Backtracker

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Ahead, Larry slowly proceeded, sliding in and out of the pale patches of moonlight which dropped through the ragged winter tree-cover. Crouching slightly, hands hanging loosely at his sides, he looked stealthy and alert, as cautious and poised for sudden action as a hunter. His feet rose and fell with a slower, more pronounced motion than before, carrying him over roots and debris with barely a sound.

  Maintaining his distance from the leader, Dave followed Larry around a bend in the path, then another, sharper turn. After hiking up a small hill, the pair came to a fork in the trail, and went to the left.

  The path grew steadily narrower and rougher, branches closing in more boldly from the sides. Dave had more difficulty keeping his movements silent, because there were so many more obstacles to push aside or avoid. At one point, he stumbled on a loose stone, making enough noise to earn him a warning glare from Larry.

  After following the route for a short distance more, the duo came upon a large tree which had fallen across the trail. Placing his hands on the gnarled bark of the trunk, Larry easily vaulted over it, springing gracefully to the other side of the blockage. Instead of continuing onward, he then waited for Dave; extending his hand, the guy helped Dave to clear the tree, providing an extra pull as he swung over the waist-high trunk.

  Once Dave had landed beside him, Larry placed a finger against his own lips, signaling for continued silence. Eyes wide, expression grim, he then began to move forward again...but this time, he spread both hands toward Dave, gesturing for him to stay in place.

  Obeying the silent command, Dave remained at the fallen tree, wondering what was going to come next. As Larry crept ahead, he nervously crossed his arms and stared into the shadowy woods, trying to steal a glimpse of whatever awaited him. He could see nothing but the still, cluttered terrain, the concealment of the frozen March forest.

  Then, he heard something strange. Tensing, he strained to listen, and it came again...a muffled whimper.

  Biting his lower lip, frowning apprehensively, Dave took a step forward and peered more carefully into the woods. He heard the whimper again, but could see nothing different.

  Gazing down the path, he noticed that Larry had disappeared around a sharp bend; the woods were so dense there, Dave couldn't see the guy moving through the trees.

  Slowly taking another step forward, Dave heard the whimper repeat, and he could tell that is was coming from somewhere nearby. It wasn't loud, but it was definitely close, perhaps just up ahead.

  At that moment, Larry reappeared from around the bend in the path. He motioned for Dave to approach, then waited as the baffled, fearful follower plodded toward him.

  Yet again, the whimper sifted through the woods, and Dave's heart flopped in his chest. As he worked his way toward Larry, he knew that he was close, close to the climax of the night's mysterious journey. A feeling of dread curdled within him, a fear of whatever test he was about to face.

  'It's all up to you,' Larry had told him. 'For God's sake, don't let me down this time.'

  Dave reached Larry and paused, hoping that the guy would tell him that everything was fine and they could return to the trailer. Larry just nodded and waved him on, providing no reprieve from the impending challenge.

  Cautiously, Dave stepped forward, his eyes and ears straining to catch a sight or sound which might guide him. The path angled sharply to the right, and he followed it.

  When he reached a small clearing, he stopped. As he gazed into the open space, he realized that he'd found his destination.

  The clearing was roughly circular, perhaps twenty feet in diameter. A jumble of large rocks occupied the center, illuminated by moonlight. Clearly defined in the silvery lunar glow, someone was kneeling on the biggest, flattest stone.

  It was Boris.

  That much wasn't a surprise to Dave; all along, the one thing that he'd known about the quest was that Boris Blovitz would somehow be involved with it. There was something which did surprise him, however, something completely unexpected. It was enough to shoot a sudden, razor chill up his spine, freeze him there with startled eyes as big as softballs.

  Boris had a gun.

  Eyes shut tightly, face twisted in an agonized grimace, Morris "Boris" Blovitz was holding the gun to his head.

  Suddenly, everything fell together in Dave's mind. As he absorbed the terrible scene before him, he understood the purpose and dimensions of the mission, answered all the questions which had stumped him until that instant.

  Why had Larry dragged him from the trailer and into the woods? Why had Larry been so angry with him for failing to keep tabs on Boris? Why had Larry been in such a rush, and why had he behaved in such a desperate manner?

  Because Boris was going to kill himself.

