by Jaime Munt
The first song that played, Embryo by Dir en Grey, seeped almost more from the dark than from my speakers when it started. When I love a song, it’s almost parasitic – I let the music take me, sink its teeth in. I let the song devour me. Sometimes it feels good to just put in the earbuds and spread out on a bed or the carpet and be eclipsed in a perfect song.
In this case, the songs were eating the miles and I was gladly losing time.
Later, my cell phone rang once, but the bars were low and the sounds I got didn’t add up to words. It was Marie.
I was at about ½ a tank and was compelled to top off. That probably had less to do with some intuitive fear of whatever bad thing I was sensing, than just knowing I was crossing South Dakota and I sure as hell didn’t want to run out of gas between towns… in the middle of the night. The service station was busy and I had to wait behind four other vehicles for my turn.
Out in the orange lights of the Cenex, everyone was talking excitedly—no, hysterically. I wanted a cold drink, so after I filled up I went inside. The shelves were nearly picked clean. There were no drinks to buy, but people weren't ravaging the "to-go" food as badly—so I settled for a 32 oz vanilla soft serve with a straw and paid for my gas. I didn't take all I could of the goods there. I didn't even buy chips.
The clerk looked exhausted or scared. When I checked out we shared a look of confusion.
"Anything else?" she said.
Behind me someone said something about "...nurses treating people on the sidewalks."
At the next register someone was buying a spare gas can. Its redness seemed brilliant. Beckoning. My ears were ringing. I felt like they were going underwater. I couldn't stop looking at it.
I told her “no” and goodnight.
1:21am
I left into the less stuffy sound of the same conversations, but outdoors.
Then I had to look somewhere besides the gas can, but then I saw red—everywhere. The one inside might have been the last because the rest were out here. Some people even had 3 or 4 of them.
I saw three people looking through the windows on the opposite side of my car. They barely hid their guilt enough to move a couple steps back, as I approached.
I used my key (because I always lock my car doors, even if I step away for only a couple minutes) and entered through the passenger side—because I don't take chances like that. Like I was going to stand in the middle of them with my purse and keys in hand.
I was nervous to slide into the driver's seat. I didn't want to make eye contact. I only looked down long enough to slip my key in the ignition. When I looked up I noticed all the out of state plates. I reminded myself, who was I to know what could be going on that they would be there. I didn't know. Actually, they couldn't have known yet either—or at least the magnitude of it all or I’m sure many wouldn’t have bothered to be as “civil” as they were. I didn’t miss the fear and confusion in the majority of their faces. I didn’t miss that every vehicle was packed to the roof, either.
I turned the key and crept through the disorderly gas station. People were yelling at me and everyone else at the pumps, impatient for their turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the people surge on what looked like a fight that had broken out inside the station. Someone ran with a gun. Something told me I needed to get the hell out of there. I switched on the blinker, turning east. I looked both ways and then up at nothing--because I was listening. I slightly tilted my head toward my left shoulder and squinted—as if that actually helps, but I didn't hear it again.
I thought I heard a gunshot.
After waiting for a few vehicles to pass, I turned out, glancing at the car's clock.
1:26am
I was worried. Beyond instinct—I really knew I should be. I wondered where my friends were. I started thinking about family I hadn't seen since I was a child.
It was a little further down the road when I found out this wasn’t something to just worry about. Everything before was like a tornado watch. It was a warning. I had every reason to be scared for my life. All lives.
It was horrible and unreal.
At first it wasn't horrible—I can't describe it; I think that's just not the right word.
In a dream everything is possible and sometimes you wake up and you realize you're in a heightened state of fear—it was like that fear plus the mortal panic of seeing something ethereal—like facing God, but with the exact opposite energy that I think a person would feel in God's presence. If you believed we're not always in it.
I can't describe it.
Damn it.
It’s like my soul was terrified.
In Home Alone, Kevin wishes his family would disappear. I fantasized so many times about this happening. Sometimes I yearned for it—I wished it with absolute sincerity.
I can't even address that part of me—it’s sitting in my mental "IN" box.
Should I feel guilt? I suppose I should feel satisfied? I don't—I just don't want to go there.
Anyway—I just thought about that.
I made my family disappear.
If I leave this house will I end up a long ways from here? Will I see one of my friends' cars on the vehicle graveyard interstate?
Or maybe my doctors will find the right combination of medications and I'll come to in a mental hospital and everyone will be okay. As okay as we were.
It's just any other day before the impossible happens. That's how it is in the movies and in reality too.
Everything is routine until aliens show up.
I feel so bad.
I do not have things happen that I want or think that I want. Sometimes I felt like fate was against me for how much bad luck I've had. I used to say, “Do I stink? I should. I’ve been pissed on all day.”
That my simple escapist fantasy could be responsible for this and my unlikely survival. At least I can't know if it was me or any other person out there who wondered what it would be like. Anyone who was tired of the routine and dreaming of something more exciting in their life. If they're dead and I'm not, should I blame myself? I dunno. I can't stop picking this scab.
