Wednesday, October 27, 2004

 
Wednesday, September 18, 2002

This space intentionally left blank.

posted by A Right-Thinking American 11:59 AM

Tuesday, September 24, 2002

You can tell it's a cold day when the grease comes right out of the trap in a big frozen hunk.

It's a lot easier this way. It's the only decent thing about a day like today. I'll never understand why Mr. Donler keeps the stand open through the end of November. It's not like that many people eat here in the summer -- who wants to eat at a roadside stand when it's this cold? Of course, he's not the one freezing his ass off out here.

He'll roll in around 4:30, work the supper "rush" and go right back home.

"Are you going to insulate the stand this year, Mr. Donler?"

"Gruber, this place heats itself. Just feel the heat coming off the deep fryer."

Yeah, great, it must be 35 degrees in here.

I wouldn't mind it so much if Duney was still working here, but he went off to school in Goshen this year. Not that we were great friends or anything, but we had a good time in here, singing along to the radio and stuff.

The stand is right on the big "highway." Yeah, it's really a highway. There were barely any cars on it even before they built Rt. 290. Not there's hardly nothing. If it wasn't for the troopers and deputies, Mr. Donler wouldn't make a dime. When they finish building that McDonald's down on 290, it'll all be over.

"Nobody wants to buy a Tater Dog anymore, Mr. Donler. Can't you get a grill in here to make hamburgers?"

I think Mr. Donler thinks he's got a real tourist trap here. Yeah, I'm sure a lot of people want to take a trip to Hoople, N.D., in a blizzard. Real nice vacation. Let's go to Tater Town in the winter and eat a corn dog made with mashed potatoes instead of corn.

I can tell you one thing -- I wouldn't eat a Tater Dog if you paid me. For one thing, Mr. Donler buys the cheapest bulk rate hot dogs he can find. For another, I used to eat them every day for supper until they started making me want to puke, so now I keep a pack of baloney in the fridge and fix myself a sandwich every night.

You may wonder why I'm so sick of this place and I'm only 17. Well, that's because I've been working here for three years already and it was boring on day two. And it's cold.

Oh, great. Here I am about ready to close up, and we finally get a customer. What's somebody with a Cadillac stopping at a tater stand for? California plates.

"This Hoople?"

The guy’s not wearing a coat, except for a sportcoat. He's got to be freezing.

"Well, this is sort of the fringe of Hoople."

He looks past me into the inside of the stand. I've never ever thought about anybody robbing this place before, but now I do. If he wants $8 in ones, he's welcome to it. Donler'll go nuts, though.

"Would you like a Tater Dog, sir?"

The guy looks right in my eyes, then he looks back at the passenger seat of his car. I guess there must be somebody in there, but I can't see them. He starts laughing.

"Yeah, sure, I'll take two."

posted by Tom 10:33 AM

Thursday, September 26, 2002

As I pry apart two frozen Tater Dogs, Mr. Sportcoat leans casually on the aluminum counter, taking in the scenery. As it were. North Dakota fades to monochromatic greys this time of year before plunging into utter whiteness. It's a wonder it doesn't just vanish.

"Nice country you have here."

"Um, thanks," I manage. I start warming up the deep fryer. The fat's congealed around the fry basket.

I take the opportunity to get a better look at Sportcoat. He's tall, deeply tan, and has the kind of blond hair any 20-year old would kill for. Except he's probably 40. The Marlboro man on the country club circuit. On his right hand he wears a large, gold signet ring. Which makes it real noticeable that the rest of his ring finger is missing, right above the knuckle.

Sportcoat catches me checking him out. I look down at the condiments and casually ponder the slushy ketchup.

"Can you recommend a good place to stay around here?"

Around here? Yeah, indoors.

"Well, there's a Howard Johnson's in Grafton," I suggest, that Sportcoat probably passed 30 minutes ago.

"Actually, I was hoping to stay in Hoople."

"I have some…business here," he adds, prompted no doubt by the expression -- somewhere between contempt and disbelief -- I was trying to wipe off my face. Lucy calls it my 'quizzical look'. She says it's unflattering and discourteous. I don't think it's normal for 12-year olds to talk that way.

My sister Lucy -- "short for Lucretia" she likes to claim -- is something of a prodigy. By age 7, she'd read all the books in the children's section of the library, and a bunch of the adult books as well. Every morning she checks the Bismarck Press to see if any of her many letters to the editor, mostly about Nam or Nixon (both of which she's against), has been published.