  Heart slamming in his chest, crashing against his ribs like a prizefighter's fist, Dave hovered at the edge of the clearing and stared at Boris. A heavy, cold feeling settled in his stomach as he realized what had to come next; there was no choice now, no other option to consider.

  He had to prevent Boris from killing himself.

  Just as he had no choice, Dave had no time, either. There was no time to think about what to say, what words would be most comforting and persuasive. There was no time for him to collect himself, calm his spastic nerves and assert a more controlled, relaxed demeanor. Worst of all, there was no time to summon help, bring in friends who would be better equipped to resolve the crisis. Dave had to act immediately; he had to move now, as nervous and frightened as he was, or his friend might die.

  Gathering in a deep breath, he stepped into the clearing. Abandoning the stealthy silence of his trek to that point, he let twigs and frozen earth crunch underfoot.

  At those first sounds of intrusion, Boris flung his eyes open, and his head jerked back. His haggard expression b briefly became one of panic, then quickly changed to woeful surprise as he recognized the visitor.

  The gun remained firmly in his grip, drifting only slightly from the side of his head.

  "Dave!" he said hoarsely. "What're you doing here?"

  Hands in his pockets, Dave shuffled toward his friend. "Oh, I just went for a hike," he said, trying to sound calm. "Too many people in the trailer, y'know?"

  "You should've just told them to take a hike," Boris quipped shakily, his weak, strained wheeze a sad facsimile of his usual fiendish laugh.

  Dave cleared his throat and looked at the ground, searching his mind for inspiration. He found nothing but static; he had no choice but to continue his self-conscious improvisation. "I, uh, guess you had the same idea, huh?" he said awkwardly.

  Looking at the gun as if noticing it for the first time, the big guy shrugged nervously. "Well, yeah," he said, finally lowering the weapon. "I needed some privacy, yeah."

  "I know the feeling," sighed Dave. "Sometimes you just have to get away."

  Boris' wide shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath and released it. He shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was like that of a petulant child caught in the act of committing some mischief. "Well, go ahead," he said. "Go ahead and ask me."

  "Ask you what?" Dave said casually, sidling up to the rocks on which Boris was perched.

  "You know," Boris said sulkily. "Ask me about the gun. That's what you wanna' do, isn't it?"

  "Well, yeah, as a matter of fact," shrugged Dave. "I was kind of wondering about it."

  "Target practice," nodded Boris. "I've been getting kind of rusty lately." The smooth metal of the handgun was streaked with moonlight as he carelessly brandished it, waved it loosely in his hammy paw.

  "I see," said Dave, nervously watching the pistol. "So, what exactly are you shooting at, anyway?"

  "Oh, nothing much," Boris replied with a wave of the weapon. "Figments of my imagination, mainly."

  With a grunt, Dave boosted himself up to the flat rock beside Boris. "Have any luck yet?" he asked.

  "Haven't fired a shot," said Boris. "Damn figments're hard to keep in your sights." Raising the gun, he pointed the
short barrel into the woods, then squinted as if he were aiming at something. "Problem with figments is, they're all in your imagination," he muttered, slowly sliding the gun from side to side. "Only way to really nail them is to cut them off at the source."

  "Doesn't sound like very good target practice," Dave said quietly.

  "It's the easiest kind," said Boris. "Close range, big target, no wind resistance. You can do it with your eyes close."

  "Yeah, but what good would it do you?" asked Dave. "I mean, you only get one shot, right? That's not my idea of practice."

  "It's a Zen thing," Boris told him solemnly, slowly drawing back the gun. "The nothingness of your soul is expressed in a single, perfect shot." Closing his eyes, he again raised the weapon to his head. "Your essence becomes one with the universe," he chanted softly. "You experience the bliss of eternal nonexistence."

  Staring at the gun, listening to the eerie speech, Dave felt as if his heart had stopped. There it was, the pistol, ready to go off at any instant; Dave was now thoroughly convinced that Boris was also ready, primed to do the deed without thinking twice.

  How? How could he stop this?

  Perhaps he could leap over and try to wrest the gun from Boris' hand...but if Boris resisted, the weapon might fire in the struggle. Not only that, but Boris' bulk lent him strength and immovability; if Dave chose to vie with him for the gun, the chances were good that Boris would fend off the assault and retain his possession.

