my coffee and found it alarmingly hot. I rubbed my lip. In the city, some poor misled fool might consider suing for coffee so hot. Muy Caliente, the warning would say.

  I was musing over my coffee when the three robbers entered the diner. Their guns were drawn. Each held .38 revolvers, the finishes chipped and worn, the barrels waved this way and that.

  “Hands up!” one of them yelled. He was the smart stooge, or so I thought of him. The other two, Curly and Larry, wore matching ski masks, but said nothing.

  “Put your wallets in the bag, cell phones, all of it,” Moe shouted. His fellow stooges produced burlap bags and they worked the diners, starting at the far ends and moving back to the middle.

  I tossed my wallet on the table. It meant nothing. Larry snatched it up without looking at me. I sipped my coffee and waited for them to leave. They regrouped in a tight little huddle, examining their haul.

  Moe turned and looked. At first, I thought it might be at me, but it was not. It was out the window. It was into the parking lot.

  “Whose car is that?” Moe shouted.

  I turned to look and to my horror, realized that it was none other than my own. It was the Cuda. My heart dropped and my stomach clenched. I did not answer.

  “The Dodge Charger there,” he said, incorrectly. “Whose car is that?”

  His voice had risen in volume and tenor, shrieky and chilling.

  I saw Karen behind the counter, her face, her lower lip trembling in terror. It was not my place to subject these people to the whims of these criminal fools simply because of my love for a car.

  I stood, not looking at the stooges.

  “Sit down!” Moe barked.

  I slurped my coffee loudly, shuffling to the counter.

  “Karen! What do I have to do to get a refill in this place?” I slurred.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw the three men aiming their revolvers at me. Karen opened her mouth to say something to me, closed it, then opened it again.

  “Coming up,” she said and started pouring.

  “Much obliged,” I slurred and winked. I turned and plopped into a stool at the counter.

  Moe approached, Larry and Curly in tow. Their handguns were now at their waists, close to their sides. Moe leaned closer, watching me blow on my coffee.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hmm?” I replied.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Cuda.

  “Is that your car?” Moe asked.

  “That one?” I said, acting thick. “Oh. Yep.”

  “Give me the keys,” he said, pushing the gun into my line of sight.

  “Oh! I see…” I said. I fumbled in my pocket and produced the car keys. “Here you go.”

  Moe reached for the keys and they slipped off my finger and hit the linoleum at our feet. I saw them move in unison, all of them looking for the keys, all of them bending, straining in interest.

  I slammed my knee into Moe’s head, sending his skull rebounding into the adjoining table. I splashed my coffee into Larry’s face, who reeled backwards. Curly tried to raise his revolver, but I was already moving, slamming the stoneware mug into the side of his head, shattering it. He dropped to the ground.

  My arm was still in a sling, so I kept it in tight to my body and backfisted Larry in the jaw. His eyes went blank and he fell, landing on Curly.

  I turned in a circle. Three down.

  “Thou shalt not steal,” I said.

  I retrieved the revolvers and my car keys and sat back at my booth. I opened each cylinder, dropping the shells on the counter, until I had emptied all three handguns.

  There was an uncomfortable silence in the air. I looked up and found the diner patrons looking at me. Truckers and families, men and women. I looked back at Karen behind the counter.

  “Could I get a new cup?” I asked.

  The police arrived at the same time as my omelet. Karen told the police the whole story in a rush, words tumbling out of her mouth of what had happened and the shock and how fast I moved and how I saved all their lives.

  When I looked, up I saw the police officer looking at me as his fellow law enforcement officers led away the stooges. He did not say a word, only stretched out his hand and shook mine. He nodded and I nodded back. He walked out and left me to my breakfast, which is what I wanted in the first place.

  I crossed the city limits of St. Louis while the sun was low in the sky. After the open roads of the highway and straight stretches of road, the gridlock of the city was stifling, frustrating. Bumper to bumper, sucking exhaust in the city, praying for an opening, a hole in the wall of traffic. It never came.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my father again. If the situation were different; if I were the person I was a year ago, the second I was outside of Officer Tyrell’s jurisdiction, I would have turned the Cuda west and hit the gas. My dad would be in the dust and I’d never have to talk to him again.

  But I wasn’t that person, and it was disturbing to me. Somewhere in the course of all that had happened with Chris and the car crash and Tyrell, I had lost myself. I was no longer the James Michael Marlowe I had grown up with. I was uncomfortable in my own skin.

