Ghosts of Yesterday

by Jack Cady

  Things happened fast, and yet it was like slow motion. It was like one of those movies where people get shot and take time flopping. The Buick gunned up to the rear of the hay truck, braked, fell back. An oncoming car flew past like the driver was late for an appointment at a cathouse; sixty, maybe seventy. And it was then that the guy standing in the hay truck, the familiar guy, turned and pointed to the Buick. He gave a road sign saying that he could see clear road. He rolled his hand.

  The Buick jumped into the oncoming lane to pass the hay truck, and it jumped right into red lights twirling, because Jerry had been chasing a speeder.

  Perfectly square, head-on wrecks, almost never happen. What mostly happens is two cars hit on the corners, and the backends rise and twist. Sometimes the cars roll. This head-on was only absolutely square one I’ve ever seen.

  The impact caused Ellis’ Buick and Jerry’s Mercury to lift straight up, as much as a foot off the road. The sound was too sharp for a normal wreck. No tires squealing. Just explosion, while I ran the narrow shoulder to get the hell away from them.

  The front ends of both cars disappeared, and the heads of both men appeared through windshields. Combined wreck speed, something in the neighborhood of 110 mph. Dirt and dust from the undersides of the cars burst above the dark road, and the cars for a moment looked like they rested on a cloud. They settled. The farm truck pulled over. I pulled ahead of the farm truck, because you don’t pull in behind a wreck. You don’t do it because the road is gonna get blocked.

  There’s no sense going into how it looked. The front ends were gone. The two heads, what were left of them, seemed to be trying to stare each other down. They did not look brotherly. I stood with a fire extinguisher expecting the worst, but the wrecks didn’t burn. The farmer flogging the hay truck came up to me, took one look at the mess, and sicked in the ditch.

  “You okay to go for a phone?” I asked.

  He was all trembly, but no kid. “I can manage. What would make that damn fool try to pass.”

  “Because he’s a damn fool.” I wasn’t admitting to nothing. “Go phone the sheriff,” I told the farm guy. “I’ll set out the flares.” When he pulled away I took a moment to look at his truck. There was nobody in back, no man nor ghost, and the land was going darker.

  ……

  I attended the wedding, and for a country wedding it was nice and not too corny. The flower girls were shirt-tail cousins from somewhere. Molly and May starred as bridesmaids, and Mary was prettier than angels. A country preacher, in a black suit that was slick with wear, and white shirt with frayed collar, managed to be dignified. Bessie looked sweet. Luke looked like a man who didn’t know whether he was happy or trapped. I have no doubt that the ghost was in the neighborhood, but I didn’t see him.

  As it turned out, Luke was both happy and trapped. He worked with Bessie, and through the first few years Bessie’s place prospered. There was no more trouble. Luke managed to get anointed, or ordained or whatever it took. He got a small church back in the hills and spent time both there and at Bessie’s. He and Mary raised two kids, both kids bright and sassy. Time passes, though, and things change.

  May married a banker in Corbin, and Molly went off to Cincinnati. She got a job and went to college. She teaches in a country school. Bessie hired help for awhile but things were not the same. She retired and moved into London. Her restaurant stood empty until the fires.

  Everybody guessed, but nobody could prove, that the fires came at the hand of one of Ellis’ buddies. The restaurant burned, and Bessie’s little house burned. Nothing to be done about it. At least nothing was.

  Jimbo and Tommy and I ran highway 25 until the interstate opened. After that, I kind of lost track, except I saw Molly once in Cincinnati. She was just walking along a sidewalk, on her way to a summer class for teachers. We talked for a while. Bessie had passed on, and was buried on the hill where her house had been. Her girls didn’t like it much, but they had honored her wishes.

  And trucking changed. Lots of fancy rigs. CB radios happened, and that was one of the worst things ever. All of the comradeship came out of the road. There was nothing much left out there but bad mouths, bullshit, and cowboys turning the freeways into fester. Movies started showing truckers with monkeys and big-boobed babes in their cabs.

  And, of course, we got old. Tommy went off somewhere, chasing a skirt. Jimbo actually married a nice Italian girl and settled down in Boston. I thought about such matters and decided against. The road had me, even after I retired.