  The more that Dave thought about it, the more he realized that a grab for the gun probably wouldn't do any good. Most likely, it would make matters worse; if he didn't snatch the weapon on his first try, Dave would probably aggravate and alienate his pal, lose his trust completely.

  There was only one thing to do, he decided: keep talking, and hope that something that he said would bring Boris around.

  "Uh, hey Boris," he fumbled. "I, uh...maybe you oughtta' forget about this, uh, target practice."

  "Uh-oh," muttered Boris. "This is the part where you try to talk me out of it, right?"

  "Well, no...I mean...no," stammered Dave. "It's just that...uh...I don't..." Clueless, frustrated, stymied, he stared at his friend, at the gun in his grip. The more that he dug for inspiration in the hardscrabble of his mind, the more barren it became. "Well, actually, yes," he sighed finally, his voice trailing off defeatedly.

  "Look," Boris said testily. "Why don't you just do us both a favor and get the hell out of here. I already know what you're going to say, and I appreciate the sentiment, but I'd rather if you just hit the road right now."

  "I'm not leaving," said Dave, as forcefully as he could with heart hammering and nerves jangling like wind chimes in a hurricane.

  Huffing disgustedly, Boris lowered the gun, and Dave experienced a brief rush of relief. Then, however, the gun switched hands, and was lifted to the other side of Boris' skull.

  "If you don't get outta' here right now," Boris snapped curtly, "you're gonna' have a real mess all over your shirt. Blood stains are the hardest to get out, y'know."

  "I'm not leaving," Dave said firmly.

  With that, Boris closed his eyes and started to sing. "Hap-py traaaails...to yooouu...un-til...we meet...a-gainnnn..."

  "Stop it," sighed Dave. "Just stop it, Boris."

  "Hap-py traaaails...to yoouu...," continued Boris, his voice growing louder.

  "Cut it out," ordered Dave, becoming more peeved with his pal's antics than worried about the gun.

  "...keep smi-ling...un-til then..."

  "Cut it out, Boris!" barked Dave.

  "Hap-py traaaails...to yooouu..."

  "Shut up, damnit!" Dave shouted finally. "Shut the hell up!"

  At last, the serenade ended, and Boris dropped the weapon from his skull. Scowling at Dave, he flung himself from the rock, landing with a crunch on the ground. "Geez!" he yelled, stomping away from the stone, flapping his arms in frustration. "Can't you take a hint?"

  "Hey, sorry!" flared Dave. "Excuse me for not wanting to let you blow yourself away!"

  Several feet from his former roost, Boris stopped and whirled to face Dave. "Get outta' here!" he hurled furiously, his big jowls quivering. "You don't even know what's going on here!"

  "You're trying to kill yourself! That's what's going on here!"

  "Yeah, so?" slung Boris. "It's my prerogative! If I wanna' do myself in, it's nobody else's business!"

  "Like hell it isn't!" shouted Dave. "It's my business! You're my friend, remember?"

  "You don't understand!" snarled Boris, waving the gun over his head. "I don't care anymore! I don't care what you think!"

  "Why?" asked Dave. "Why don't you care?"

  "I just don't!" yelled Boris. "End of story!"

  "Y'know, you're right," said Dave, shaking his head. "I don't understand. I mean, what could get you so down, Boris?"

  "Nothing!" roared Boris. "I'm just sick of it! I'm sick of everything!"

  "Why?" pressed Dave.

  "Because it sucks! Everything sucks!"

  "Like what?" persisted Dave.

  "Like me!" exploded Boris. "Me! I suck! I'm a worthless piece of shit!"

  "No you're not!" Dave fired insistently. "Why the hell would you say that?"

  Boris gaped at Dave as if he'd just said the most asinine thing imaginable. He shook his head and sneered, then spun and stomped a few paces further from the stones.

  "How could you say that about yourself?" asked Dave.

  Boris stopped and again turned to Dave. "Look at me!" he ordered sarcastically. "What do you think?"

  "I think you're just fine!" answered Dave. "I don't think you're a piece of shit!"

  "Oh, brother," snorted Boris. "Tell me the truth at least!"

