Everything, Somewhere

by David Kummer

  “I came here because I threw a dart at a map and it landed,” I corrected him, adding another lie. He finally made eye contact with me and I thought for a moment he would call my bluff.

  “See, I wish I could do that,” Hudson went on. “But if I live here, I’ll never be able to. I just wanna get out there and go places.”

  I added with a touch of humor, “Places are overrated. And…” A pause, then pushing forward. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. But, see, what if you can’t find what you’re looking for out there? Huh?”

  Hudson’s eyes drifted away again. “What does it matter? I won’t find it here, either way. I mean… do you think you’ll find whatever you’re looking for? Have you?”

  At that moment, the sky overhead gave a particularly dangerous grumble and I glanced up to find it had grown to a deep, dark purple. The clouds were menacing, and the walk back a bit farther than I would’ve liked, so I turned and started on the path.

  “Let’s head back,” I said, emphasizing the direction with a nod of my head.

  Hudson followed after me, kicking at the dirt as he stepped off the bricks. When we’d gone a few paces, he said, “You never answered my question. About what you’re looking for here.”

  I smiled at the resilience and took a deep breath. “What makes you think I’m looking for something?”

  “You left LA. You gave up on acting. I don’t know why, but I know those are the…” He took time with the next phrase. I could tell he’d dwelt on this matter for some time before our chance encounter tonight. “The actions of a man who’s searching.”

  “Let me tell you why I picked that house, Hudson,” I said, pointing in the vague direction of it, though we couldn’t yet see its grimy exterior. “Maybe that’ll help.”

  “Sure.” There was a noticeable raise in his voice, probably because I’d addressed him by name. It was probably a dream of his. Average people have such flaccid dreams.

  I went on. “I moved here because of the cemetery, believe it or not. I’ll end up there and I don’t have much time left. According to my family history, anyways. I guess you could say it’s a… reminder. We’re all going there, really, but I’m closer than most.” I ran a hand through my hair and felt how sparse it’d become. It unnerved me how I was opening up to this kid, and yet I couldn’t resist, not now. “I’m almost to the end of the race, you might say. I’ve just got to see it through.”

  “But why give up acting?” Hudson insisted. “Why retire?”

  “Just didn’t like what I was doing anymore.” I could feel my heart beating weaker with every step, feel my knees threatening to give out. Nothing could terrify and comfort me like my own mortality. “I’m here to talk about you, not me. So, tell me. What are you looking for? From… from one searcher to another,” I added with a hint of a smile.

  “I’m looking for…” A dignified pause. Another break to contemplate his next words. This kid spoke like a much older man. Like a friend I’d once known. “Somewhere better.”

  “Somewhere better, you say?” I chewed on those words for a moment. The route stretched out before us, another five minutes at least. Maybe more. If the storm would just wait, it would all be okay. “Have you thought about the possibility that there is nowhere better?”

  Hudson grinned a little, and there was youthfulness in his expression. “You really think Little Rush is the best? No way.”

  “Maybe it’s the best for a certain kind of life.”

  “I don’t want that life, then.” There was an air of finality in his voice. No doubt at all. It troubled me. “If this is life, I don’t want it.”

  The trees were rustling louder now, the wind threatening to pull them away. Clouds overhead had built to an unimaginable depth, and I knew that any moment now they would soak us. Yet Hudson carried on, his face aglow, just content to be here. And for the first time in months, I felt the same. Like he had unlocked some part of me that was better, that could live here in peace. His own doubts had made me certain. Little Rush would be my home, if only for the end.

  My grandpa had done the same. Had embraced the town in his final years. And if I was him, then Hudson damn sure fit the role of a younger me. There was so much about him. His mannerisms. His way of speech. The way his eyes were always dancing on the horizon, searching for a deeper meaning to it all. It unnerved me, really, how similar I had been. What I had become.

  “Have you ever thought, Hudson, that maybe we aren’t searchers?” The house was in view now, and I wanted to share one more thought before we departed. “Maybe we’re both… running from something, instead. The goal isn’t to find a place, it’s to escape from one. We’re both trying to escape. We just have different finish lines and different demons chasing us there.”

  He granted me a half-smile. I couldn't tell if he was really thinking it over or if I’d lost him along the way. I wouldn’t blame him. It took me years to realize. For someone his age, life was still potential and purpose. But for me, I saw everything clearly.

  We were standing at the forest’s edge now. A short walk among the tombstones, and I would arrive at my front door. I could see an unfamiliar car on the side of the road, engine on. Some kind of convertible with the roof up. I assumed that would be Hudson’s friend.

  The drops started to sprinkle us, first landing on our cheeks and then our shoulders. The aroma started to grow, the kind that only a good storm can stir up. A scent of earthly beauty and nature at peace. Rain was different in Little Rush, like everything else. More pure, more cleansing. I’d missed it. I needed it.

  Hudson stood outside the trees, staring at me. We were facing each other for the first time, man-to-man, eye-to-eye. And now I saw him in an entirely different light.

  “And for you?” He turned the question back on me, the way I’d hoped he wouldn’t. But also the way I wanted him to. I needed him to ask. I needed the chance to confess, even if I never would. “What are you running from? In LA?”