  It’s a long road, and it winds and turns on itself. It goes somewhere, I suppose, but men who drive often only think they’re going somewhere. I was in upstate Michigan near the Canadian border, and pushing a Dodge camper, when I thought of Dive Bomber Hill. Nothing much was happening in Michigan, so I drifted south.

  Coming around at the top of Dive Bomber Hill, and hanging a right, the road looked the same. I rolled it easy and pulled off where Bessie’s place used to sit. Nothing there but young trees and overgrowth. I slept for a while in the camper, and woke when the sun stood behind the hill and the sky was red. It seemed like the ghost had been waiting to meet me. Out there among the young trees a little pocket of mist moved as deliberate as a man pacing.

  I waited. It didn’t approach. I kept waiting. It moved up the hill. I waited until it was clear that the ghost wanted nothing much to do with me. It didn’t dislike me, but it sure as hell didn’t trust me. I waited until I finally understood that the ghost was doing the last thing a family man could do. It stood between the road and Bessie’s grave, protecting the grave.

  TRUCK GYPSY BLUES

  I

  Leave these blues behind me,

  Let that tandem call,

  Start that road to windin’,

  From it all.

  Left a girl in Pittsburgh,

  Cried to see me go,

  Now these stacks are boomin’,

  Let ’em blow.

  Truck Gypsy Blues,

  Ain’t no excuse,

  Make your own blues,

  Chasin’ that lonely road.

  Little Sue I love you,

  Little Sue I tried,

  But this road has got me,

  deep inside.

  II

  Said I’ll make just one round,

  Then I’ll rack my cue,

  Said I’ll take this rig down,

  Just for you.

  Then I got to St. Joe,

  Caught a load bound west,

  Said I’ll pull just one more,

  ‘Fore I rest.

  Truck Gypsy Blues,

  Love you refuse,

  Make your own blues,

  Chasin’ that lonely road.

  Little Sue I love you,

  Little Sue don’t cry,

  Little Sue that road calls,

  Say goodbye.

  III

  Well, I pulled from Pittsburgh

  Pulled her in July,

  Got back in November,

  Want to die.

  Found the house deserted,

  With a note next door,

  Said you’ll never hurt me,

  Anymore.

  Truck gypsy Blues,

  Cry your sad news,

  Made your own blues,

  Chasing that lonely road

  Well the sleet’s been fallin’,

  And it’s ten below,

  But that road is callin’,

  Gotta go.

  WEIRD ROW

  We drive the Reno strip before dawn and it’s all bright lights and casinos: gin and tonic at 5 a.m., fancy ladies with drooping eyelids, the clank of old-fashioned slots and the zippity hum of electronics; an occasional rattle of coins. Dawn sees some gamblers weary with defeat and completely busted. They park before used car dealers and wait for the lots to open. They sell their cars cheap in order to get breakfast and bus fare home.

  Me, and Pork, and Victoria (my comrades) drive through this glossy city as morning rises quick above the
desert. We say very little, because Pork is dreamy and Victoria is crazed. We flee like refugees, though we don’t flee far.

  Storyland sits at city limits, between the town and the desert. When we approach, it looks like a hanger for monster airplanes, being of round metal roof and immense. It does not look like a book barn, though it is.

  Once inside, Storyland stretches into distance like a stadium with fluorescent lights. Lights hang way, way up there, sending glowing messages from an awkward heaven. This is a freakin’ church, a financial cathedral.

  My comrades and I take our places before stainless tables, with dumpsters at our backs. I’m in the center with Pork on my left. Victoria giggles on my right. Dust collectors hum, conveyer belts slide slicky-sounding, and we snag packages from conveyors which trundle before us. We open packages. We work like dogs and are paid like dogs. Employee turnover is fantastic. Still, a few genuine nut-cases hang on; plus us. We like it here. We say we’re on Weird Row. We’re talkin’ revolution.

  The packages contain books, audios, videos, but mostly books. Thoughts and amusements of two thousand years trickle through our hands.

