Yes, she would do as he asked. “The motel is a rat’s nest anyway,” and the clientele frightened her. “Everyone looks like a rapist or axe murder,” she said, and she was serious.
Beckman felt a surge of warmth toward Malany, something he had not felt since their first meeting in the bookstore. He had a sudden compulsion to say something good and kind and, yes, sentimental, but she had already hung up. For a moment, Beckman imagined her dashing around the room wonderfully nude, frantically preparing for their departure.
Beckman returned to the table and tried his best but, as he knew, it wasn’t good enough. He was going under and fast. Those betting on him, however, were not disposed toward stoicism or even good sportsmanship. The most vocal condemned him as a phony, “a stupid fucking hippie.” One even threatened him with the heavy end of a cue stick. Hoss found himself in the awkward position of defending his now-defeated opponent. He stepped in front of Beckman with renewed bravado, arms spread out, fist holding $20 bills. He ordered a round of beer for everybody. The crowd surged toward the bar.
“Now let’s get out of here, boy.” He took Beckman by the arm, past the momentarily diverted mob, and led him outside. Temporarily safe and among the lights and roar of diesel trucks, Hoss held out his hand and smiled.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Beckman said, tapping the ground with his foot and feeling strangely sad that his shoe was covered with dust.
“I want to thank you for what you did in there.” Beckman shook Hoss’s extended hand in several spasmodic jerks.
“Never mind about that. Gimmee!” Hoss demanded.
“I have to go back to my room to get it.”
Hoss looked toward the motel doubtfully. “Well, Hoss, I’ll go with you just to see you don’t forget about me along the way.”
“Why did you call me Hoss?” Beckman asked.
“Hell, boy, everybody who’s feared, mistrusted, or made fun of around here is called Hoss.”
“Which are you, then?” Beckman asked.
“Me, I’m feared and mistrusted—least I hope so.”
They walked past the car. Malany was behind the steering wheel, the engine was running, and Beckman thought that he noticed the passenger door cracked open. Hoss ignored Malany. It wasn’t unusual for a woman to be waiting outside this motel with the engine running. Beckman pretended to have trouble with the room door.
“See what you can do, Hoss. Seems to be stuck.”
Hoss grabbed the doorknob with both hands, twisted it, and threw his weight against it. The door burst open, tumbling Hoss inside. Beckman ran toward the car, leapt in, thankful that Malany had really left the door open, and locked it. The Oldsmobile jerked backward.
“Take it easy!” Beckman shouted.
Malany was overreacting. She had trouble shifting gears. Beckman looked back to see Hoss charging toward them, head lowered, legs and arms pumping. The car jerked forward, and there was the soft sound of flesh thudding against metal as Hoss pounced onto the back of the car.
Beckman turned around. He could see Hoss’s silver western belt buckle, emblazoned with horseshoes and branding irons, pressed against the rear window. Hoss, Beckman imagined, was hanging on, spread eagle half across the roof and trunk, secured with tenuous finger and toe holds. Malany stopped abruptly at the highway to avoid being destroyed by an eighteen-wheeler, and Beckman watched as Hoss rolled, hunched like a wounded animal, onto the parking lot, his leather jacket flying open like clipped bat’s wings. The truck passed, and Malany floored the accelerator, spraying dirt and rocks toward the motel’s pool and gas sign. Beckman continued to look, fascinated at Hoss’s determined pursuit. Hoss sprung up and ran after them, shaking both fists, his mouth screaming unheard curses.
The trusty Oldsmobile, hissing like a jet, continued to accelerate, carrying them to safety without missing a beat. Hoss was a small stick figure before he stopped running and began stomping the highway. Gone forever.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Malany? Most people have to remain and deal with their mistakes, but you and I, we can experiment, we can play. No compromises for us, no bargaining, no apologies. No part of us left behind or given away. I’m beginning to see why the nomadic life is so appealing. Like my gifted teacher in American Lit. 302 who, from nine until three, would think nothing of inciting a riot, assaulting social values and attacking ancient mores all with eyes aflame and passionate. But let three o’clock come and he would straighten his tie and jacket, drive home to wifey and the kiddies and go shopping on Thursdays for supermarket bargains. Ah, Malany. It’s truly California for us, where people, even third-generation natives, still keep the pioneer spirit alive by referring to continental travel as either ‘out West’ or ‘back East’.”
