The Middle Road

by K. G. Reuss

  Shelby, our waitress, seats us in a booth then pours two of the smallest cups of coffee I think I’ve ever seen. The only saving grace is she leaves us both our own carafes.

  “So, what’s the itinerary for this trip? Do we have a final destination? Anything in particular you want to see or do?” Derek asks, pouring three creamers into his small mug and sipping it without spilling any. He reminds me of a giant drinking from a tiny teacup. I bite back the snicker before answering him.

  “There’s no itinerary. We drive without purpose or meaning. I don’t want to do much planning on this trip. I just want to see what I see and experience whatever happens.”

  “OK. So we’re hippies on a very luxurious caravan. I’m down with that.”

  “We’re Lewis and Clark, exploring this great nation to find its hidden treasures.” Derek spits out his coffee, splattering the table, amused at my historical comparison of our little adventure.

  “I’m pretty sure neither Lewis nor Clark were Nigerian immigrants, but these are modern times. I’m happy my wanderlust soul is being catered too.”

  “It’s not backpacking through Europe, but it’s close enough,” I remark, sipping my black coffee. Good God, it needs creamer. It tastes like tar. I add in two creamers, taste it, and add in two more. It isn’t Starbucks, but it’s caffeine, and it’ll have to do.

  A backpacking trip through Europe is now part of my will for Derek after I’m gone with a small stipend to boot. He’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. He’s my confidant. I mean, c’mon, the man has seen and heard me getting a blow-job in the backseat for Knick’s tickets. He’s witnessed me wheel and deal through some pretty ruthless situations. He’s observed me slicing and dicing men’s lives, leaving them and their families destitute. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s employed by the devil incarnate.

  Our food arrives, and I swear, they’re the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten.

  Once we both have full bellies, we leave, piling into our home on wheels. Derek has a thing for loud rock music, and not the stuff blasting out of the local rock station. I mean full-on underground music with screaming guitars and band members who look like they’re straight out of a nightmare with their elaborate makeup and stage presence. Cranking up something that screams at me makes me cringe. Derek assures me it’ll get better. Trying to be more openminded, I listen to the songs of his favorite band as they squeal throughout the Beastmaster.

  After three songs, I’m hooked. I air drum while Derek hollers at the top of his lungs. To passersby, we probably look like we’re part of some rock band on the way to our next destination. Or like we’re drug-crazed yuppies who’ve been snorting too much coke.

  For the first time in my life though, I feel free. There’s no looming deadline—unless we’re talking my death—there’s no work that needs to be done, no meetings to get to, no kiss-asses trying to get on my good side, and no media in my face asking for a story. Nothing. Just the prospect of life.

  So, I grin like a fucking maniac as I air drum to my new favorite band.

  Diary

  Day 3

  I may have overdone it with the air drums. I ended up with a headache that required me to go to my room and lay down. I didn’t wake up until just now. It’s one in the damn morning. That has to be the longest nap I’ve ever taken in my life. Hell, I’ve never slept that long at night before, let alone from a nap.

  I don’t even know where the hell we are. I know we’re not moving and some kind of lights filter in through my blinds. Maybe street lights? Derek is snoring in one of the bunks down the hall.

  So far, I’ve had fun on this trip. I know. It’s been a fucking day, and I slept through three-quarters of it. But I’ve never done that before.

  I’ve also never wandered around in the middle of the night like some sort of runaway, but the idea is vastly becoming appealing to me as I sit here and lament my life in The Life and Times of the Ruthless Prick Carter George.

  Fuck it. Y.O.L.O. Don’t judge me for that word usage. I promise I’ll never use it again.

  Four

  Carter

  I stumble out of the Beastmaster, taking care not to wake sleeping beauty who’s snoring so loudly I contemplate putting him out of my misery. Derek has driven us to a grocery store parking lot and parked us in the back near the dumpster for Christ’s sake.

  I could’ve driven my baby out of the back garage, but decide I want to walk. I snap a photo of the store, so I’ll remember the name, and make my way out to the front sidewalk. The street is well-lit, and there are still cars and people out. A stiff drink is definitely needed.

  Walking down the road, I set my sights on a place that has multiple neon lights on the sign. It’s too far away to read, but it’s either a liquor store or a strip club, and I won’t turn either down right now.

  About halfway down the block, a young man sits on a bus bench playing some type of contraption that looks like a keyboard but sounds like a guitar. His hands are sliding left and right, making the instrument weep like a baby. It’s fucking beautiful. He turns and looks in my direction, probably making sure I’m not going to rob him, and then starts bellowing out a song I’ve never heard before.

  The rich baritone of his voice reminds me of the country music singer, Trace Adkins. Not that I run in those circles, but I heard him play once at a bar in the city while he was holed up waiting out a hurricane. It was an impromptu concert at a blues club my buddy owned. He sang three or four songs without any music, and I sat mesmerized at the way he could touch a crowd with song. The broad I had sitting on my lap was wiping tears from her eyes as he sang about making it to Arlington. Yeah, just fucking beautiful.

