by Sarah Noffke
“Whatever, you old drunk,” I say and then turn and stalk off. That was a horrible waste of time.
Dahlia has her head down and is busy checking her messages on her daft phone when I pull up to the SUV, which now has all windows down to let in the nonexistent breeze.
“Thought you were unplugging for the vacation,” I say with a snarl to her.
“I am. I’m just checking my horoscope,” she lies, powering off her phone. “Can’t have Mercury going into retrograde and me being in zero position to deal with it decision-wise.”
“Oh, thank fucking god you’re a pop star and not in a real position of power,” I say.
“Where’s the gas?” the jerk in the middle row says.
I look straight at Dahlia. “Did you hear something? Like the sound of a cat puking or a bull letting out its last breath?”
Dahlia lowers her glasses a bit and regards me over them, a not so amused expression on her face.
“Anyway, that petrol station which is supposed to sell gas and things related to cars is plumb out. Isn’t that cute? And in a beautifully poetic turn of events I’m going to push this massive piece of shit over to the pump, so get ready to steer, dear,” I say, loosening my tie and throwing it in the passenger side seat.
Then I start for the back of the dusty vehicle and as I do I hear my daughter say, “Throw it in neutral so he can push.”
Oh good, now she’s being fucking helpful. A bit late in my opinion.
***
Never in my fucking life have I experienced something so ridiculously horrid. Pushing that vehicle was like giving birth to a giraffe. It felt weird and wrong and it hurt and I sweat in places that I didn’t even know I had. And yet I did it. Fucking pushed all five tons of the bloody machinery to the pump, where I quickly realized one crucial piece of information.
“Ren, what are you doing?” Dahlia says, peering out of the window.
“I’m thinking,” I say, staring at the pump and then the side of the car.
“You’ve been thinking for a while.”
“Well, it’s what pays the bills, isn’t it?” I say.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” she says.
“Of course I do,” I say, staring at the front of the car. Where the fuck does the gas go? Into the top? Side? Bottom? Honestly, I’ve been to petrol stations but I was always so busy scamming and drained from mind control that I never once witnessed the act of a car receiving gas.
“Adelaide!” I yell loud enough for Satan, aka her real father, to hear.
“What?” she says from the back.
I stomp over to the passenger window. “How do you pump gas?”
She bursts out laughing. “I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”
“But you knew when this piece of shit was empty,” I say.
“That’s because I watch the telly. But I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to fill it up. I think you put that thing in the side of the car. However, I’ve got no clue where,” she says, pointing at the pump.
“Infinitely helpful,” I say.
“But don’t blow yourself up, because I’ve seen people do that on the telly too,” she says.
“Thanks, life-ruiner, now go back to being dead to me.”
“My pleasure and absolutely,” she says, pushing back into her seat.
I then look at Dahlia, who shrugs. “I don’t really know, Ren. I think you take that nozzle thing and put it somewhere in the car.”
“Thanks, diva. Write a sugary sweet ballad while papa gets this shit done.”
I then do the only thing left. I march though the empty grounds of the petrol station and back for the dumb door with a daft buzzer. The gypsy woman is gone. The life reject behind the counter doesn’t turn away from his daft fight on the soul-sucking TV. He just says, “Will that be cash or credit?”
“I need your…” and then I cough on the last word.
“What’s that again?” the guy says, not taking his eyes off the repulsive screen.
“I need hel—” The word freezes in my throat. “I need you to pump the gas,” I finally manage out.
The fuck face blinks at me blankly. “This isn’t a full-service station. It’s self-serve.”
“You know, Jon,” I say, throwing my chin in the air, “if you’re not willing to bloody adapt then you’re not going to make it in this fucking business or any other.”
He jabs a finger at the name tag pinned to his shirt. “I’m Jeff, actually.”
A simple sentence with an intention behind it would have Jeffrey here detailing my automobile, but I resist. I pin my palms on the counter. “Would you pump my gas?”
“Oh, are you from Oregon where they don’t let you do it and no one knows how?” he says.
“God no, I’m not from that shitty state with bloody awful trees.” I pull out my wallet and throw a tenner on the counter. “Here, now let’s get this over with because talking to you and smelling those week-old hotdogs is murdering my usually happy nature.”
Chapter Four
When the dumbass servant boy slaps the side of the SUV, Dahlia starts it up with a yelp of excitement. It’s like she feels victorious by way of sitting in the vehicle and doing nothing. I had watched the MMA fighter–obsessed boy while he pumped the gas, learning the steps to fueling it up so I could do it the next time. I was a bit surprised to learn the nozzle fit into a compartment on the back side of the vehicle. Other than that it was a simple process and there’s absolutely no reason people in Oregon shouldn’t do the task themselves.
“Well, that was easy,” Dahlia chirps as she pulls the beast back onto the road.
I slide around and stare at her like she’s lost her mind and is speaking in tongues.