  My father was Ellis Marlowe. Growing up, I remembered moving from town to town following my father. I watched him put on his uniform. I watched the rows of ribbons grow on his chest. He told me that he was bein
g deployed to Grenada, Panama, Guantanamo Bay… when I was a senior in high school, Colonel Marlowe was deployed to Iraq in Desert Storm. He left with hardly a word to me or my mother.

  My brother, Thomas, joined the Army to be closer to my father. Went through boot camp. Next was Ranger training. He was in a unit that was deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan under the watchful eye of my dear old dad.

  It would have been a sweet story. Like father, like son. Things don’t always turn out that way. No story book endings. I had to pick up the pieces at home. In the end, home wasn’t even really home anymore, so I took to the road.

  That’s the thing about the road. It never disappoints. It never lets you down. It may be rough or smooth, but it’s always there for you. The yellow ribbon of centerline never doesn’t show up or miss your birthday or forget about family. It’s always there. Always waiting.

  I could hear it, sometimes. It called to me. Let’s ride, Jimmy. Let’s go for a ride. Don’t you wanna drive?

  Let’s go…

  Let’s go…

  Let’s….

  I shook the thoughts from my head and pulled to the curb. I had exited the expressway without a plan, hoping to somehow find my dad like a divining rod finds water. He had that ability to attract people. To draw people to him. People that wanted to be led. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work for me. Maybe that’s not what I wanted.

  Stepping out of the car, I found a coffee shop. It was as good a place as any to start. I walked inside hoping for someplace quiet. That wasn’t what I got.

  I found a place offering so many kinds and strains of coffee that my mind reeled. Every genus and strata and constellation of coffee beans and foam and chocolate shavings known to man. I squinted hard and tried to find the listing that just said, “black”. Hopeless.

  “Coffee, black,” I said at the counter.

  Pierre, or whatever his name was, seemed stymied by my request. Somehow a cup of coffee without foam, sprinkles or doo-dads was akin to solving calculus equations in your noggin. I felt old.

  I found out later that people like Pierre were known as baristas in the coffee house business. He wasn’t a waiter or a server. Apparently that title was too demeaning. This guy was an artiste. I’d gladly take someone like Karen in the diner. Sometimes it’s better to know your place in life. Accept it. Swallow it. Let it sit in your gut and embrace it. If you pour coffee, you pour coffee. Let it ride, man.

  There was no counter in the place. It was full of tables too small for anything but a coffee cup and overstuffed chairs that seemed more at home in a living room than a public establishment. I didn’t get it and maybe that was the point.

  I slumped into one of the chairs and sipped my coffee. It had depth of flavor, something beyond burnt grounds and being reheated. Right on, Pierre. You’re the man.

  My sunglasses made the place too dark as my eyes adjusted, so I took them off and clipped them to the front of my shirt. I rubbed the grit from my eyes and looked around the place.

  Beside me was a guy working on a laptop computer. He was analyzing a chart in glorious Technicolor like it was the Rosetta Stone. He was about my age, maybe a bit younger. Worth a shot.

  “Excuse me,” I said, loud enough for him to hear.

  The man flinched like I had poked him. He looked at me with a mix of alarm and disgust. Ew, another human being… interacting. Ugh… the horror. He plucked ear phones from his ears. I hadn’t noticed them before. They were attached to an iPod on the other side of his laptop.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

  He said ‘sir’ but it sounded like ‘cur’. Like I was already wasting his time.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m looking for someone.”

  He recoiled a little. I wondered if he thought I was trying to woo him or something. I shook my head.

  “Who might that be?” he asked.

  “Senator Ellis Marlowe,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where his offices are, do you?”

  The man actually laughed at me. Laughed. At me.

  “His election offices are across the street,” he said. “I’m Isaac Carter, the Senator’s Chief of Staff.”

  He offered his hand, and I shook it. Maybe not such a bad guy after all.

  “I’m Jim Marlowe,” I replied.

  Isaac was smiling, nodding when the logic of the statement seemed to dawn on him.

  “Marlowe?” he said, his finger pointing at me in a semi-accusatory way. “Are you the--?”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, so I finished it for him.

  “I am. I’m his son.”

  Isaac nodded, a little less sure now.

  “Can we go see him?” I asked.

  I stood and finished my coffee in one throat scalding slug.

  “He’s uh…that is, the Senator is about to start a press conference,” Isaac stuttered. “Perhaps we should wait.”