  I walk around in front of him as I get closer and listen to him for the remainder of the song. His jeans are tattered at the legs, and his socks are mismatched. One of his Chucks has a hole in it by the big toe. Long hair hangs partly in and partly out of a ponytail near the nape of his neck, but his eyes are clear, his hands are steady, and his voice is strong. As he releases the last note and lets it hang in the air for emphasis, he nods to me with thanks for staying.

  “Hey, uh, you do this every day out here?”

  He nods his head at me.

  “For money? I think they call it busking.”

  “No, sir. I just play for people to hear music. I don’t play for money. There’s no tip jar, and I don’t own a hat. I don’t have no money on me neither.” His hands raise from the board and hold still in the air. He looks around nervously, like I’m either about to bust him for doing something illegal or rob him.

  “I’m not a cop, man, and I’m not going to rob you. You’re cool. I’ve just never heard anything more beautiful. What is that thing?” I gesture to the guitar box balanced on his lap.

  “It’s a steel guitar. I made her myself.” His face beams with pride, but I roll my eyes. Another inanimate object assigned a female gender, but I’ll give him this one because it certainly cries like a woman. I bet if he played it faster, it’d bitch and whine like one too.

  “Are you some kind of music student from around here? And, by the way, where the hell are we?”

  “You don’t know where you’re at? Are you all right, mister?” He looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, right now anyway. I rode in on a bus but slept most of the trip. So, no, I don’t know where I’m at. Clue me in.”

  “You’re in West by God Virginia. Just outside of Clarksburg. Where you heading?”

  “Right now, I’m heading to those neon signs,” I say, pointing the short distance down the street. “Then I’m going to find some food. You’re welcome to join me as a tour guide. I promise, I don’t bite, I won’t ask for sexual favors, and I’m not a murderer.”

  He gives me a side-eyed look for a long moment, thinking about my offer, before he lifts the instrument off his lap and stands. “Yeah, I could stretch my legs for a while, but what are you going to the computer store for at this hour? It’s closed and won’t ope
n until 9:00 AM.”

  “Fuck. That’s a computer store? Never mind. I thought it was a liquor store.”

  “The only place that sells alcohol around here is the Walmart. It’s just a few blocks away if you want to walk. It’s open twenty-four hours.”

  “Well, then, lead the way, maestro. By the way, I’m Carter George.” I hold out my hand to shake his.

  “Luke Boyd. It’s nice to meet you.”

  He places his instrument under the bench on the sparse grass and dirt and starts to walk away.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing? You can’t leave that there. Somebody will steal it.”

  He shrugs. “Nah, everyone knows it’s mine. It’s fine. They won’t take it, and if they do, I’ll just build another one.”

  “So, you aren’t emotionally attached to your woman? Jesus, I think if I could make something like that, that sounds like angels singin’, it’d never leave my sight.”

  “I never thought about it that way, but she’ll be fine. She’s an independent woman.” He snorts, laughing at his own joke.

  I shrug my shoulders and follow his lead, leaving her behind. I’ve never met one of those women. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

  We make small talk while walking the few blocks to the Walmart Supercenter. He’s a good kid with brains and a dream and apparently a sense of adventure. There is a fucking highway that cuts across the way. I’ve never in my life walked on a highway. It makes me realize how deer feel.

  He jumps over the guardrail like a rabbit, while I have to sit on the motherfucker and throw my legs over. Youth. Damn, I wish I had it again. It’s not that I’m old. Thirty-two didn’t seem old a few weeks ago. My, how a death sentence changes a man. I’d do so many things differently. Fuck, who am I kidding? I’d do it all differently.

  Isn’t it funny how life throws you curveballs?

  In Clarksburg, West Virginia in the early morning hours, I sit in the middle of a swing in the garden department at Walmart on some fake grass, drinking rum and coke from a McDonald’s cup I found just sitting on the shelf. We’ve been sitting here shooting the shit and getting to know each other. I have a new friend, and he doesn’t even own a car or a building, much less a city block. Isn’t life grand?

  Luke starts yawning after a bit, and I take that as my hint to head back. Some people can only handle so much excitement.

  “So when are you going to venture out for that dream you have?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. When I can save some money for a bus ticket to Nashville, I guess. I only get paid once a month. Extra pocket change is a little hard to come by after taxes and bills, ya know?”

  “I’d figure so if you only get paid once a month. Damn, that’s shitty. How do people survive that way? The company is making interest off the money you’ve earned while they hold onto it for you. That’s not a good business practice if they want to keep good employees, but I guess if you want to keep your job, they have a hold on you. Fucking sucks.”

  “Yep, explains why they strike a lot but don’t get anywhere.”

  We jump back over the guardrail, and I promise myself to never do that again. I’m all for adventure, but not when it comes to jumping over something that could slice my nuts off. I reach down and adjust them at the thought of putting them in danger like that.

  “Luke, do you have family nearby?”

  “No. It’s just me. My parents passed away last year. They had me late in life,” he explains when he sees the confused look on my face. “Sickness took ‘em both. The winters get cold here, and the house is old and drafty. They got pneumonia and never recovered from it. It’s just me living there now, taking care of the dog.”

