by Randy Ribay
That was where Sam had been sitting before Dante pulled him out of the car. His head had been leaning against that window.
Dante says, “We care about you.”
Sam shakes his head. “It’s not the same.”
“So does that mean it doesn’t matter?” Mari asks.
Sam shrugs.
“Whatever. We do care about you. But we need to go back home, Sam,” Mari says. “I need to be with my mom.”
Sam says, “There’s nothing waiting for me at home.”
“There’s nothing for you in Seattle, either,” Mari says. “And you’re not the only one in this car.”
“Then I’ll go the rest of the way on my own,” Sam says. “I’ll hitchhike. Like Sunshine.”
“No,” Archie says, avoiding Dante’s eyes, avoiding Mari’s. “I think we should keep going. We’re nearly there.”
Mari turns to Archie in disbelief. “What’s the point?”
“I couldn’t care less about helping this asshole anymore. But the sooner we go back, the sooner I have to move in with my father.”
“And the sooner I have to face my grandparents,” Dante adds, avoiding eye contact with Archie or anyone else. “If you couldn’t figure it out, I’m in trouble for some reason because I’m gay. I’m not ready to deal with that yet.”
“Three against one,” Sam points out.
Mari leans back and folds her arms over her chest. “You damn well better pay for that window.”
Over Adventure
Sunday, 8:19 P.M.
The next thousand miles pass in near silence as Mari, Archie, Sam, and Dante fall into a rhythm.
They drive in three- or four-hour shifts.
They stay in one place only long enough to accomplish necessary tasks. Bathroom. Food. Gas. Repeat.
They pass through the northern plains where the mind-numbing flatness is dotted with grazing cattle. The sparseness is interrupted by small towns consisting of a handful of houses clustered around towering silos. Everything seems to repeat, like the looping background in some old cartoon.
When not driving or sleeping, Mari writes in her notebook, Archie works math problems, Dante contemplates life while watching the landscape slide by, and Sam reads the book Sunshine gave them.
They rarely speak, and when they do, it’s only to convey what gestures cannot.
They’re over adventure. The destination no longer excites them. It is as if they’ve brokered a fragile truce to accept the remainder of their trip as mere escape. They’re stuck in orbit.
As the sun sets, they approach the mountains of Montana. There’s a brief argument about the radio when Sam tries to turn it up while Mari is driving. But Dante quashes the bickering, and the car settles back into its purgatorial silence.
Night falls.
The Slow-Moving World
Monday, 3:01 A.M.
Archie brings the car to a complete stop. The glowing red line of taillights stretches so far into the night that he cannot see the source of the backup.
With the plastic over the broken window no longer flapping, radio music rises to the surface. It’s some old folk song. Archie listens. He considers changing the station. But he doesn’t.
Dante and Sam are asleep in the back, Mari in the front.
After several minutes, there’s still no movement ahead. Archie sighs.
He glances at Dante in the rearview mirror.
He sighs again.
Mari stirs. She slowly comes to and takes in the situation. “What’s going on?” Her words are thick with sleep. She sits up and stretches. Puts her glasses back on.
“Traffic.”
“Looks bad. Know why?”
He shrugs. Leans back.
Mari turns the radio to the AM band and begins scanning for information. Late-night talk radio cuts in and out, rambling about weather or sports or God or politics. Finally, the dial hits a traffic report.
After listening for a few moments they learn of an accident a couple miles up the road. Both westbound lanes are closed.
“I hope everyone’s okay,” she whispers.
Archie kills the engine and rolls down the window. The soft sounds of idling engines and distant music drift through the air.
“Why’d you say that back there? To Dante?” Mari asks.
Archie considers her question as he gazes into the line of lights. He glances into the rearview mirror and sees cars stacking up behind them. He realizes he’s trapped.
“I don’t know. It’s not like I was planning to say it,” Archie says quietly, careful not to wake Dante and Sam.
“But did you mean it?”
Archie shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“I don’t know, Mari. It just came out. I was upset. I tried to help you, and you yelled at me. I’m sorry. I’m not the best with words.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”
Silence settles between them. Archie’s mind wanders back to this time last night. He and Mari in the lake. Their arms around each other, bodies pressed together. The silence was good then. It wrapped around them like a soft blanket. Now it has become a wall.
He mourns the difference that twenty-four hours can make.
“That was a horrible thing to say,” Mari says. “Dante admitted something to us back there. Something significant. Something he’s obviously been holding in for a long time. And that’s how you react? With hatred? You’re supposed to be his friend.”
Archie glances at Dante. His eyes are still closed. “I don’t hate Dante.”
“If that word—fag—could slide out from your lips,” Mari says, “that means it must have been living somewhere within you.”
Archie looks down at his hands on the steering wheel. “It’s not like you said anything when he first told us.”
“I didn’t have the chance. We were in the middle of a storm, remember?”
“And afterwards?”
“I didn’t want to force it. And I didn’t know if anybody else heard, so I was waiting for him to bring it up again.”
Archie looks out his window and watches a lone car pass in the opposite direction. “I don’t hate Dante,” he repeats.