"There's a boarding home in town where some of the old, er, elderly people live. Maybe Mrs. Gunderson has a room you could stay in." Frankly, Mrs. Gunderson's a mean old bitch and I wouldn't ask her for a room in a million years. But I can't think of any other options.

"Sounds perfect. How those hot dogs doing?"

"Coming right up." I dunk the Tater Dogs in the bubbling oil. Out of the fry basket and into the fryer.

"Would you like something to drink with that? Coffee?" tapping my own thermos. "Ice cold coke?" No ice required.

"No, thanks."

I suppress the 'look' again. Sportcoat's going to need something to wash away the Tater Dog taste. Plus, I haven't changed the oil in that thing for two weeks. Donler would have a heart attack. But he doesn't eat the product either.

I'm about ready to pour the rest of my coffee down my pants, I'm so cold, but it would probably just freeze. It must have dropped 10 degrees in the last five minutes. Looks like the snow is finally coming.

I serve up the dogs on two little cardboard trays. "Bag for that, sir?"

"No, that's cool. Can you take the little sticks out, though?"

"Uh, sure." What the fuck? They don't eat their corndogs on sticks in California?

I manage to pry the mini popsicle sticks out of the Tater Dogs, though the result's not too pretty. Fragments of soggy potato shell hang from the shriveled grey hot dogs. Can't believe I used to eat this stuff.

Sportcoat grabs the two piles, one on top of the other, and hands me a wadded up bill from his pocket. "Will a five cover it?"

By a long shot. "Yes, sir."

"Then keep the change."

Sportcoat walks back to the car and opens the passenger door. Out bounds a humongous black dog. It must take up the entire backseat of the Caddy. Veins crisscross rippling muscles as the dog charges the stand. I brace for impact.

"Down, Molly!"

Nothing hits the stand except for a few pebbles. I peer over the counter. 'Molly' sits crouched on the ground, no more than three feet away, ready to pounce if Sportcoat will let her. A deep growl underscores the message.

"Here, girl!" Sportcoat extends the Tater Dogs. Molly gives me a final glare and reluctantly saunters back to the Caddy. Chomp, chomp. In two quick gulps, the dog polishes off the Tater Dogs. I picture Sportcoat's finger meeting a similar fate.

"Sorry about that, champ. Molly just loves to meet new people."

Eat new people, more like it.

"So where can I find this Mrs. Gunderson?" asks Sportcoat, one leg in the car.

"If you take Second St. into town, her house is between Cemetery and Myrtle. On the right." Just don't blink.

"Solid, man. Thanks a lot. Say, what's your name?"

"Uh, it's Gruber."

"Nice to meet you, Gruber. See ya on the flipside."

In one motion, Sportcoat slides into his seat and puts the Caddy in gear. It peels out, leaving two white cardboard trays floating in a cloud of dust. I go to make change from the cash box. Four dollars tip is more than two hours wages for me. Donler likes to point out that he pays me 25 cents over the minimum. What a saint.

Except Sportcoat's five isn't a five at all. It's a hundred dollar bill.

posted by Jeremy 9:33 AM

Friday, September 27, 2002

For a minute, I just stare at the bill. Benjamin Franklin stares back at me. We stand there for a while, getting acquainted, this being the first time I've held anything larger than a $20.

Ben, Gruber. Gruber, Ben. Nice to meet you, pal. What's a nice Founding Father like you doing in a place like this?

Not knowing what else to do, I stuff the bill into my front pocket and scoop up the trays from the parking lot, such as it is. It's really nothing more than a wide spot of gravel on the side of the road. The Highway Department keeps sending Donler threatening letters claiming he built the stand on the state's right-of-way. He says he's going to hire a high-class lawyer out of Bismarck to sue them for all they're worth. I'm no lawyer, but even I can see the stand was built smack dab in the middle of the shoulder. Back before 290 was built and trucks still whipped by at top speed, Duney would occasionally hold freshly cooked Tater Dogs out the window, the better to be coated with a thin layer of dust and smashed gravel. Whatever he's studying at his fancy-pants school in Goshen, I'm guessing it's not hotel and restaurant management.

I'm starting to get the feeling that I shouldn't keep the money. If he's serious about staying in Hoople, Sportcoat might need the cash to pay Mrs. Gunderson for the drafty, mothball-filled attic room she'd undoubtedly offer him. And besides, I don't have a car and can't think of a single thing in town to spend $100 on. I could splurge on 200 Tater Dogs, I suppose. It'd almost be worth it, just to see the look on Donler's face, right before he keeled over from shock.