  “I don’t think it’s in LA,” I said in a moment of honesty that shocked even myself. Now the rain had picked up slightly, and it splashed in my eyes. Gave me an excuse to glance down, avoid his piercing gaze. What a switch in our roles. What an interesting kid. “I think what I’m running from is… somewhere in here.”

  The words tumbled out before I knew them, before I understood them. But the moment they leapt from my tongue, I knew they were true. I touched my chest with two fingers and brushed them across the slightly damp fabric. Then I added, in a whisper, barely audible over the building storm, “And I’m not sure if I can escape it.”

  14

  Little Rush

  (The Reporter)

  A little house in the middle of nowhere, perched next to a field of stone. Just beyond it, a youthful cornfield spread out, only dirt and tiny stalks for now. She maintained her position by the road for a while, camera at the ready, but no opportunity presented itself. Bruce had closed all the curtains to his house and probably locked the doors. As the sun rose and then fell, they all waited for any movement. None came. The other reporters grumbled to each other, some reminiscing with old colleagues. But Gina, she kept her distance. They were here for different reasons. They had no connection with her or her developing story.

  She noticed when they turned away or gave her suspicious side-eyes. She recognized that feeling. They were intimidated by her, no doubt about it. Gina would be flattered, usually, but right now she only felt irritated. She had the kind of looks they wanted, sure, either to be or to fuck. She stood out in a crowd. But none of that mattered. They were competitors, and they would stab her in the back without hesitation.

  I’d do the same, she thought with a chuckle.

  Most of these camera-laden maniacs were from magazines or websites that functioned the same. Gossip this, rumor that. She hated the lot of them. Fake journalism, phonies. They didn’t dig into anything, didn’t even think for the most part. They would snap the picture, send it to their boss, and a team would create
some storyline from the mess of photos. They weren’t good for anything. And they got in the way of serious work, like hers.

  Gina leaned against her car, sitting in the grass. From this point of view, she could see the others, crawling around the cemetery like rodents, trying to find the right angle for their camera. Maybe hiding in hopes that Bruce would peek through his curtains. Their strategy made no sense. They were being too obvious, too upfront. Gina, though, she’d formed a better idea. Sitting away from the mess, observing, she calculated, and her lips twitched.

  As soon as these idiots cleared out of Little Rush, she’d make her move. Bruce Michaels couldn’t resist a woman like her. Not with her legs, her lips, her authority. She would use every tool.

  Those maggots crawled through the tombstones, across the sacred space of local families, without a care. Gina looked on in disgust, narrowing her eyes. This crazed mass of media was a plague on the town. The longer she stayed here, the more she understood why Little Rush was so adverse to the widespread coverage. Bruce Michaels, for all his fame, brought a cloud of flies with him to each new stop in life.

  It makes sense, Gina thought to herself, watching as they buzzed closer to the walls of his tiny home. Skeletons in the closet and all that. I suppose skeletons attract flies.

  But if that was the case, one could say only she, Gina, had the right reasons for being here. The only one who knew about the skeleton, who could see this course through to its grizzly and bloody end. If they were flies, then she was the huntress.

  Gina picked at the blades of grass around her as she contemplated him. Like a twinkle always hovering in the corner of her vision.

  Guys like Bruce Michaels, they moved to small towns for an assortment of reasons. He moved to Little Rush because here, he didn’t have to obey laws. He could do anything.

  But for Bruce, time would soon run out. Even in Little Rush, he couldn’t do just anything.

  Not when I’m around.

  She smirked and clambered back into the car. A different day, then. When the flies had cleared away and she could inspect the skeleton more easily. Then, at last, everybody would know the true story of Bruce Michaels.

  15

  Willow

  How many times had I found myself staring out the window, down at the scarcely-trod streets below us? My dad’s apartment looked out on one of the many downtown streets where the sidewalks were cracked and the people too. This view always disturbed me a little, made me want to run away. Then I’d peer between buildings at the river, and that would settle my spirit.

  “How soon you leaving?” my dad called from the other room. I glanced in that direction to see if he was coming down the hall or just shouting. There were no footsteps.

  “Few minutes,” I answered, raising my voice when he didn’t appear. “Can I have gas money?”

  I’d gotten so used to the smell, I didn’t even notice when he smoked. Only when he talked could I hear that faint distinction in his voice, whether holding the cigarette between his teeth or having taken it out. Regardless, he was smoking once again. It scared me that I couldn’t even smell it. Not a great sign.

  He responded, “No cash,” and that ended our conversation.

  I’d started to lose track of the days since we had that experience at the cabin. How long had it been since Bruce Michaels encroached on our regular lives? It felt like an eternity, truly. It had to be at least a week, but could’ve been as many as three. All I knew was Mason’s party at that same cabin would be a fitting bookend to this chapter of our lives. The media would move on. Bruce Michaels would morph into just another old man around town. And we’d face senior year of high school, just like everybody else in the region, famous actor nearby or not.