“That’s because we didn’t have to do anything and Ren took care of it all,” Adelaide says from the back.
“Shut up, vacation-ruiner,” I say, cutting her off.
A jolt sounds on the floorboard, probably from her stomping feet. “God, there’s no winning with you.”
“No, there isn’t, so if you’d like we can let you off here. I bet that gas station owner would take you in and you two could breed your dumb-ass ways all over this bloody area,” I say.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the gas signal,” Adelaide says. “I didn’t know we’d actually run out of gas.”
“That’s because you live in a world where you forget that there are consequences to actions.” I turn to Dahlia. “Is it too late to send her to a girls’ school? One where the administration is questionable and their behavioral practices are untraditional?”
“We are putting this little snafu behind us,” Dahlia says, plastering that look on her face she’s been trying to make permanent lately. A pleasant smile, reeking of false peace. She taps the screen of her phone, bringing up the GES or PGS or whatever her digital map is. Poor thing can’t close her eyes and have her consciousness lock onto the ley lines of the planet. She has to rely on technology to tell her where to go. “The good news is that we are only a few miles off the exit for the alpaca farm.”
I click my tongue three times and shake my head. “Honestly, it’s not too late to send you to community college or one of those lame online universities or whatever institution that will accept you with laughable test scores. That way you can learn how to properly use the English language. Good news is making a few million dollars in a half hour. Good news is single-handedly saving a fleet of soldiers who were about to slide into the bloody ocean. Good news isn’t that a farm full of hairy giraffes is a few miles away and they’re most likely going to spit on my rattlesnake loafers.”
“I knew you’d be as excited about the adventure as I am,” Dahlia says, reaching over and slapping me on the knee. She pulls her hand back in time to negotiate the large automobile onto an off-ramp that immediately turns to gravel. Dust swarms up from the road, clouding the road ahead and bathing the SUV in a fine layer of dirt.
It’s just then that the little monster
starts his usual round of complaints, screeching followed by all out crying and incoherent babbling.
“You didn’t by chance think to grab something when you were in that petrol station?” Adelaide says.
I twist around at lightning speed. “Strangely, I was a bit busy trying to figure out how to get petrol into the vehicle which ran out because of you. And I didn’t realize that your legs were broken and you couldn’t get your ass out of the vehicle to purchase snacks with the credit cards I so graciously pay for you.”
“It’s not really graciously if you constantly remind me of it,” she says. “And I’ll go ahead and take that as a no,” she adds, her focus on Lucien, who is now crying loudly.
I turn back around, proud of myself for handling that with such elegant diplomacy. And I’m starting to feel nausea from Dahlia’s driving and the series of turns she’s taken, dragging us farther and farther into the middle of no-fucking-where.
“Well, that’s curious,” Dahlia says, squinting at the screen attached to her dash.
“I’m almost certain that it isn’t curious,” I say, tying my arms in front of my chest, realizing I smell like sweat. It’s bloody awful. “What is it?”
“Well, the GPS just stopped working. It just looks to be thinking,” she says.
“Adelaide,” I say, “make yourself useful for once in your bloody life. Help us.”
She sighs. “I’ve been useful loads of times,” Adelaide says.
“Giving therapists unique case studies to write up in a science journal doesn’t count,” I say.
Then there’s another daft sigh. “I don’t know. Let me see it,” she says.
Dahlia plucks the device from its container and holds it over her shoulder, all while driving down the road that keeps narrowing further.
“Oh, well there we go,” Adelaide says, handing the phone back at once. “You don’t have any reception. No service. No GPS.”
“Hmmm, well, what do we do?” Dahlia says, placing the phone on the center console. “The farm is really off the main road and it will be hard to find without directions.”
I throw my head back on the rest. “Am I the only one here with a three-digit IQ?” I say mostly to the heavens, which I know have abandoned me and will be of zero help. I lower my head and look at Dahlia. “Go ahead and retrace our path back in the direction of the highway until we have reception. Then we can jot down directions and proceed to this hellish destination,” I say over Lucien’s constant complaints.
“Well, that would be a great solution but I don’t know how to get back,” Dahlia says, continuing the trek on the endless gravel road. “I’ve taken a ton of turns and all the roads look exactly the same here. There’s not even proper signs.”
“Then may I suggest that you stop driving us further into the middle of nowhere. You do realize that we have no food, water, cell service, and a load of worthless brains that could fill up a science lab.”
“Well, you’re in this predicament with us, Ren,” Dahlia says.
“By predicament, do you mean the beginning of a horror movie? And no, I’m a dream travel away from abandoning your asses.”
“And if you do, you better not show up on my doorstep again. Well, only to collect the ashes of your beloved chair,” Dahlia says.
I jerk my head at the pop star. “You wouldn’t,” I say with a dramatic gasp.
“Try me,” she says.