So it's settled--Ben and I are going to have to part ways. If nothing else, it gives me an excuse to close up without cleaning up. Of course, I clean up anyway -- I'm a pushover, as Lucy keeps reminding me. By the time I lock the door behind me, the wind has picked up and the first few flakes of snow have started to fall.

Like everything else, I'm starting to get the feeling that this is going to be more trouble than it's worth.

It's a 20-minute walk into town, but I'm pretty much used to it. Like I said, we don't have a car anymore, not since Dad peeled out of the driveway in the beat-up Maverick after his final argument with Mom. He sent me a postcard from Santa Monica for my birthday. "It's warm here," it read in his semi-literate scrawl. "Eat a Tater Dog for me." Yeah, right. "Eat me" was pretty much the gist of it.

I pass Cemetery street, glancing at -- what else? -- the cemetery on the corner. The snow's really starting to come down now, so it's hard to make out Mrs. Gunderson's house, a faded four-square building hard on a corner lot on the next, mostly empty block. The Hoople Land Development Co. obviously didn't have much luck in this corner of town, so the boarding house and the cemetery are pretty much the only things nearby. Guess Gunderson's boarders don't want that last trip to be a long one.

Blinking to keep the snow out of my eyes, I make my way to Mrs. Gunderson's house. One of the steps up to the door creaks precariously and I flinch, reminded of the time she boxed my ears when I showed up selling subscriptions to Grit. Until she did that to me, I always thought that expression—boxing someone’s ears--was something out of old kids' stories like the Hardy Boys -- something from the 1870s, not the 1970s. Suffice it to say that Gunderson's not exactly easy to talk to, except on the first on the month. That's when the Social Security checks come, and she sweet-talks her boarders into signing them over.

Of course, this isn't the first of the month--in fact, it's the 24th, meaning the money, and her patience with unsolicited solicitors, would both be growing scarce. I pull my hands out of my pockets just long enough to knock.

"No visitors after 3," is the curt reply.

"Mrs. Gunderson?" I stammer. "It's me. Gruber. Carol's son. Can I come in?"

Silence.

"Mrs. Gunderson?"

"Hold on, hold on," she says, unbolting one, another, and then a third deadbolt before opening the door. A gust of arctic air practically blows me into the living room, but isn't strong enough to overcome the overpowering smell of ammonia and Ben-Gay. The Flip Wilson show's on the ancient TV, holding court over a semicircle of semi-awake seniors. I roll my eyes. First they canceled the Ed Sullivan show, and now we're supposed to watch a man dressed up like an old lady? For a second, I wonder if Sportcoat works in TV. He's from California, after all, but then again, my father's in California, too, and the closest he'll come to being on TV is if he's busted running his driveway-repair scam.

"Why are you here?" Mrs. Gunderson asks, mercifully drawing my attention away from Geraldine. She was never one for small talk.

"Oh. Right. I was wondering if you had seen a guy wearing a sports coat with an enormous dog. He mentioned that he was thinking about staying here."

"Here?" Gunderson snorts. "Not likely. But I know who you're talking about."

"You do?"

"Yep. Everyone does, or so I thought."

posted by A Right-Thinking American 12:41 PM

Wednesday, October 02, 2002

Of course she didn't tell me.

She was already watching Flip again as she shoved me out the door, and practically off the stoop, and slammed the door.

Well, that was a big waste. I never found the guy, and now I had a long walk back in the cold to my house. And my mom would hassle me for being late. All she does is gripe since dad left.

"Maybe if I had a car...," I used to tell her and that always won the argument. Then I realized that she's as sorry that we're poor as I am. So now I just go straight up to my room.

I cut through John Hartford's back yard to get over to Mitchell Street. I know his mom won't mind. We used to play together all the time when we were kids. Then we sort of got separated in high school; he always hung out with the other shop kids. Then, of course, he had the motorcycle accident.

I really should stop in and see how he's doing. But not tonight.

Mitchell Street is dead quiet. And I do mean dead. Jesus, people, it's not that late. Don’t you ever go anywhere? No wonder we don't get any business at the stand. All these losers do is sit around watching TV all night.

Of course I'd watch TV, too, except Lucy always hogs the TV. If she's supposed to be so smart how come she watches Mayberry RFD? I couldn't stand that crap even when Andy Griffith was still on it.

What I really need to do is move out. And not just out of the house.

Why didn't I listen to Duney? I should have gone to class and turned in my homework and gotten good grades and gone to Goshen, too.

