In Fort Stockton things are not where they should be, and after passing the giant roadrunner statue, I’m lost and decide to stop at Murphy’s convenience store. Standing at a payphone on the side of the building, it takes a lot of effort to organize the procedure. The phone needs coins. There are coins in my ashtray. I need to go to the car to get the coins. These steps completed, I slowly insert a quarters into the phone:
“Patrick, this is Mitch. I’m in town and thought I’d stop by for a while, if you’re not too busy.”
“Mitch, you’re in town? When did you get here?”
“Just arrived, but hey, I’m a little turned around. Instead of giving me directions, would you mind driving over to Murphy’s convenience store so I can follow you back to your house?”
“You want me to come get you?”
“You know where Murphy’s is, on Front Street?”
“Why are you in Fort Stockton?”
“Come get me and I’ll explain everything.”
“Elizabeth is here tonight. Why don’t the three of us meet somewhere for a drink?”
“Patrick, just come get me right now, this is serious. Don’t even wait five minutes.”
“What happened? Are you joking?”
“Nothing happened. I’ll explain when you get here.”
“Elizabeth is spending the night, and you know how busy I am during tax season. We could meet for breakfast. Why don’t we do that? That’d be better because Elizabeth is over here.”
I hang up the phone and stay under the yellow light bulb beside the building, not moving while I consider what to do. The temperature is dropping. The north wind blows a cold chill through my clothes. Dark purple clouds rush through the heavens back-lit by a hidden moon. If my father was alive, I’d call him and tell him he should have warned me about this. He must have known, yet he never said anything.
Inside Murphy’s convenience store, my stomach is aching as I pace the aisles searching for a bottle of Maalox. The young overweight clerk has on a solid black t-shirt, and over that, an unbuttoned flannel shirt. From behind the counter she points at it, the Maalox, says it’s on the shelf in front of me. “Right there,” she says. “Reach out.” I reach out and move forward like a blind person groping across the shelf.
“Why can’t I see it?” I ask her.
The frustrated teenager sighs and comes around the counter to get it for me. “Here,” she says, placing the bottle in my open hand, holding it there until I remember to close my fingers around it.
“Thanks,” I say to her. “I’m Mitch.”
“No problem,” she says.
I pay her, take a few gulps of Maalox and apologize, “Sorry about that. It’s weird how something can be right in front of you.”
Back inside my car, feeling too jittery to drive, I park across the street at the Apache movie theater to relax for a minute. The theater’s been out of business for a while. The advertising windows are broken, the movie posters ripped out. On the dirty glass doors, someone had written, I love Tiffany. Slanting the seat back, I lie on my side, hugging my stomach. Everything is turning against me.
Opening the car door, I hang my head over the concrete waiting to throw-up. When nothing comes out, I slide out of the car to the ground and kneel on the concrete for a minute before standing up to cross the road to Murphy’s.
“Hey, I’m back. Forgot to buy cigarettes.”
The clerk glances up from her National Enquirer and asks, “What flavor?”
“What flavor? Oh, you’re asking me what brand. Would you mind choosing?”
She rips open a carton. “These are decent and cheap. We sell a lot of ‘em.”
My body feels fatigued, in distress, running on empty. I bend over and prop my hands on my knees for support. “Whew, I’m worn out. Must have lost my breath rushing over here.”
“Where were you?” she asks.
“There,” I say, pointing across the street.
“The Apache Theater is closed,” she says.
“I know. I’m parked over there.” She watches me attempt to open the cigarette pack. It won’t open. The cellophane wrapper is too tight. I scratch it, peel at the sides, scrape it with my fingernails and bite the corner. Avoiding eye contact, I finally confess “My fingers aren’t working right,” and hold them up for her to see.
She’s restocking lighters on a display and nods her head, confirming something to herself. She has three earrings in the same ear and her nose is pierced. Under the glass counter, bad checks are attached with scotch tape. There’s a jar of boiled eggs soaking in spicy vinegar. Unable to stop staring at the eggs, I lean in close to count them. “Are you from here?”