  Jesus Christ. He is only twenty-one and already without his parents. What a fucked-up world we lived in. I feel for the kid. He has an amazing talent with his homemade steel guitar, but no one to make sure he reaches his potential. I can’t stand the thought of his life without his dream coming true.

  “Let me ask you something. What would you do if you woke up in the morning and found a bus ticket to Nashville?”

  “Nothing, cause I can’t take the dog on the bus. They won’t let me. I’ve already asked.”

  What the fuck? He’d sacrifice his dreams because he can’t take a dog on the bus. I don’t know if that says he isn’t serious about his dream or if he’s that loyal to the animal.

  “Really? You wouldn’t go because you can’t take the dog with you?”

  “I can’t let her starve. I don’t have anyone to feed her, and I can’t just let her run wild. A coyote would get her. She’s all I have left, and I’ll be damned if I put her in a shelter to be killed. She’s just a pup.”

  We arrive back at the bus bench, and his woman is right where he left her. He picks her up, wipes a little bit of dirt off her backside and swivels around to face me. “Well, Carter, it’s been fun being your tour guide through Clarksburg. Are you sleeping over at the bus station until your next one leaves? ‘Cause I’ve got a comfy couch if you need a place to lie down for a while and rest.”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about Carter George. I’m a New Yorker,” I emphasize Yorker pretty heavily with my accent to make it sound like Yorkah. “We can make it anywhere…or so the song goes.”

  I pause for a moment, an idea brewing in my mind.

  “Why don’t you come with us?”

  Luke raises his eyebrows in surprise. “What?”

  “We’re on a road to wherever. That wherever could run straight through Nashville. You can bring your dog. There’s plenty of room for both of you.” I shrug.

  “You’d do that? For me?”

  “Yeah.” I nod my head slowly, a smile curling my lips up. “I would. I want to. What do you say? You in?”

  He looks dumbfounded as he stares back at me, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Can I think about it?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “We’re the big black RV parked down by the Piggly Wiggly. You can’t miss us. We’re leaving in the morning though so think fast.”

  He grins at me. “All right. If I’m at your door in the morning, you’ll know my answer. If you don’t see me, safe travels, my friend.” He waves goodbye and walks up the sidewalk right behind the bus bench.

  Well shit, he was home this whole time. He opens the door and is greeted by a big, red dog that looks to be an Irish Setter. The dog jumps up on him, placing its front paws on his shoulders, and he hugs it before shutting the door. Loyalty and love. That’s all we need in this world.

  I take a look at the run-down house for a moment. Most of the shutters are missing. There’s only one green one hanging from the second-floor window. The front porch has a deep bow in the front from years of water damage and rot. It’s amazing it hasn’t caved in already. The stone steps are cracked, and bits of the corners have chipped away, making them unstable. The siding has mold growing on it, except for the pieces that are cracked and broken.

  He put his whole damn paycheck into living here, and he’s never thought to be dissatisfied with life. He’s happy to come out every night and play his music for whoever will listen.

  The only thing I know for sure is I’m a spoiled prick. But I’m a spoiled prick with a lot of fucking money to help people. I make my way to Derek and the Beastmaster mulling over my options.

  Diary

  Day 4

  Day 4? Jesus. It’s almost been a week already. How did time fly so fast? Normally I struggle to make it Monday to Friday. I should’ve travelled more often.

  I decided to offer Luke a trip to Nashville, or further if he wants. He’ll probably want to bring the dog. I don’t care. I’ve never had a pet. How difficult could it be?

  We’ve got two extra sleeping bunks, so it should work out just fine. I can’t wait to pull over every night and listen to some music before going to bed. I wonder if he writes too or just covers other people’s songs. Man, I’d love to hear that contraption play some heavy metal. Maybe he’ll take requests.


  Stay-tuned for Luke’s answer. Jeez, I’m bouncing in my seat. Is this how Oprah and Ellen feel when they give shit away?

  And to think, I used to only get this excited when I saw more than six digits in between the $ and the decimal point of a deal. It feels pretty fucking good, to be honest.

  All philanthropy aside, I still feel like shit. The medication dulls the pain but doesn’t erase it. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be better off if I just. . . well, that’s just fucking morbid of me. Deep breaths, not deep holes, right?

  I’m not done here. I’ve got shit to do in this world. Just fucking blows ass that I’m on borrowed time.

  Guess you never really know when it’s time to check out. I’m just praying that it won’t be anytime soon. I’d like to have at least made it across the country and back again before it happens. I can’t imagine Derek having to deal with my dead ass.

  There I go again being morbid.

  It’s too early for this shit.

  Five

  Carter

  I push my pills into a pile on the table then stack them up like Legos. Derek is still snoring down the hall, and I’m on my third cup of coffee already. I’ve found that an overload of caffeine has been helping to stave off these shitty ass headaches. Or maybe I’m just being fucking optimistic, a placebo for my slowly weakening mind. A loud, choking snort causes me to snap my head in the direction of where Derek is sleeping. Christ, am I going to have to go give him mouth-to-mouth? A moment later, the snores go on as normally as they possibly can.

  I’m truly surprised the man gets any sleep at all. Lord knows, it’s a struggle for me when he’s just a few feet away. I swallow down my handful of pills for breakfast.