God, it's late. I'll run down batteries and this is definitely not worth it.
Oct 12 12:55pm
I wish you could tell me how this happened for you.
Oct17 11:15am
Mr. Ages looks like he's laughing on mute. I love his face. I've never had a pet before. He's more like a companion I guess. I don't think of him as a pet. I don't know what to think of him. But I love his face and I need his presence. He is basking in the sun and dark eyes are sparkly and the heat has put that smile on his face.
The trees are really pretty. The maple trees appeared to be burning, the same way that the sun set fire to the fox. The wind is warm—unseasonably? I wouldn't know, but it feels amazing. The air smells so sweet—all these dying things smell so good. The leaves aren't crunchy, they are soft with dew. There's about four inches of leaves on top of more than a foot of browning grass.
It's almost Halloween. I'm pretty sure it won't be the same thing this year.
I'm almost afraid of what will happen.
It could make things worse. Who knows?
I love Halloween.
I'd work so hard to make sure I spent a considerable part of it scared out of my mind with Dee’s help, who would always visit to celebrate the holiday, her favorite. She said I had a better yard for the haunted cemetery we raised every year. But I think she also liked to go somewhere she didn’t have to lift a finger for a few days.
I’d go to her place for our birthdays, mine’s January 17th and hers the 21st. Since we met when we were 9, I spent every birthday with her.
Are you alone?
Is it not enormously stupid to ask you questions? A perpetual question.
Is it not enormously stupid to be curious about you?
Oct 18 9:30am
I found the road map—I knew I had one; I just had it in a different spot. I must have been organizing It was still in my
"travel" pack.
I know I'd have to head south. How far?
There have got to be other people out there, but do I want to cross paths with them?
I know how it is here.
I don't know anything else.
All I know is that I didn't make it five miles!
I can’t know if anyone's okay. What if someone comes looking for me? I'm not even at my house.
I just don't have any idea what I'm going to do.
This won't hold out.
But damn it's beautiful right now.
Oct 19 3:11pm
Just washed up at the creek—water's getting cold.
Mr. Ages is a mess, but he's happy. He killed a huge squirrel earlier. He'll miss the frogs. He ate a lot of them. They did hellable things to his breath, but he was fed and that made me feel good. Yeah, out of dog food.
Cripes, that's a whole nother can of worms.
How do I travel with Bark Face?
I'm not leaving him.
But that also sounds like certain death.
He won't do a muzzle. I don't have a real one, but the ones I've tried he's gotten off and hated until he did.
I'll have to see if I can find one—I doubt a lot of pet supply shops were over picked.
I've never muzzled a dog. Can they still make a sound? I know I don't want him biting anything. If something happens to me—he can’t be stuck in a muzzle.
Anyway, wuz going to tell you that I got two more. Turtle and a stranger.
I thought the mailman might have turned in his chips, but there the fucker is right now.
Wait a minute Mr. Postman. Got something to do.
I just brought Mr. Ages inside and I can't find that busy body.
If I can get the nerve to face him, I can handle anything. There are freakier busy bodies, but there are no creepier ones.
When a creep's job is to know where you live it makes him ten times the creepy.
I can't figure out if I'm writing this to you or for me.
I have to minimize.
I liked to keep things. I can't do that anymore.
We lock our doors to keep our things safe when we're away. It makes me sick to think of someone ransacking my life for something useful and tossing aside things that mattered so much to me.
I never meant to leave them.
I didn’t know I wouldn’t be going back.
But I always have on me the things that I can't leave. Except when I'm washing up, but I keep it nearby.
I'm looking at a picture of my grandma. I'm a baby and she's holding me. The back says I’m a month old.
I don't think she was ever young.
Anyone else would just throw these pictures away.
So I guess I never finished telling you what happened to me on the way from the reunion with my friends.
I probably would have known sooner if I hadn't been where I was at the time—there were vehicles, but not a lot of towns. It was the middle of the night during most of my trip to the resort. I remember the towns gravely still, like I was the only person awake to see the hours. Like I owned the night.
On my way back, there were more lights and in the dark it seemed like the shadows were squirming.
I didn't keep track of how many times I pulled over for emergency vehicles to pass- it was a lot. But the first time was the worst and, this time only, flashing lights weren't to get me out of the way.
I have been pulled over twice in my whole life.
Ever since I was little I've felt guilty. I felt guilty because Jesus died for me. I felt guilty when I needed to go to the dentist or eye doctor because I knew my parents were reluctant to take me. I'm sure I broke a rib and I told my dad that I hurt. He sighed and said, "son-of-a-bitch" then looked at me—I thought he looked pissed and he said, "Well, if you're not better in a couple weeks I guess we'll have to take you to a doctor." So I never brought it up again.