Malany nodded vigorously. “Yes, just as though everybody really belonged in the East.”
They laughed, welcoming the easy calm following a successful escape—that warm ooze of wellbeing after the crisis has passed.
“But why did you do it, Beckman?” Malany asked.
“It was a good experimental situation. Control is nearly impossible in psychokinesis, so much depends on how you feel at the time. Predictably, I would be tuned up, so you can really see the effect of the mind over things, especially when a subject like Hoss is unaware of the experiment.”
“Beckman, you make it all sound so sensible. I think you could even have me believing it.”
“I’ll swear, Malany, there is something to it, after all. Christ is supposed to have walked on water, you know. Every Christian is supposed to believe that, aren’t they? If walking on water isn’t the ultimate in psychokinesis, then what is? And what about all those miracles, all that healing of the sick and that last bit about ascending to Heaven? The Bible doesn’t say anything about there being machines doing it, or mirrors.”
Malany slowed down. The terrain was becoming hilly, and the road narrower and more curvaceous. Beckman saw a reflection in the windshield, a weak spot of light taking the curves behind them. He turned around and saw a single light beam approaching them, fast. The light had the jerky movements of a motorcycle. Beckman’s first thought was that a policeman was on them, but motorcycle cops became extinct in most parts of the country fifteen years ago, and they had not been used on the open highway for longer than that.
The motorcycle stayed close behind, almost, it seemed, touching the bumper occasionally, and held this position until they reached a straight stretch in the road. Then it pulled abruptly over and started to pass. The cyclist came alongside the car and kicked Malany’s door. The noise was sickening.
“It’s that thug from the motel!” Malany shrieked.
Hoss kicked the door again, his mouth and throat working, but the wind carried away his angry words. Headlights appeared in the left lane and Hoss throttled back to his former position, a few inches from Malany’s rear bumper. Malany sought deliverance in the accelerator pedal. Beckman shouted encouragement laced with panic. Malany was going to push the old, tired car once again to its physical limit.
A curve sign appeared, and then the curve. Malany took her foot abruptly off the pedal just before entering the curve. Beckman watched through the rear window. Hoss tried to make the right corrections. The motorcycle weaved several times, then seemed to wobble—more like a shudder.
It was far enough behind them now so that Beckman could no longer see the unified form of Hoss astride his motorcycle. The single headlight abruptly curved toward the road. A rooster tail of orange sparks rose from the highway. The headlight pointed skyward for a few long moments, waved its white finger several times, then went out. Malany skidded to a stop, and they both watched as the sparking machine launched itself over the hillside and became a meteoric red giant. Burning gasoline fell along its trajectory, lighting a path on the ground to where the motorcycle had come to rest, its tires burning in grotesque rings of fire.
“Don’t get out!” Malany screamed.
But Beckman was already out of the car and star
ing down at the holocaust. He looked back up the road, and in the firelight saw a moving figure lying at the side of the road, near the edge of the drop-off.
When Beckman reached him, Hoss was propped up on his elbows, turning his head from side to side. Beckman could see that he was injured. His face had blood on it, his pants were ripped in shreds, and one leg was twisted under the other.
“Are you okay? How do you feel, Hoss?”
“Like I been chewed up and spit out. She-e-e-it!”
Hoss was looking toward the fire. “All that over $5. I can’t believe it. I musta taken that curve a hundred times in the past year, without so much as a bump. I just can’t believe it.”
“You think you can move? Do you think a bone is broken?” Beckman asked.
Hoss looked down at his leg. “I don’t think so. Check it out for me, would you?”
