by Tim Waggoner
“Shit!” She slammed her right palm down on the steering wheel to punctuate the word, causing the Escort to veer toward the side of the road. She felt a stab of fear in her gut as the car edged toward the ditch. Bad enough to be going home for her father’s funeral; the last thing she—and the rest of the family—needed was for her to end up getting killed along the way. But she managed to correct course in time, and as the Escort steadied, she resolved to punch the seat next time if she felt the need to hit anything.
She’d been traveling for two days now. The family had agreed to postpone the funeral to give her enough time to get home, but she still had a ways to go to reach Trinity Falls. She couldn’t afford any delays if she hoped to get there in time. Of course, that wasn’t all she couldn’t afford. If she’d had enough money for a plane ticket, she wouldn’t have had to drive, but working checkout at a grocery store wasn’t exactly making her rich.
Of course, someone in the family could’ve offered to buy a plane ticket for her. She didn’t know what her brother was doing for a living these days, but she doubted he had any extra cash lying around. But her mother and grandmother… No, they probably didn’t have any money to spare, either, not with having to pay for her father’s burial. So it wasn’t because they were still mad at her for leaving that no one had offered to pay her airfare. And it surely wasn’t because Grandma wanted her to drive so she’d have a good long time to think about the way she had left without saying goodbye, how she hadn’t visited once during the last eleven years, not even for a Christmas.
Oh, no. Grandma would never do that.
She almost smacked the steering wheel again, but she remembered just in time to hit the passenger seat instead. The map crumpled where her hand struck, but she didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t much use to her right now anyway.
Screw this. She needed to find a place to turn around (the road was too narrow for her to risk it here) and then she’d head back the way she’d come and see if she could get back on the highway. At the thought, her bladder gave a cramp of protest.
After I squat for a couple minutes in a field, she amended. She’d hadn’t seen any cars since she’d gotten off the highway, and if anyone did drive by while she was peeing, then they’d just get a free show, wouldn’t they?
She began to slow, intending to stop and relieve herself when she saw a sign, the first since she’d started traveling this godforsaken road.
JOE’S GAS & GULP. 3 MILES AHEAD.
It rose up from the dry, dusty ground at the side of the road, wood weathered gray, edges beginning to fray like cloth. The letters had been white once, but their color had long since faded, making it look as if the sign were slowly absorbing the words. Still, Lauren could make them out well enough, and the sight cheered her. It looked like she was going to escape the indignity of peeing in the grass, and that was one small thing to be grateful for.
She pressed down on the accelerator, intending to make the next three miles the shortest she’d ever traveled.
Lauren hadn’t figured a place called Joe’s Gas & Gulp would get four stars in the Michelin Guide, but it didn’t even rise to the level of her meager expectations. An old-style diner like something out of a fifties B-movie, it looked so rundown, so abandoned, that she wasn’t sure it was even a good enough place to piss at, and if her bladder hadn’t been screaming at her to find a toilet right now, she wouldn’t have stopped at all. But it was, and she did, and here she was, hoping that the ladies’ room wasn’t too grungy, and if it was, that there was no one around to see her soak the ground behind the building.
Gravel crunched beneath her sandals as she walked toward the diner. To the left stood an ancient water pump, and behind it, a rusted-out Chevy up on blocks, windshield cracked, the entire car coated with dust that looked at least an inch thick and caked on hard as rock. The diner’s white paint was chipped and flaking, making the building look like some manner of desert reptile struggling to shed its skin. The stone surface was cracked and red dust leaked through like dry blood. The front door had been torn from its hinges and lay in the dust, discarded, the wood weathered as badly as the sign a few miles back. The windows gaped open, glass gone. Broken by vandals, Lauren wondered, or ground down by decades of howling desert winds? The doorway yawned wide, wider, it seemed, than it had a moment before, and she had the impression—foolish, of course—that the building was somehow beckoning her, trying to lure her inside. The sun was high in the sky, bright and hot, but its light didn’t penetrate the building’s gloom, and she couldn’t see more than a few inches past the doorway. Anything could be waiting for her inside, anything at all.
“That’s true. But just because we’re called to a place doesn’t mean we have to answer, does it?”
Lauren whirled, so startled that she felt a hot squirt of urine soak her panties. Sitting to the right of the doorway in a pine rocking chair was an old black man dressed in a gray suit. He rocked back and forth, the chair creaking softly, smiling as he looked at her with…
It was bad enough that she hadn’t noticed the rocker, let alone the man sitting in it before now. But she knew that chairs and their occupants don’t just appear out of thin air, so (she told herself) the man must have been sitting there the entire time and she’d just missed him, so caught up was she in her need to pee and so overwhelmed by the melancholy force of the diner’s profound decay. And it was undeniably disturbing that his first words to her—spoken in a mellow, soothing voice, a kind voice, a knowing voice that was at once confident and apologetic—seemed to be replying to a thought she was certain she hadn’t verbalized. But that was likely just coincidence, or perhaps a simple misinterpretation on her part.
But his eyes Lauren couldn’t explain away so easily.