“Then what’s your problem? I mean, you’re not religious, so you’re not hung up on that whole homosexuality-as-sin thing, right?”
“No.”
“Did someone touch you when you were a kid?”
“Ugh. No.”
“Just asking.”
Archie fidgets with the wheel. He rubs his clammy palms together. He checks to make sure Dante and Sam are still sleeping. “My parents’ divorce . . .” he starts to say but falters.
“What about it?” Mari asks.
He takes a deep breath as if he were about to jump out of a plane. “My parents divorced because my dad came out. As gay.”
Mari nods. “So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
“So why’s that matter? I mean, did he have an affair?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did he ever abuse your mom? Ever hit you?”
“No. Never.”
“Did he abandon you?”
Archie shakes his head.
“Did you find out he’s a serial killer or something?”
“No?”
She takes the glasses off Archie’s face, cleans the lenses with her shirt, and then puts them back on. “Then why are you telling me this like you’re revealing something terrible about him?”
Mari’s question makes Archie feel like he’s run off a cliff without realizing there’s no ground beneath his feet.
“I don’t know,” Archie says.
Mari shakes her head. “I thought you were better than this, Arch.”
“Sorry that I’m not.” He looks at the line of cars, wishing it would start moving again.
“They’re gay. So what?” Mari pushes. “I’m black. You’re white. We can be together. Why can’t he be with who
ever he loves?”
Archie turns to Mari. “Are we together?”
“Don’t dodge the question.”
“It’s not that. I’m not logically opposed.”
“Then what? It just grosses you out or something?”
“No.”
“There has to be a reason, Arch. There’s always a reason.”
“I don’t know what it is, Mari. I’m sorry. I wish I did, but I don’t. I can’t explain it like I feel it.”
“If you care about Dante—if you care about your dad—you need to figure out why the hell you resent who they are. You’re hurting them, hurting yourself by rejecting them. I guarantee you’ll lose them both if you don’t figure this out.”
Even as the words leave her mouth, Mari’s mind goes to the unopened letter pressed between the pages of her notebook. She tells herself it’s a different situation.
Ahead, the collective red glow cast by taillights begins to dim in a chain reaction. Archie turns the key, and the radio comes back to life in the middle of a song. Traffic begins to unclog.
In the shadows of the back seat, Dante’s eyes are open. They have been for the last several minutes. He gazes out the window at the slow-moving world.
Pretty Cool People
Monday, 6:01 A.M.
After hours of careening through hills and mountains stacked with pine trees, they find themselves on a stretch of road that curves around a corner and delivers them to a small town. Its modest collection of two and three-story brick buildings sit along a handful of streets that lie in a grid on the south side of the highway.
Archie clicks on his turn signal and exits. Sensing the car slowing, Mari, Archie, and Dante awaken.
Archie navigates through the streets, pleased by their mathematical arrangement, looking for somewhere to eat. The first two restaurants he comes across are still closed, but he eventually finds an open diner. He parks along the street and everyone climbs out, yawning and stretching. The air is chilly, but it is fresh so they inhale it greedily. It smells damp and earthy.
A bell jingles as they enter the restaurant, and the fresh air is replaced with a wave of warmth that carries the scents and sounds of breakfast. Coffee brewing. Bacon sizzling. Eggs frying. Toast burning. A few people sitting at the counter turn to them, nod, and then resume their conversations. A skinny guy at the grill behind the counter—who looks like he could pass for twenty or forty—gestures for them to take a seat. He seems to be the only employee.
“Be right with you,” he says, his smile revealing a chipped front tooth.
All of the booths in the place are open, so they take the one in the back corner. Sam slides in next to Dante, and Archie sits across from them. Mari heads to the restroom.
Dante pulls out laminated menus from behind the napkin holder and passes them around. They consider their choices in silence.
The chip-toothed cook walks over a moment later bearing a carafe. “Morning, fellas.” He smiles, flips the overturned mugs sitting on their paper placemats, and starts pouring. A dragon tattoo snakes around his forearm, its crude lines and colors faded. “Name’s Jack.”
Dante covers his cup with his hand. “No, thanks.”
“It comes with a meal,” Jack explains.
“Oh.” Dante removes his hand and Jack fills his mug. Steam rises off the coffee, which looks black as ink.
“Creamer and sugar’s right there,” he says. “I’ll give you a minute.”
They nod, and he moves away to serve the other customers.
One by one, they decide what they want and set down their menus. Sam scratches the back of his head. Dante grabs a straw and starts twisting it idly. Archie examines the local business ads that decorate the paper placemat.
Mari returns. She looks at the empty seat next to Archie and hesitates before taking it. “So what’s everyone getting?” she asks, studying the menu.
“Food,” says Sam.
“Oh,” Mari says, “I thought you ate shit. You know. Since you’re an asshole.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Sam says. “Assholes don’t eat anything. They expel shit. But maybe we should ask Archie since he’s one, too. What do you think, Arch?”
“Ha. Ha.”
“We’re about to eat,” Dante says. “Can we please stop talking about this?”
The conversation lulls, and everyone is relieved when Jack returns a moment later.