“Born and raised,” she says.
“What’s it like growing up in West Texas?”
“Boring.”
“Is that why you read the National Inquirer?” She has it open to a story about Aliens abducting earth women, using them for sex slaves.
She closes the paper, pushes it to the side. “Some whacked-out shit.”
“Here’s a question for you. What’s the most whacked-out story you’ve ever read? . . . Do you have a chair, a place I could sit for a minute? To tell you the truth, I don’t feel so good.”
“Not really,” she says.
Outside, the wind’s blowing hard, flapping a vinyl cigarette sign. “It’s windy,” I say, “and getting colder.”
“A cold front.” She says. “Did you need something else?”
“No, that’s about it.” I open a Car Trader’s magazine and stare at a picture of a 1978 Trans-Am. “A cigarette lighter. That’s what I’ve been standing here trying to think of.”
She turns the rack toward me. “Take your pick, or should I pick one for you?”
I grab a green one and place two dollars on the counter. She opens the register, counts out my change and holds out her hand. It’s white and puffy, her hand, and I’d rather not touch it. I turn to the side, examining individual packets of energy blasts pills, waiting for her to place the change on the counter. Her hand stays there, held out from her body, extended toward me.
“Oh, my change. Didn’t notice you holding it there. You can keep it,” I tell her.
“Whatever,” she says. “Is that it? Is that all you need?”
“How long has the Apache been closed?”
We both look across the street. “Couple years, more or less,” she says.
The phone rings. It’s a friend of hers wanting to know when she gets off work. I’m listening to the conversation, browsing Car Trader’s magazine, waiting for her to hang up. A man on a bicycle stops to buy a newspaper at the machine outside. “He’s buying a newspaper at night,” I say. “He must be cold,” I say a little louder.
“Huh?” the clerk says, and covers the phone. “What did you say?”
“The man outside. He bought a newspaper and rode off on his bicycle.”
“No, he’s not a customer anymore. I don’t know why he’s here,” she says into the phone.
They have packets of hot cinnamon toothpicks beside the register. You don’t see those much anymore. My sister used to make hot cinnamon toothpicks in our kitchen. “I should probably stay here with you for a while.”
“What? You can’t stay here with me.” “He wants to stay with me!” she tells her friend. “No, I have no idea. Okay, just a sec, le’me ask him.” She points the phone toward me. “My friend said to ask what you’re trippin’ on?”
“What I’m tripping on? . . . Nothing.”
The clerk pours herself a cup of coffee. “Did you hear his answer? He says it’s nothing.” She adds sugar and stirs with a plastic spoon. She takes a sip and places the coffee next to her National Enquirer then laughs into the phone. “Hold on,” she says. “Le’me see what he says to that.” “My friend wants to know how much nothing you took?”
“Are you sure you don’t have a place I can sit for a few minutes?”
“I already told you, you can’t stay here.”
Back at Apache Theater, I scratch the pack open, light a cigarette and walk circles around my car expecting to feel better, but the movement is distressing, creating more anxiety, like I don’t belong here, not only here, beside my car, but here on earth.
In the corner behind the ticket booth, wind blows leaves and trash into a small tornado. Thunder shakes the metal marquee. Walking circles around my car, confusion amplifies with each step. My anxiety level is surging and I don’t understand why. I drop the cigarette on the ground and climb into the front seat. The air inside is heavy like metallic chemical fumes, difficult to breath, toxic to my lungs.
Remain still, I say to myself. Remain calm. Don’t move . . . A finger twitches and panic radiates, expands. It doubles inside me, then doubles again, turning over, revolving, growing. Cosmic forces fall from the sky, rush inside my car, spinning, gaining momentum, assaulting and compressing my body. The windows swell, the roof expands. Waves of terror swirl and roll, press and push, expanding, rolling, expanding . . .
Thirty minutes later the visions are gone, the sensations quiet, the car motionless. My hand moves—nothing happens. My arm bends—it’s okay. I straighten my legs and take in a deep breath. My thoughts become more clear as I consider this horrible thing that just happened. Whatever it was, it left me with a new awareness, never having known this level of psychic pain existed in the world. It shouldn’t exist. It should be outside of our world among the dead exploding planets far away from the human condition.