Beckman gently felt for swelling or an abnormal protrusion. “I don’t feel anything, Hoss, but you still may have a small fracture.”
Hoss began moving the leg, straightening it out. “There, that ain’t so bad. Hurts a little bit. I don’t think it’s broken. Feels like I mostly skinned it up. God damn if I didn’t ruin this jacket though, and it cost me nearly $70 too. Here, hep me up, boy.”
Hoss extended his hand, which Beckman took with some reluctance, and he carefully pulled Hoss to his feet.
“Wh-e-e-e, that smarts! Feels like my buns have been shaved off and sanded smooth, boy, She-e-e-it!”
“That’s good. If you can stand on it, that’s good.”
Hoss was looking toward the Nova’s dying flames and the black, skeletal form of the motorcycle.
“I’m sorry about that. I had no idea that you were going to take it that seriously,” Beckman said.
Malany had managed to turn the car around and was headed toward them.
“Yep.” Hoss continued to look toward the flames, the yellow and red light dancing on his blood and dirt-smeared face. “Yep. It don’t make no sense when you think about it.”
“Is the cycle insured?”
“Nope. Couldn’t afford it. Only had mine insured. That one belonged to my ex-wife. Wrecked mine just last week. Had to talk myself silly just to get her to let me use it tonight. She’s not going to like this one bit.”
Malany had stopped beside them and was shouting for Beckman to get in the car.
“Hoss, do you want us to take you to the hospital?” Beckman asked.
“Nope. I’m all right. You can drop me off in town, if you don’t mind.”
Hoss, with Beckman beside him, limped over to the car.
“How far is town?” Beckman said, noticing Malany’s unaccustomed anxiety.
“’Bout ten miles.”
“He’s all right, Malany. Only bruised a little. He wants to be taken into town.”
“Yes ma’am, I’d really ’preciate it.”
“You know, if you have any ideas about calling the police, you’ll be wasting your time,” Malany said.
“Oh no, ma’am. I stay away from them people as much as I can. They’re my natural enemy, just like cats and dogs—know what I mean?”
Malany nodded her consent, and Beckman helped Hoss into the back seat.
As they neared the town, Hoss slipped into silence and Beckman feared that he might have passed out.
“No, I’m feeling better all the time,” Hoss answered. His voice did sound more vigorous, more like it had sounded in the pool room. “You know, I was just wondering where you boys were going.”
“California,” Malany answered sharply.
“I tell you what, I got $300 cash with me right now. You can have it all if you’ll let me go along with you.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, there’s nothing for me here. My ex is gonna want to shoot my balls off when she hears about her motorcycle. If she don’t do it, her boyfriend will, and, sooner or later, the cops are gonna nail me, guilty or innocent. They won’t give a shit. Besides, there’s just nothing here anymore but trouble. Damned if California don’t sound like the place. How about it? You all could use $300, I know it.”
“This may surprise you, Hoss, but we have enough money of our own. We don’t need your petty bribes,” Malany said.
“Come on. I can be a lot of hep with the driving and so on, and $300 ain’t petty cash. Besides, you fellers look like you could use some protection.”
“What kind of protection?” Malany asked.
“It can be an awful mean place out there, and you fellers can’t always run. Sometimes you might not make it. You might have to stand and fight. That’s where I can come in.”
“To begin with, Hoss, I happen to be a woman.”
“Yes ma’am, I can see that. But, you know, I only meant fellers as friendly, like we was all one family.”
“Please, we don’t need the protection you offer. We have found that one can avoid violence. The whole idea is repugnant to me.”
“Malany, I really could have used him in that place back in Virginia, and we do need help with the driving, conventional as it may sound.”
Malany nodded. “Yes, you’re right, I suppose. But, my God, a few minutes ago he was trying to kill us.”
“Well,” Beckman said. “You see how quickly things can change, how ironic life really is. A few minutes ago, we were running for our lives. Now we’ve saved the very person who was pursuing us.”