“And still you keep charging ahead like you’re on a walkabout. Maybe we should pull over, turn around, do anything rather than drive farther into the pits of hell,” I say, staring out at the tree-lined road. The bloody things are everywhere. I never forgave the noxious weeds for what they did. Yeah, they supply bloody oxygen, shade, and habitats for animals. But these flawed plants are also responsible for tragedies. How many people have fallen from a tree’s canopy and broken bones? How many trees have fallen on homes, crushing the innocent people inside? And don’t even get me started on the flimsy branches that can break off from a strong gale and attack a guy in the head, killing him instantly. Sometimes I wonder how my life would look different if Jimmy hadn’t died. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten myself into so much trouble. Maybe I would have stuck around, knowing he needed me. Maybe I would have tried, knowing that I had a friend who believed in me. But that’s not what happened and my life was a series of mistakes after Jimmy’s death. That’s what happens when trees are allowed to unfurl without consequence. They create a domino sequence of mistakes.
“There, up ahead,” Adelaide says, pointing at a drive that ends at a series of buildings. “There’s a place where we could stop and ask for directions.”
“It looks clean enough,” Dahlia says, injecting false hope into her voice.
It’s the first place resembling civilization we’ve seen since we turned off the highway, at least twenty miles back.
“Yeah, it actually looks kind of cute,” Adelaide says. And then to Lucien she sings, “Be quiet, little monster. We will get you to a place that has food.”
The buildings, a house, a barn, and a storage area of sorts, are all painted in different pastels. As we near, I make out large crown molding lining the roofs. The detail work matches that of a quaint Dutch village. And the grounds around the compound are a bright green flecked with purple and yellow flowers. Even I have to admit it looks quite idyllic. And it’s strange to find it in the middle of nowhere, like a tourist attraction dropped straight out of the sky. There’s a large colorful sign at the entrance to the drive. Bubbly letters line the top.
“Well, I think this will be a good place to stop. Let’s hope someone is home and can get us going in the right direction,” Dahlia says.
“Yeah, let’s hope,” I say, feeling my body vibrate with exhaustion. Then I turn to take in the words on the sign that’s just come near enough to make out.
It reads:
Welcome to Colleen’s Goat Farm. The friendliest place on earth.
“Oh fuck,” I say with a tired sigh.
Chapter Five
“No,” I say, clear and loud.
“Oh, come on, Ren,” Dahlia says, turning the vehicle in the direction of the place which may look cute but will be anything but. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Up a goat’s ass,” I say.
“What’s your deal with goats?” Adelaide says over the loud crunch of the tires and wailing toddler. “They’re cute and supposedly a lot of fun.”
“Have you ever been around the dumb animals?” I say.
“No. If you remember, I grew up in London,” she says.
“I hadn’t actually,” I say. “You’re British? I had no idea.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“It’s true,” I admit. “And I grew up in Peavey with an abundance of goats everywhere. The pesky animals were always making a racket and breaking out of their pens. One broke into our cottage this once and found my mum’s keepsake album. Out of an entire house full of rubbish the fucker decided to eat the albums of our ancestors. My mum cried for a whole week.”
“Ren…” Dahlia says, her voice careful. Almost cautious.
“What?” I say as she throws the car into park.
“You’re sharing.”
“I’m not,” I say with an edge of hostility, although under it I feel slightly embarrassed. Why had I said so much about such a long-ago memory? Maybe it’s the trees. Or the stress. Or the driving.
“I was answering the question. That’s one of the numerous reasons I loathe goats. That little dipshit should have eaten Lyza’s useless belongings, not Mum’s pictures,” I say.
“Who’s Lyza?” Adelaide says.
“A soul-sucking bitch,” I say, getting out of the car.
“What was she, a neighbor or something? Why do you hate her so much?” Adelaide says.
Just as I’m about to shut the door I hear Dahlia say, “It’s his sister. She’s crazy.”
The questions will no doubt continue now.
; I walk around the car to see a tall woman in front of a bright blue barn trimmed in orange and she’s scattering chicken feed. Hens with feathers to match my red hair are clucking around her feet. She holds up a hand to us in acknowledgment and starts in our direction. The hens, who apparently have a codependency problem, follow after the woman.
“Hi there!” she sings across the dusty yard. The woman with shoulder-length hair and a broomstick skirt walks in our direction, chicken feed in tow.
I’m just about to state our reason for visiting when a fucking herd of the nastiest vermin ever put on this earth charge out from behind the blue barn. The goats race at us like a bunch of happy bulls intent on knocking over their prey and then slightly annoying them until death ensues, as is the fate of such. The little pygmy goats, some small, some huge and pregnant with Satan’s pets, rip forward. I’m just about to dive back into the vehicle when there’s an assault on my behind. A soft but deliberate invasion rips just between my legs. I jump forward and simultaneously turn around to see what caused the trespassing. It’s a little brown goat with kind eyes and zero soul.