I start my car, unsteady, but prepared to continue on. In elementary school Patrick would eat anything: chicken bones, small rocks, gum erasers, and now he’s so afraid of germs he won’t even shake your hand. Fuck you, Patrick Bertrand.
. . .
I drive for several hours, and outside El Paso, a rainstorm forces traffic off the Interstate. Cars are now parked along the I-10 median with their headlights on. I continue driving slowly as the fury of nature smashes against my windshield and lightning shoots through the sky cracking thunderbolts parallel to the desert. Under an overpass, there’s a man straddling his motorcycle waiting for the storm to end.
I exit at a motor lodge and wait inside my car. There’s a vacancy sign in the window, and inside the office, I can see a lady reclining in a lounger watching television. A brochure rack is next to the counter, a small table and a lamp—all normal things, yet I’m afraid to get out. There’s rain and lightning, but I don’t care about that, it’s the entire process of renting a room, the communicating, having to smile and act normal that bothers me. I practice in the rearview mirror. “How are you tonight? I would like a room please. Yes, I would like a room please.”
. . .
The next day I open the motel drapes and sit in front of the window. Behind the office, a man restocks a Coke machine, a lady fills her room bucket with ice. There’s no way I’m stepping outside this motel room today, so I call the office and ask the lady for another night, and if she has one, would she please bring me a postcard.
Allie, I wanted to apologize for that last postcard. Hope you didn’t take it too seriously. Everything is going great, the weather’s beautiful, and I’m having a nice peaceful drive on I-10. Should be in New Mexico soon, but as you can tell from the green hills and bluebonnets, I'm still in Texas.
On the table next to me is a peanut butter protein bar that’ll surely cause a lot of trouble when I try to eat it. My stomach doesn’t want food, any food. Over the next several hours some of the same motel guests pass by my window and notice me in this chair, not moving. They must think something is wrong with me, but they don’t know. I don’t know either.
Watching I-10 traffic from my window, I swallow some Maalox, and now it’s time to go forward with the protein bar. There may be some discomfort, but I’ll deal with it in the gentlest way, with the mildest approach, because today I only want peace, silence and slow movements.
I take a small bite, being careful to chew and soften it while massaging my throat, patiently urging a relaxation response, an opening up. It doesn’t work. My throat is clenched tight. There’s no choice here—I have to eat, have to wage war against my body’s refusal of nourishment. Unable to swallow, I slap my face to get the blood flowing, then slap my face again, harder this time.
Biting off a large chunk, I chew it into a thick liquid and struggle to swallow, bending my neck backwards, thrashing side to side, twisting, hanging my head over the edge of the bed, ramming fingers down my throat, gagging, choking, masticating. Nothing works. Bolting to the bathroom, I open my mouth and spit the glob into the toilet. Son-of-a-bitch. Resting on the side of the bathtub, fingers dripping peanut butter cream onto the floor, I shake my head in utter failure and try to think realistically about solving this immediate problem. My mind is blank, my eyes chasing grout lines on the tile floor. In Galveston, Allie is probably celebrating Mardi Gras with Josh, eating grilled shrimp on a stick, drinking pints of beer at O’Malley’s.
I lie down on the bed, eager to curl up but instead remain on my back like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man staring at the ceiling waiting for destiny to have its way with me. I’ve heard that when an old person loses a spouse, the remaining spouse sometimes dies shortly after. If my brain wants to take me out—good, let it take me out.
Staring at the ceiling, an idea comes to me that offers a possible solution. I get off the bed and begin cutting a protein bar into twenty-seven pill sized pieces. Sitting in the chair by the window, I pop one small piece into my mouth at a time and swallow with water. The cars on I-10 are turning their lights on. At Allie’s apartment, Josh is probably lying on his back with an erection, while Allie pounds on him.
. . .