Malany stepped on the brakes, turned, and followed Hoss’s finger to a Drug Mart.
“I want to go and get something to put on these scratches before they all turn to pus.” Hoss limped boldly into the discount drugstore, ignoring two adolescent girls giggling at his condition.
“It’s a mistake, Beckman, this redneck.”
“Why do you say that, Malany? He’s not much different from us.”
“He’s an ignorant brute who could turn on us at any moment.”
“As I still say, he is not that much different from us.”
“Oh, Beckman, there you go again, retreating back into that impervious shell of yours. You know perfectly well what I mean. What if it had worked out differently? What if he had not had that accident? How would you have felt about him then?”
“Malany, don’t you think it’s pointless to try to justify your prejudices, or whatever they are, on speculation?”
“I know the type, Beckman. I’ve spent my life observing people, and I warn you, again, that brute is a mistake, and your responsibility.”
“Then what are you waiting for? You can simply back up and leave. It’s your car, you’re driving. You’re making the decisions and, I might add, casting blame. I’ll go along with whatever you decide, and I’ll be quiet about it. But, whatever you decide, it makes you also responsible.”
Malany flinched and groped at the gear shift lever, then jerked her face toward Beckman. “Oh, you’re good at this verbal chess, aren’t you, Beckman? If you were half as good a writer as you are at games, they would be handing you a gold-plated Pulitzer.”
Hoss was returning, and the sight of him—ragged, dirty, bloody and limping—seemed to stun her. She trembled slightly as Hoss opened the car door and half fell into the back seat. “J-e-e-e-sus! I didn’t realize I looked so bad. Must’a scared those little girls to death. Tell you what, though, just one more favor?”
Malany glared at Beckman.
“There’s a do-it-yourself car wash place just down the road. If you’ll pull in there for five minutes, I’ll wash this shit off me, and we can get on to good old California smelling all nice and pretty.”
“You’ll have to admit it was a good idea,” Beckman said as they watched Hoss, naked except for his undershorts, direct the nozzle of the car washing wand over his body. Then, Hoss, grinning like a naughty boy, gathered what was left of his clothes and ran toward the car.
“Oh, God. Look at him. He’s several rungs lower on the evolutionary scale, a regressive mutant, and I’ll bet he eats raw meat.”
Hoss used one of Malany’s two
towels, jumped into the back seat, and began putting on his clothes.
“Hope you don’t mind if I lay my undershorts out next to the window to dry.”
Malany sighed angrily and started the car. She yanked the shift lever into drive and spun out onto the road. Hoss began to nod, then his head slumped forward.
“’Ott damn, ain’t this great?” he said, reviving after a few minutes and shaking his head. “And it’s only about five in the morning. By the way, where are we now? I must’a dozed off.”
“About a hundred miles east of Memphis.”
“That’s just about right.”
“Right for what?” Malany asked.
“I can’t wear these all the way to California. We can find one of them military surplus stores and pick up some new threads.”
“It’ll have to be the Salvation Army.”
“Not me, no sirree! Nobody goes to the Salvation Army but hippies and dirt—poor niggers.”
Malany slammed on the brakes. The car immediately went into a skid, spinning around on the highway several times.
“Don’t you ever use that word in front of me again, do you hear! Ever!”
“That word?” Hoss was bewildered and looked at Beckman.
“You know what ‘that’ word is. I can’t stand it. I won’t have it!” Malany shouted.
“God almighty! What word?” Again, Hoss looked toward Beckman.
“The one derogatory of black people, African Americans,” Beckman explained in a calm voice.
“Oh, you mean . . . ”
“Don’t say it!” Malany screamed.
“All right, all right. Take it easy. I didn’t mean nothing by it. What’d you call it?”
“Derogatory.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I didn’t mean it that way, and even if I did, which I didn’t, there’s no need for us to continue sitting in the middle of the road.”
“I want you to swear that you’ll never use that word in my presence again.”
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