  "I am!" glared Dave.

  "No, you're not! I'll tell you the truth! You're thinking 'Oh, God. The fat slob's feeling sorry for himself! I better be a hero and make him feel better.'"

  "Bullshit!" snapped Dave, leaping from the rock. "I'm thinking that a friend of mine is trying to do something stupid and I don't want him to do it because I don't want to lose him!"

  "Screw you," Boris shunted bitterly. "You're a lying son of a bitch."

  "No!" hurled Dave.

  "Oh!" burst Boris, bugging his eyes wide. "So you don't think I'm a fat slob?"

  "No!" shouted Dave.

  "And you don't think I'm fat?"

  At that, Dave faltered, realizing how Boris had trapped him. With great ease, the guy had led him into a corner; there was only one honest answer which Dave could deliver and still maintain any credibility.

  "Yes," he sighed disgustedly. "Yes, you're fat."

  "Ah-hah!" lunged Boris. "That is what you think! That's what everybody thinks! I'm fat! I'm a fat pig!"

  "Is that what this is about?" asked Dave. "You're gonna' kill yourself because you're fat?"

  "You don't understand!" whipped Boris. "That's all that matters to anybody! That's how they all think of me! Mention my name, and the first thing they say is 'Oh, that fat guy'!"

  "That's not the only thing people think about you," said Dave.

  "It's the first thing!" retorted Boris. "It's the main thing!"

  "No, it isn't," Dave said forcefully. "The main thing is that everybody likes you. You know all those people in the trailer?" he said, hiking his thumb in the general direction of the party. "They like you, Boris! They couldn't care less how much you weigh! The only thing that's important to them...to us...is that you're a nice guy! You're a lot of fun!"

  "Oh, fun! I'm a funny guy, right?" Boris laughed bitterly, then made a ridiculous face; his eyes crossed, his lips puffed outward, and his tongue wagged from the corner of his mouth. "I'm always funny!" he gurgled in a distorted, goofy voice. "I'm the funny fat guy! As long as people can laugh at me, they'll let me hang around!"

  "We're not laughing at you...," started Dave.

  "Yeah, yeah, I know," cut in Boris, still posing, still speaking in his warped, cartoony voice. "You're laughing with me! Nobody laughs at me,
do they? Neeever never never!"

  "Your friends don't! I mean, sometimes it might seem like we're making fun of you, but we're just kidding around! Everybody in the gang gets picked on equally!"

  "I'm a fat clown!" shot Boris, dropping his freakish act and reverting to a sharp, hostile tone. "That's all anyone thinks of me!"

  "How many times do I have to tell you?" shouted Dave. "That is not how everyone thinks!"

  "That's what the women think!" flung Boris.

  "They don't all think that," said Dave.

  "How do you know?" lashed Boris. "You taken a poll lately?"

  "Have you?" returned Dave.

  "Yes!" blasted Boris. "I've been taking a poll for years! I've asked one girl after another if she'd like to go out with me, and you know what the results were? Every single one of them said 'No'! Every one of them that weighed under two hundred pounds and didn't have a face like a gargoyle...they all said 'No'!"

  "You've gotta' keep trying," said Dave, realizing how weak and clichéd that sounded as soon as the words escaped his lips.

  "I'm sick of trying!" thundered Boris. "I give up! It doesn't take more than twenty-one years for me to get the message!"

  "It takes a while sometimes!" said Dave. "Some people don't find anyone for years and years! That's no reason for you to kill yourself!"

  "Sure it is," Boris spat sardonically.

  "Maybe you won't meet the right person for years," continued Dave, "or maybe you'll meet her tomorrow. If you kill yourself, you'll miss her."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," Boris grimaced scornfully. "It's impossible for you to understand how it is for me."

  "No it isn't!" protested Dave. "I know exactly what you're talking about!"

  "You'll never know," denied Boris, shaking his head. "You're thin, you're good-looking, and you've got a girlfriend."

  "Good-looking?" scowled Dave. "That's a crock of shit!"

  "You're better-looking than I'll ever be!" declared Boris. "At least when girls look at you, they don't laugh or look like they're gonna' throw up!"

  "You're blowing it all out of proportion," said Dave. "I know you don't make girls want to throw up."