They were a solid color, without pupils, like those of a man born blind, but instead of milky white, his eyes were silver. Not shiny, metallic silver, but moist and shimmering, like pools of liquid mercury. She had the impression that if she were to reach out with an index finger and touch one of those eyes, her fingertip would gently penetrate the surface and keep going.
Held gently in the old man’s long, delicate fingers was a silver pocket watch, the color of which matched his eyes exactly. The watch was attached by a thin silver chain to his left breast pocket like an umbilicus.
“A bit late, but not enough to fret about.”
Late? For what? And how can you see that watch, anyway? Lauren realized she had no idea what time it was, and she found herself glancing at the watch face, more out of reflex than any real curiosity. But she couldn’t make out the time. It wasn’t a Braille watch (were there even such things?) but no matter how hard she tried to read the numbers (and she wasn’t certain they were numbers, or letters for that matter; the shapes were odd, curvy-twisty things that resembled tiny black insects) they seemed to constantly swim in and out of focus, and the longer she looked, the more her eyes began to ache from the strain. She tried to tear her gaze away from the watch, but it was as if her eyes had been captured by those shapes, fixed to them by some sort of hypnotic force that she was powerless to defy.
She was unable to look away from the watch, but she heard the man’s smile in his voice. “In the end, the only true power the world has over us is the power we give it.” He turned his hand over, hiding the watch face, and Lauren felt a snap inside her head. A tension had been released, as if her consciousness were a stretched-out rubber band that had returned to its original shape.
She looked at the man’s face, and sure enough he was smiling, some teeth white as new snow, others gold-capped and glinting in the sun. Despite the heat of the day, she noticed he wasn’t sweating. He wore a cream-colored fedora that looked brand-new, though his gray suit (brown patches on the elbows like some stereotype of a college professor) had seen better days. His sockless feet were cradled in comfortable brown suede moccasins, and as he rocked, he tapped them, first the right, then the left, t
hen right again, as if keeping time to a tune that only he could hear.
He tucked the watch into his breast pocket, leaving a loop of silver chain dangling. “You’d best take care of your business before we talk any further.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“You need to use the facilities, don’t you? Pretty badly, too, I’d wager. Only reason you’d stop at a place run down as this.”
Leaning against the crumbling diner wall behind him was an ebony cane topped by a silver wolf’s head, the metal worn smooth, the animal’s features indistinct, as if the cane had seen a lot of use over the years. A small red suitcase sat on the ground next to the man’s right foot, scuffed and battered. It too had obviously seen a great deal of use. She felt an impulse to ask if he were waiting for something or someone…like maybe a bus? But she was afraid he’d grin and say, Sure. I was waiting for you. So instead, she nodded (not that he could see the gesture), suddenly embarrassed. She remembered how she had peed a little when he’d surprised her, and she was grateful that he couldn’t see the small dark spot on the crotch of her jeans (God, it was hot! Why hadn’t she had sense enough to put on shorts?). But weren’t blind people’s other senses supposed to grow sharper in compensation for their lack of sight? If so, she wondered if he could smell the urine on her.
She tried to keep the embarrassment from her voice as she asked, “Is there a ladies’ room inside?”
The man’s smile fell away. “There is, but it’d be best if you didn’t go in the building. It’s…not safe.” The smile returned, though it seemed a trifle forced this time. “Too much debris, not enough light to see by. You wouldn’t want to trip and fall, now would you?”
You’re blind, she thought. How would you know if there was enough light?
His smiled widened, seemed more genuine now. “Most folks just go on around back and do what they have to. Don’t worry about me none. I’ll stay right here the whole time. Not only am I a gentleman, it’s too damn hot to move unless a body has to.” He chuckled, and she felt more at ease.
Besides, it’s not as if he could be a peeping tom even if he wanted to. But fast on the heels of that thought came another. Maybe there were more ways to peep than with one’s eyes.
Still, there was something about the old man that inspired—not trust, exactly, but a certain measure of comfort. She had the impression that, while you might not always understand (or like) the things he said, he wouldn’t lie to you.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Now it was his turn to nod, his silver orbs fixed on her eyes as if they worked just fine, thank you. Then he turned and consulted his pocket watch once more. Lauren took this as her cue to start making her way around the building to the back of the diner.
As she passed the glassless windows, she was tempted to look inside and see what, if anything, she could make out in the building’s inner darkness, but there was something about the way the old man had warned her about going inside that made her think that maybe it wasn’t merely knocked-over tables and broken chairs she should be worried about, and she resisted looking. Once or twice, she thought she heard something moving inside, something leathery-whispery, heavy and slow, maybe a reptile of some kind. Or maybe something else altogether.
Around back was just more desert littered with junk left over from the days when the diner had been a going concern—broken bottles, splintered crates, scattered pieces of silverware, mostly buried by now, only fork tines showing, or the handle of a knife. She found a bare patch of earth, unzipped her pants and pulled both them and her panties down in a single motion. The desert air felt hot and dry on her vagina and her ass, and she was surprised to find the sensation mildly arousing.