  It works like this: The Corporation owns Storyland and sends books to every country in the world. Packages go out, but packages also come in. Packages arrive because when The Corporation receives orders it shops the Net. It finds needed books at small bookstores in Denver or Ashtabula or Cape Town. The small stores ship the books here for Storyland to resell. Workers who are higher paid repackage the books and send them to customers. Those workers get higher pay because what they do is boring. We, here on Weird Row, get the best part of the job.

  Books on necromancy mix with Bibles, and children’s picture-books rest beside dusty philosophies from two hundred years ago. History, evolution, how to raise a family cow… you name it, we open it…. all kinds and colors of books spit forth, plus: there is packaging.

  “Plus,” Pork reminds me, “there’s Package Police.” He checks the terrain with heavy-lidded gaze as he speaks. Conveyers hum all around, and other teams open packages. We don’t speak to other teams. Who needs ’em?

  Pork looks rested. Many years ago there was a song titled “Mr. Five by Five.” That’s Pork. Five foot tall and five foot around, like a giant bowling ball with a fluffy head. He has hazel eyes and the kind of beard you find on billy goats.

  “There’s also denouements.” Victoria generally sounds cultured. She is virginal and sweet and only slightly insane. She has no business in a candy-fanny town like Reno. Victoria should be gliding along marble halls while wearing a satin gown. She should be waving a wand that casts sparkles. Victoria is knock-down-dead gorgeous, little and cute, like a movie queen, like Hepburn. “There’s visualizations,” she says, “and actualizations and excitements. There’s also a certain amount of stardust.”

  I make no big claim to sanity, either. If I am sane, why am I in Reno? My name…? it seems a guy would remember… I’m sure my mom recalls it, but she lives in New Hampshire. Around here they call me Smoke. Because I do, whenever I can sneak a butt. I’m skinny and going-on thirty with bright eyes and yellow teeth; a nice smile to go with it, a tidy little cough. I lust after Victoria. Fat chance. Lotsa luck, buddy.

  “Package Police,” Pork says, again. Even wide awake and rested, Pork sounds dreamy. Dreamy is dangerous. When he gets too dreamy, Pork fondles books.

  The Corporation can’t allow that. A man who fondles books is liable to steal something: a notion, an essence, an idea. A man who fondles books might learn a trade, develop a philosophy, found a religion. All through history, book fondlers have been known to commit creative acts. Around here, Book Fondling is a godawful sin.

  After all, those books belong to The Corporation, and The Corporation has its own philosophy. The Corporation not only wants its fair share. The Corporation wants to own Everything. The Corporation will not be stolen from. Thus, the Package Police.

  “Our plot marches forward,” Victoria whispers. She is excited. She places a book titled Teach Yourself Celtic in Your Spare Time on the conveyer, then slowly turns to dispose of packaging. Recycle goes in one dumpster, reuseable packaging in another. The Celtic book had been wrapped in newspaper. A headline flatly states:

  VAPORS EXCITE CAT SHOW PULCHRITUDINOUS KITTY DEEDS FURBALL

  “No story enclosed, just headline.” Victoria speaks with some chagrin.

  “None needed,” Pork whispers. “We got enough to work with.” Pork sounds as excited as Pork ever sounds, which is to say, real dreamy.

  “Put a sock in it,” I tell them. “We got problems.”

  A Package-Police cruiser has just pulled a U-ey at the end of our conveyor row. It heads toward us. The cruiser is electric and only big enough to hold one cop and one prisoner.

  “Pulchritudinous,” Pork says, and says it real dreamy. I give him a good nudge. He sort of wakes up.

  This cop has missed his place in history. He’s a perfect model for a Storm Trooper or an Alabama Deputy; an Adolph or a Bubba. He chaws on a toothpick and wears short sleeves to show his biceps. His brush cut stands spikey above blue eyes that can’t help looking at the front of Victoria’s shirt.

  “You creeps, again,” he says, and gives me a shove just hard enough to mess up what I’m doing. “Keep workin’.”

  I place a book titled Ergonomics and Policy Reform in 13th Century Mesopotamia on the conveyor. The packaging was bubble wrap. I toss it into the reusable material dumpster. Pick up another package.