He smiles at Mari and then asks, “You ready?” He notices Archie glance at his hands, which are not holding a pad. Jack taps his own forehead. “I got a mind like a bear trap.”
They nod and give him their orders.
“Food should be up in about ten,” he tells them.
Before he leaves Sam asks, “Hey, how far’s Seattle?”
Jack looks out the window as if he can see the city from where he stands. “About five hours. Four and a half if you’ve got a ride like mine.” He nods in the direction of a bright yellow, vintage sports car parked outside.
Jack lingers.
Sensing the guy is accustomed to receiving compliments at this point, Archie obliges. “Nice wheels.”
“Thanks.” Jack smiles and then wanders back over to the grill.
Sam takes a sip of coffee. It’s bitter and burns his tongue.
Dante continues to fidget with the straw.
Mari rests her elbows on the table and stares at nothing.
Archie empties several sugar packets into his mug. He pours in a little cup of creamer, watching the milk swirl and form light brown clouds within the black. There’s something comforting in it, some ratio of the spiral that could be deduced with enough effort.
After he finishes stirring his coffee, Archie observes several customers pay their bills and get up to leave, probably off to work. He wonders if they’re all headed to the same place. If not, if they’re parting ways, maybe they’ll meet up afterward for drinks after work. Maybe for them, that’s life. And maybe that’s enough.
Jack returns a moment later, interrupting Archie’s idle thoughts. But he is not carrying any food. He looks from side to side, and then crouches low next to their table. “You guys seem like some really cool people.”
“Really?” Archie asks, adjusting his glasses.
Jack lingers as if trying to decide whether or not he wants to say more. “You like animals?” he finally asks.
Archie, Sam, Dante, and Mari look at each other. “Sure,” Mari says. “I have a dog. Her name’s Macadamia.”
Jack slaps the table and then points at Archie. “Killer name. That’s what I’m talking about. Look. Here’s the deal. I got a bathtub full of baby alligators. Just hatched. Little monsters are cute as hell. You interested?”
“In what?” Mari asks.
Jack smiles and cocks his head. “In taking a few, of course. Keepin’ ’em.”
“Like as pets or something?” Dante asks.
“Yeah, like pets or something. Train ’em if you want.”
“What, exactly, can you train a baby alligator to do?” Archie asks, taking a scientific interest in the possibility.
“How the fuck should I know?” Jack asks.
“Um . . . aren’t you the one selling them?” Mari points out.
“Train them to do whatever the hell you want, I guess. Swim laps. Bite on command. Jump through a flaming hoop. It’s up to you.”
Sam leans forward. “How big are they?”
“Tip to tail, maybe eight or nine inches.”
“You know what else is eight or nine inches?” Archie asks the others, testing the waters. Nobody bites. He lets it go. “So how big will they get?”
Jack shrugs.
“Is this even legal?” Mari asks.
Jack tilts a flattened hand from side to side. “Wait—you’re not cops are you? If you’re cops, you have to tell me.”
“Not cops,” Archie says.
“Good, good. So what do you say?”
“How much?” Sam asks.
“Fifty each,”
Jack says, but noticing Sam’s reaction, he relents. “Alright, alright. Thirty. Friends and family discount. How many can I put you down for?”
Sam strokes his chin.
“You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” Mari asks. “This has to be like animal cruelty.”
Jack sighs. “I understand your concern. I am nothing if not a friend to living creatures. I didn’t buy the eggs or nothing. They came into my brother’s possession in a card game, and he gave ’em to me. So now, I either find the little guys homes or dump them into the sewers.”
“That’s horrible,” Dante says.
“Exactly.” Jack taps out a beat on the table and stands. “Let me finish making your breakfast. Think on it. You know where to find me.” He winks and returns to the grill.
Mari makes sure Jack is out of earshot and then leans forward. “Should we, like, call the cops on this guy?”
The table falls into silence as they all consider the situation.
But then, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, Dante starts chuckling. Mari tries to slap his head, but Dante dodges it and flicks his crumpled straw wrapper at her. It catches in Archie’s glasses, dangling from the corner of his frames, which causes Mari to break out in laughter. She throws her arm around Archie’s neck and shoves a napkin down his shirt, and soon he’s chuckling as bad as Dante. She kicks Sam’s leg, which triggers a smile. And suddenly even Sam is laughing as he retaliates by tossing an open sugar packet into Mari’s hair.
A minor war ensues. Their laughter rises, joining together, as they flick and toss and dodge condiment packages and bits of napkin and straws and crumbs. The other customers turn to watch the strangers, not understanding because how can they? Eventually, they lose interest and turn away.
And just when it seems like it’s over, like there’s a truce building, Archie catches Mari’s eye and they start cracking up all over again. Tears form in their eyes. Their stomachs hurt from laughing so hard at how stupid this is, at how stupid all of this is.
Something shifts. Resentments release. Hearts soften.
Jack returns to their booth and sets their plates in front of them, looking down at the mess they’ve made. They wipe at their eyes and take deep breaths. Eventually, still smiling, they regain control of themselves.