Once, after church—I would have been 6 or 7—we had to stop for gas. It was full service and my mom (dad never went to church) told the boy, "Twenty dollars." when she took the bill out she smoothed it and held it up and stared at it and—just like dad did—sighed hugely, unignorable as she reluctantly passed it off.
This was the same sigh I heard when I needed things for school—every year—especially if I outgrew my coat or shoes. I fell in love with thrift shops, at first out of obligation, because that cut down on a lot of sighs that were my fault. Everything seemed to be my fault. I swear, the mortgage bill would come and they’d be furious at me.
There was no such thing as a little anger—any little thing, from the smallest disagreement to something being out of place was met with rage. There was no such thing as sorry.
A lot of kids wore hand-me-downs from their brothers or sisters. I wore hand-me-downs from my parents.
I never complained. I didn’t complain, until now, I guess.
I tried to be good.
My existence was inconvenient—I became apologetic for everything. Nervous about everything. I didn't have a strong sense of self value. Maybe any sense. And my minister said that Jesus died for me?? That made me feel like shit.
So, many years later, when I was first pulled over because I had a taillight out—I was sick with fear that I'd done something wrong but I just didn't know I had.
Are you still with me?
So it’s June, on the road between Hill City, South Dakota and Rhinelander, Wisconsin. My home.
The red and blues light up my car for the first of many times that night.
2:02am
8 ½ hours from home.
Lindsay always told me that you ask a cop to show you their badge before you roll down your window to make sure they are really a cop. I thought about that both times before when I'd been pulled over.
I couldn't. Complacent was my nature. When exactly do they consider something like that obstruction? Would they be good natured about it?
I thought it would take a minute for them to get out because I assume they always run tags and numbers or whatever. But it only took a sec before I saw his silhouette cut into the strobing lights.
I turned on my interior lights, rolled down my window and waited.
"Where are you headed?" he asked. He was a state trooper. I thought I would remember his name, but I can't. Maybe later.
I told him, "Wisconsin."
"Well you can't go this way."
I picked up my Google maps print out as if it would show me alternate routes.
I was about to ask why.
"You don't want to go this way," he amended.
"Okay," I agreed—I was okay to change my route—something was wrong in town. "How do I reconnect with this road?"
"Have a road map?"
"Not of South Dakota," I said. "I haven't left Wisconsin in years."
That wasn’t exactly true. But my out of state trips were to places I knew by heart and didn’t need a map.
He sighed. In a nice way.
He pulled out his ticket book and wrote on it for a moment. Then he gave me the directions I hoped he was writing.
I thanked him and told him how much I appreciate that.
"Sure thing," he said in an easy way.
Headlights appeared some distance off in my rear view. He noticed too. Time to go.
"Well I hope they open up the roads for you soon," I said.
The faintest line appeared between his eyebrows and vanished as quick. I didn't understand what the look meant, yet.
I assume he wondered if I knew or not.
He waited in front of his headlights until I took the left turn that his directions said. By then the other car was close and he'd be dealing with them soon.
I was some distance on this road when I had to swerve for a suitcase and braked for the car that birthed it.
Luggage and its contents were strewn over about 15 feet of road. There were a few totes left haphazard and spewing. The lid for one was in the ditch, illuminated by my headlights. The station wagon�
��s gate was open into the left lane.
I didn't want to run other their things.
I didn't want to go out in the dark—especially because it didn't look safe. It looked ransacked, robbed. Where were the people who were in it before? They didn't run out of gas—most people, I think, actually make it to the side of the road.
I took out my cell phone. Only a tiny bar pulsed. I dialed 9-1-1. When my signal held long enough to ring, a computer told me that all available dispatchers were on other calls—blah, blah, blah.
I swore and thought about going back and seeing if I could find the officer again. But what if someone was hurt? I couldn't see around the vehicle—there might be another vehicle. I didn't see any debris that might indicate an accident, but that might be why the hatch was open and all their things were thrown out on the road.
That settled it.
I took my flashlight out of my purse, a penlight. It's bright—for the first time it didn't seem bright enough.
When I was getting out I was torn between locking up—which I'd always do if I couldn't keep the car in sight—and leaving the doors unlocked and maybe even the driver's door open a little.
I decided to lock all the doors and keep the car running. I would keep my remote entry key in my hand. Then I got out.
I dialed 9-1-1 again and closed the door with my freehand. I pressed the lock button on the remote. Inside the speakers throbbed—I didn't realize I was listening to the music so loud. I remember it really bothered me that I couldn't tell what song was playing, but I knew the rhythm. I remember now. It was The Red, by Chevelle. I love human memory's queue.
The night air felt great, but that was the only good in being out there.
I'm sure there are plenty of people who’ve never smelled anything dead, much less a dead person. Unless it was at a funeral. But an embalmed person smells a lot different than someone who's just dead—and rotting. I found out what death smells like when I was pretty little from animals hit on the road. I knew the difference between road kill and human decay by the time I was a teenager. You never forget it.