  This particular cop always shoves me when he’s after Pork… something, Victoria always explains, that they teach you in cop school.

  “You moved your lips funny,” the cop says to Pork. “Say it again.”

  “Cheeseburgersforlunch,” Pork tells the cop. It’s one of our ready-made words. We have ready-mades for occasions like this. “We were talkin’ lunch,” Pork says. “Before that we were talkin’ breakfast.”

  “And now you’re talkin’ bull.” The cop knows full well he’s in the presence of subversion. He knows we’re stealing thoughts, but doesn’t have enough to hang us.

  We got rights. The cop doesn’t even have enough on us to justify a mild beating. He’s one frustrated jockstrap.

  “With French Fries,” Victoria says, and says it most sweetly. She zips open a package containing Pachyderms Of The Circus: Their Wit and Wisdom. This one is wrapped in newspaper. She deftly, and with no seeming regret, tosses the paper into recycle. We who know her, though, feel her sorrow. We caught a fleeting headline, something like:

  SYMPHONY GOES O AND 1 AGAINST MENDELSSOHN.

  Something to think about. And we will. As soon as we get rid of Adolph.

  “We’d ask you to join us for lunch,” I say in a loud whisper, “but then we’d be fraternizing.” I figure the cop is so dumb he’ll think it’s a compliment. I think rightly.

  “Another suck-up,” he says. When he finally leaves we shelve Mendelssohn for the moment, then once more discuss a question of law.

  It is true we steal words and thoughts, but we’re not stealing them from the books. We’re taking them from the packaging. Plus, things fall out of books: pressed flowers, locks of hair, clippings, (usually obituaries or marriages) bookmarks, snapshots, postage stamps, love letters, receipts, and postcards. It’s all throw-away stuff.

  So, if it’s junk, who owns it? The Corporation says, “Throw it away.”

  “You can’t steal something that’s been thrown away,” Pork always explains. “That’s our fall-back position. When we finally get caught, and finally heal up from the beating, and find ourselves in front of a judge, that’s our defense.”

  “Pulchritudinous,” Victoria murmurs. “Nobody is gonna throw something like that away. That’ll be their claim.”

  “Plus,” I say, “they got lawyers. They own the judge. We got minimum wage.”

  “And the joy of combat,” Pork tells me. “We got the pleasure of taking stuff right under The Corporation’s drippy little nose.” Pork can talk vic
ious when he wants.

  “Every day,” Victoria murmurs, “I take an idea, or an image, or a word away from here. I set it loose in the world. That, I believe, is Pulchritudinous.” Victoria sometimes gets a dazed look whilst talking philosophy.

  She is describing our mission. Our mission is not to defy The Corporation, but to subvert. We are warriors. That’s the truth.

  When books go out of here, headed for Bangkok or Plymouth-in-England, or Carrolton, Kentucky, they look just great. The Corporation has slicked them. Spots on covers have been cleaned. Torn dustjackets have been repaired. Lots of them look new, and all of them look snazzy. Like Reno.

  But, I’ve seen inside some of those books. The words are still there, the ideas, the theories, the stories; but somehow life is gone. It’s like everything in them is written on a dying desert wind. The books show color but have no heat of impassioned brains or beat of loving hearts. It’s a giant gyp. The Corporation keeps the life of the book and sells the husk. Just like Reno.

  Our subversion comes because we hijack words, ideas, dream-stuff, and yeh, occasional stardust. We hijack entire concepts, plus screwball visions. We can take a headline, a cat show, and talk it through. Then, we take it outside of Storyland and set it free. If our new idea or vision can make it beyond the city limits, it has a strong chance for a healthy life.

  “Lunch,” Pork says, and really means it.

  We get take-out burgers at a roadhouse, then roll the car a mile into desert. The land is flat and covered with sage. In some places small hills rise, also sage-covered. We choose our spot with great care because The Corporation has spies. If we get caught, doing what we’re about to do, the least that will happen is fractures.

  I smoke a butt, smoke another. In the distance Reno seems to dance through heat waves, a tired and faded dance. The Corporation fits right into Reno. The Corporation came here because of tax stuff and central shipping. Birds of a feather.