In the morning I loll in the shower for thirty minutes, cautious of beginning another day, unsure how to cope, how to behave or react to people. After shaving with a new razor, I don a pair of comfortable jeans, a t-shirt and a gray sweatshirt—like this is a typical day and I’m an average person unafraid of going outside—but I am afraid of going outside.
Turning the doorknob, opening the door, the cold wind carries clacking sounds and exhaust fumes from an eighteen-wheeler parked beside the fence. I can do this. This is something I can do. Advancing forward toward Denny’s restaurant, the desire to rush back inside and crawl into bed overwhelms me. I stop for a few seconds and notice that my hands are shaking. This is absurd, I tell myself. There’s no reason for it. I grit my teeth. Dammit, McAllister, you can do this! Continuing forward, willing my legs to move one step at a time across the open parking lot, I enter Denny’s and make my way to a booth in the back.
The waitress serves me coffee and scrambled eggs on toast. After eating a few bites, I slowly relax. Being able to swallow real food offers just enough encouragement to believe everything might be okay. And now, with life sustaining food in my stomach, I’m able to raise my head and glance around the restaurant. There’s a map of Texas above the entrance, an Alamo painting behind the counter. My waitress is friendly and has a picture of her grandson pinned to her uniform. She smiles when she clears my plate. We talk about her job, her grandkids, the weather— “Yes, thank you. A refill of coffee would be nice.”
. . . . .
Leaving Allison
Jack is thirty-eight: His wife drops off Mitch and Grady Myers at the skating rink. With his fingers crossed, Mitch bursts through the double screen doors of Skate Town praying Renée Reynolds will meet him there. A group of kids are crowded around an air hockey table. Blue, police lights spin on top of gigantic speakers, as loud disco music vibrates the wood floor. Mitch and Grady approach the handrail just in time to see Renée zoom by.
“Yes! She wants me!” Mitch hurls his arm around Grady’s neck wrapping him in a headlock. Grady twists free and Mitch air punches two quick jabs and a straight right. “Dy-no-mite!”
Renée has straight brown hair, and when she smiles, a dimple creases her cheek. She’s wearing a pink western shirt with pearl snaps tucked into Wrangler jeans. Grady Myers has his eye on a
girl wearing a t-shirts with her name written in glitter glue. After lacing on his skates, Mitch rockets onto the rink and grabs the back of Renée’s cowboy belt. She smiles at him and they race four laps, weaving past other skaters before crashing into the padded wall. Breathing hard, Mitch challenges Renée to an air-hockey game.
“If I win,” Mitch says, “I get to do whatever I want.”
Renée says, “How do you know you’ll win?”
“Because I just know.”
After Mitch wins, he sticks his gum under the coin slot and, with his skates on, hobbles over to her. They hold on to each other’s waists, balancing against the blue air-hockey table, while Mitch leans in for a French kiss. He had wanted his friends’ Grady Myers and Trapper to see him in action, but they’re busy playing pinball, Trapper swiveling his hips, guiding the steel ball through bumpers without setting off the tilt buzzer.
Renée and Mitch return their skates to the man at the counter. While holding hands, they dash outside the building and around the corner to a large box fan. Mitch pulls Renée in close and stuffs his hands inside her back pockets. They make-out and Mitch reaches up the front of her shirt.
Renée’s brother arrives in a black Trans-Am, peeling-out, spraying rocks in the gravel parking lot. Mitch thinks her brother is the coolest teenager in town with the coolest car. As Renée climbs into the front seat, she tells Mitch to call her. The brother revs his engine and does a donut in the grass field behind Skate Town. He smokes his tires in the street, burning rubber, while Mitch runs to the other side of the building to see if the Trans-Am will catch a scratch in second gear.
At the dinner table, Mitch talks nonstop about Renée’s brother. He tells Tracy she should date him. He tells his father the hood has air scoops to keep the engine from overheating.
“The scoops are fake,” Jack says.
After dinner, instead of watching the Six Million Dollar Man with his father, Mitch dashes into his parents’ bedroom, locks the door and calls Renée: “Hey Renée, ask your brother if the air scoops are real.”
Leaving Allison Page 14