  “Perhaps not,” I said. “Might make for a good story.”

  My eyes found the front of the campaign office across the street, through the window of the coffee shop. I started for the door and tossed my cup into the trash. Two points. Isaac was at my heels.

  “He’s making a very special announcement,” Isaac said.

  “So am I,” I replied.

  A small crowd of people had gathered outside the campaign office. I could hear them murmuring from across the street. Some of them held shoulder-mounted camera equipment. TV cameras. I scanned the street and saw the vans parked nearby, logos plastered across the sides of vans, broadcast antennas erupting from roofs. Something was going on.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, not bothering to look back.

  “Senator Marlowe’s security team has been directed to keep you away from him today.”

  “By whom?” I asked. I leveled a glare at Isaac that made him squirm.

  “By me,” he said. “The news broke about the scripture-quoting vigilante who subdued three alleged robbers…”

  “Nothing alleged about it,” I replied.

  “Having you show up here today, wouldn’t be ideal,” Isaac went on.

  “Not ideal?” I asked.

  Before Isaac could respond, I walked into traffic. The funny thing about being in a car accident is that there’s a bit of gun shyness that goes along with it. You can’t shake the sound of shrieking metal in your ears. Your bones still rattle from the impact. I didn’t have any of those feelings. I couldn’t explain why not, except that things were different.

  I stepped into the road. I didn’t hear the honks or the screech of tires. It was as if I had a path across the street made for me. A parting of the Red Sea of traffic. I could feel the vehicles move around me, front and back, but I did not flinch. Once I reached the other side of the road, I looked back and saw Isaac Carter across the street, cars flowing between us. His mouth was open, unable to speak. I had no explanation to give and turned away.

  The crowd of media was thick and impenetrable. I did not want to be lost in the crowd the first time I saw my father after all these years. I would not be the lone voice calling from the crowd, begging for his attention. I would be more than that to him.

  I found a gap between two buildings adjoining his campaign headquarters and followed the narrow gap. A fence blocked my way, but I climbed it, dropping easily onto the other side.

  The rear of the buildings opened onto an alleyway, lined with dumpsters, trash cans and garages. I found the back of the campaign headquarters and let myself in. All eyes were focused on the front of the house. I could see tables, folding chairs, banners and...

  The Secret Service agent appeared from my peripheral vision. He wore sunglasses and a dark suit, an earpiece clung to his ear. He held something up his right sleeve.

  “May I help you?” he asked. His tone said otherwise. More like, you don’t belong here. Or don’t let the door hit you in the ass.

  “I’m here for the General,” I said.

  “The General?” A smile played over his lips. He th
ought I was a loon.

  “Two Star General Ellis Marlowe,” I said and jabbed a finger toward the front of the house. A second agent was approaching.

  “Oh, the Senator…” he said, clear now. He looked and saw his partner approaching quickly. “I’m afraid you can’t…”

  The agent tried to grab my forearm, but I pulled away. It was all the provocation he needed. I heard his collapsible ASP baton drop into his hand and snap open with a sharp thump. He swung the baton in a short arc aimed in a cross-body strike. I knew the move well and ducked under it. His partner was not so lucky and took the blow to the gut. He folded in half. I pushed the dazed partner into the armed agent, bulldozing the two together, mashing them into the wall. I jumped back and pulled the adjoining door closed between us. I snapped the lock shut a second before the door was assaulted with pounding hands and kicking feet, shouts of anger and vicious curses.

  My window of time was short. I turned and headed for the front of the headquarters. Volunteers in shirt sleeves, wearing buttons were cheering and slapping high fives with one another. Secretaries and office managers were gathered and celebrating. I put a smile on my face and applauded, blending into the crowd, pushing through, angling for the door.

  I saw him then. Ellis Patrick Marlowe. The General. The Senator.

  “And I’m announcing to you today…” Ellis was saying, “That I am running for President of the United States!”

  Aww, shit.

  Ellis waved his hands to the crowd, soaking in the adoration and the media focus. He was scanning the crowd, smiling, his teeth white, perfect, and even. His face was handsome, framed by salt and pepper hair.

  I wanted to retreat, to get away. This was everything I had feared and fled from. That was when he saw me.

  “Well now,” he said, playing for the crowd and the cameras as much as for me, “Look who we have here!”

  He beckoned me out, like I was part of the announcement. I hesitated, but remembered what Bob Beck had told me. How I needed to reach out to my father. I stepped out and stood by his side.