For Christ’s sake, girl! Here you are, pants around your ankles, needing to pee like a racehorse, a weird old blind man on the other side of the building, and you’re getting horny over a little hot air? What the hell’s wrong with—
Desert heat was suddenly replaced by forest cool, branches whipping her arms and legs, leaf-edges slicing her face and hands. The thunder of her pulse, matched by the pounding footfalls of the thing that pursued her. Then the blow between her shoulder blades, falling, lying on the earth, the sweet-stink of the beast’s organ lowering, and then it was coming for her, mounting her, probing…
She screamed and a torrent of hot urine gushed from between her legs as if she were a pregnant woman whose water had broken (and how would she know that? She’d never had a, never had a, never—), and she collapsed onto her right side, the ground beneath her hip wet, but already drying as the desert greedily sucked in the moisture she had provided.
The last thing she saw before she passed out was the old man coming toward her, using his wolf’s head cane for balance, face a mask of concern and sympathy. And then, thankfully, the darkness took her.
It’s dark, but not scary-dark. Warm, comforting. She feels at once as if she’s floating free in space and wrapped securely in a soft, snug blanket. She wonders if this is what it felt like in the womb. No, she decides. This is better.
“I’m glad you’re not afraid. There’s no reason to be—not of me, anyway.” A chuckle.
She recognizes the voice, though not by sound since she’s not exactly hearing it. More like feeling it. She knows it by its…texture? That’s not quite the right word, but she supposes it will do.
“Never did have a chance to introduce myself. Name’s Johnny. Johnny Divine, if you can believe it.” Another chuckle, self-deprecating this time.
She tries to respond, but she doesn’t seem to have a mouth in this place. If whatever this floaty-pleasant darkness is can even be considered a “place”.
“Lauren Carter,” he—Johnny—supplies for her.
She wonders how he knows, decides it doesn’t matter, that she doesn’t care. This (non)place feels too good. She loves it so much, she never wants to leave.
“None of that, now.” Johnny’s voice is suddenly stern. “It’s okay to rest a bit here, gather your strength for what’s to come, but this is no place to linger. There are other things here in the dark besides us, and it won’t be long at all until they begin to notice us. Catch our scent, I suppose you could say. Best to do what we need to and be movin’ on.”
She feels a flash of irritation at the old man, wishes he’d go away and let her float in peace and silence.
“Even if it were possible, child, you can’t stay here. You’ve got a funeral to attend, remember?”
She does remember, and suddenly the darkness around her no longer seems so comforting.
Daddy…
“I apologize for being so harsh, but we don’t have much time. There’s a couple things I have to tell you before you continue on your way. And when I’m finished, don’t ask me any questions or beg me to explain further. I always give all I have to give—never any less. Understand?”
She isn’t quite sure, but if she’d had a head here, she’d nod it.
“Good. Now listen close, because I don’t repeat myself. First off, despite everything you might believe to the contrary, you’ve been a good daughter and granddaughter, hear? Second, pick up the rock and put it in your pocket. Got that?”
Good…rock…pocket…
“Close enough.” He sounded satisfied. “Got one last thing to say: look in your glove box. You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Lauren Carter, in more ways than you can imagine right now. Travel it with care.”
She sensed the voice withdraw and felt the darkness begin to recede as well, like an ebon tide pulling away from shore.
She awoke with tears streaming down her face. At first, she wasn’t sure why, but then she remembered the warm, dark place and she knew why she cried. Leaving there was like being cast out of paradise.
She sat behind the wheel of her car, windows rolled down, desert air thick and stifling. She wiped the tears from her face
and tried to remember where she—
The diner…the old man…
She looked toward the front of the ancient diner. Everything looked the same. No glass in the windows, door lying on the ground, paint flaking. The pine rocking chair was in the same position as before, only now it was empty. No Johnny Divine, no red suitcase, no silver wolf’s head cane propped against the wall.
Had she pulled off the road, intending to use the restroom, only to fall asleep? She checked her watch, but since she couldn’t remember what time she had reached Joe’s Gas & Gulp, it didn’t tell her anything.
Wait—her bladder had been full to bursting when she’d gotten here, but now she didn’t need to go at all. How…?
Then she remembered walking around to the rear of the diner at the old man’s suggestion, how she’d hallucinated (again), thought she was…somewhere else…running…being chased… All she got were snatches of images—green leaves, brown-black fur—but the images refused to coalesce.
She shook her head to dispel the disjointed memories. They weren’t important right now. She did recall how upset the images had made her, though. She’d been overwhelmed and had actually fainted. Then came a hot rush of embarrassment as she remembered wetting herself as she fell to the ground.
She touched the crotch of her shorts and found it dry. She brought her fingers up to her nose and sniffed. She smelled nothing. So it had been a dream, then. If she’d peed her pants, they’d stink something fierce right now, especially in this heat. Of course, she didn’t have a clear notion of when and how she had relieved herself, but that didn’t matter. She was just grateful she didn’t have to dig fresh shorts and panties out of her suitcase.
Anyone else might’ve been disturbed at the prospect of having a hallucination as vivid as meeting Johnny Divine, fainting, and swimming disembodied in darkness with only the old man’s thought-voice for company. But Lauren wasn’t upset. Compared to the sort of dreams she suffered through each night, Johnny Divine was a welcome and benign change of pace.