  I packed my bags, the usual way, and prepared for the trip to Mom’s apartment. It infuriated me, how she lived ten minutes away, just up on the hilltop, and yet I had to pack multiple bags each weekend. I jumped between the two places, back and forth, hilltop and downtown, like a horse being whipped on two different sides. The weeks were sluggish, especially in the summer. My only marker of time was the bags I packed and the familiar roads I drove. Between parents, between lives really. Torture.

  The only benefit of my mom’s was that she didn’t ask many questions. She didn’t mind me spending the night with Mason at his cabin, although I hadn’t told her about the planned party. As far as she knew, we were just “hanging out” with Hudson, usual stuff.

  It confused me. How could my dad live this lifestyle and still obsess over my location? Any time I left the house, he demanded answers. Where was I going? When would I be back? That kind of stuff really irritated me. When people couldn’t just trust me to do the right thing. It drove me mad. Not to mention, living with my dad is likely what got me addicted to nicotine. He didn’t give me much in life, I guess. Trust issues and a nicotine addiction. Plus gas money, sometimes. At least here I didn’t have to worry about my younger brother. It was much easier to push him to the back of my mind, as cruel as that sounds.

  I wandered out from my room, a backpack hoisted on my shoulders and a duffle bag in each hand. I could’ve left the backpack if it weren’t for my courses, which required lugging around a computer and four huge textbooks. Dad was in his recliner, watching one of the national news pundits I tried to avoid. He wrinkled his nose as I entered the room. Not that he meant anything bad, but he never loved when I left for Mom’s. The same was true vice versa.

  “I’ll see ya later,” I mumbled, waving to him as I passed through the room.

  “See ya.”

  There was no reason to go over schedules because we both knew when I’d be back. Exactly a week from that moment, I’d walk in the door, and he’d probably be in the same position, savoring his weekend off from whatever job he filled. It changed, month to month, but I only noticed because the potato chips were different depending on his income.

  I descended the thin staircase and reached the main floor. Ahead of me, the door led out to a dark and musty alleyway. To the side of me, a hotel-style door, complete with peephole and knocker, but it was actually our downstairs neighbors. They were nice enough people, never complained about my dad watching the television so loud. Or the smell of smoke. They weren’t exactly role models, either, but nice enough.

  My car was always parked outside on Second Street. I think they named it that because it’s the second numbered street up from the riverfront. I’m not even sure what street was right by the river, because nobody used its real name. Everybody would say, “The pool by the river” or whatever, and everyone knew where that meant.

  The only nice thing about downtown Little Rush was the exit or the entrance. Whether I drove up the hill or down it— always beautiful scenery. Especially at night, with the lights of downtown flickering either in the mirror or my eyes. The hilltop buildings were more spread out, like a normal rural city, and there weren’t as many street lights.

  With each pass up the hill, I could feel the end of that summer pressing against me. Senior year of high school meant… well, everything. Choosing a college, a career, a future. Leaving my family behind. I had too many choices on a day-to-day basis to think about the vast possibility of “future.” It was funny how people always described it as a good thing, full of potential. Hudson, too, would talk about his future, where he wanted to end up. But I didn’t feel the same. I didn’t want to leave Little Rush, and at the same time knew I had to. College, career, life… it wasn’t here. Little Rush was the place you were born and left, or maybe you retired to and died. Nobody lived here. You were either coming or going, never staying. Not forever. A train station town.

  There were moments, though, when I imagined a sort of life here. A forever here. And on trips up and down that hill, I didn’t hate what I imagined. I actually enjoyed it.

  I couldn’t help but wonder, at certain moments, what the town would look like in ten years. When my younger brother would enter high school and meet his own friends, attend his own parties. The k
id didn’t have much impact on my life, but he did force me to consider the future. The kind of world developing around me. I hoped things wouldn’t be too different. It felt sometimes like everything good, everything natural, was fading away. Just for him to catch a glimpse as it vanished.

  On the way to my mom’s apartment, I stopped at the Dollar General. Right when you reached “the top,” where the roads leveled out and weren’t twisting through a slanted forest, a Dollar General awaited, sort of welcoming. But then again, those things were everywhere in southern Indiana. If stores ever came to life, Dollar Generals would dominate this part of the country with their cheap products and empty shelves, no doubt about it.

  Climbing out of the car, I remembered I should pick up bananas, the cheapest anti-hangover/anti-puke solution known to womankind. I also needed a couple Kool-Aid gallons and other drinks to mix with the copious amounts of alcohol Mason purchased. He said he knew a college kid, back home for the summer, who bought him everything, but still. It was really a lot for a side-market transaction. Maybe Mason had a fake ID he wouldn’t tell me about.

  I’d hoped that weekend would mark the end of a weird segment in our lives. That everything would return to normal, mostly. I’d had my share of the abnormal, the surprising, and now I wanted to enjoy this last month of summer vacation before staring down what lay beyond graduation. Wherever the road took me, Little Rush or New York, I wanted to savor moments like these. Like walking into a Dollar General and making eye contact with the cashier, who knew exactly why you needed five gallons of Kool-Aid and a dozen bananas.

  That’s the funny thing about moments, though. The harder you squeeze them, the more slippery they become. And then, before long, you’ve lost them entirely.

  16