I've gotten exactly one phone call from him since he left. he was all "you gotta come see these chicks, Hoople's so square, we're going to go protest the war, I'm going to be an art major, I lost my virginity to a 30-year-old, you gotta try this great weed" and on and on.

Great, even the doobie's better in Goshen. And you can forget about me getting laid in Hoople. God, my fingers are freezing. They're going to hurt like hell when I finally get into the house and they thaw out.

Hoople's so small it's hard to believe it has a good side and a bad side, but here we are. The sidewalks just end at Donahue Street. Now I'm walking down the edge of Mitchell through slush and leaves and my feet are soaking wet. Don't bother trying to walk on the lawns, you'll just step in shit.

Finally I turn onto my street. No sidewalks here either, of course. Cars and pick-ups parked everywhere so you have to walk down the center of the road.

When I get to the top of the hill, I look down to Duney's house right away. Just in case he came home. I know that sounds sad and most guys wouldn't admit it and maybe I shouldn't either. Oh well, it doesn't matter--he's not home anyway.

Then I look and see a car in our driveway.

A Cadillac. The Cadillac.

posted by Tom 6:21 PM

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

This day just keeps getting weirder. In a way, I'm glad. Things get so boring around here, you'd practically pay someone to whack you over the head with a two-by-four. Usually the most excitement we have is getting snowed in for a week. Or when our high-school football team, the Bucking Bison, win a game. So far, twice in the last ten years.

And of course, there's the 'Hoo-bilee', Hoople's annual fair, where you can ride the rides, listen to some seriously bad country music, and check out the latest farming equipment. By the end of April, every utility pole in town has a flyer stapled to it: "Make hoopla at the Hoo-bilee!" Duney and I used to go eat funnel cakes and ride the Spin-R until we were about to puke. Those were the days.

I remember riding the Ferris wheel one year – some rickety piece of crap the carnies unfolded out of the back of a truck. From the very top, I could see the whole town. The parking lot of the Stop 'N Go where Duney and I sometimes hung out, the marquee of the old movie theatre (it's not that old, it just shows old movies), and out in the distance, trucks barreling down Rt. 18, at some point passing Donler's Tater Dog stand. And there, three streets over, two lines of identical grey-roofed houses, one of them my own. My entire life, divided into neat little blocks, bound by a highway, with nothing beyond as far as the eye could see.

And here I am, standing at the top of this hill for probably the thousandth time, looking down on my neighborhood. And I'm thinking about those few minutes on the Ferris wheel, wondering if I'll remember this moment a year from now, ten years from now when I'm climbing this hill for the two-thousandth time.

I press on, half walking, half sliding down the street to my house. The Cadillac is parked in the middle of the driveway we share with Mr. Fogerty. He'll be pissed if it's still here when he gets home. I cautiously peer through the back window of the car. No sign of the dog. It's probably devoured Lucy by now. My lucky day. I go up and knock on the door.

"Entrez!" a voice rings out. So much for my only-child ambitions.

I dump my soggy boots, socks still inside, by the front door and stumble into the living room. My feet are so frozen, it feels like I'm walking on stilts.

"Hey, Goober. Nice of you to knock. Please, make yourself at home."

Smart ass.

I scan the room. No dog. Just Lucy sitting on the couch. Right next to the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. About my age, maybe older, with perfect, fair skin and long, jet-black hair. Glossy, burgundy lips form an amused smile. The girl's presence seems to fill the room, and I can feel myself shrinking, ready to fall into her deep, dark eyes.

"Goob, this is Daphne. She's visiting from California. Her father's a friend of Dad's." Lucy's voice sounds distant, like the PA system at the supermarket. Hot babe in aisle 3.

"Uh – nicetomeetyou," I think I say. Not really sure.

Holy crap. I was expecting a dog, not a fox. So, Sportcoat's a friend of Dad's. Definite weirdo.

"Where's your dog?" I ask, trying to act casual.

"Oh, she's around somewhere." Daphne's voice sounds more like music than speech, with a soft Southern lilt. Maybe Texas. Definitely not California.

"Gruber," Daphne makes it sound like the most beautiful name ever, "Lucy says you have some good records. I'd like to see your collection."

"I believe I said 'pathetic rantings of drug-addled losers', actually." Lucy momentarily looks betrayed, but a quick smile from Daphne seems to placate her.

Daphne starts up the stairs, and I follow as if it's her room we're going to see, not mine.

"Is this the one?" she asks, pausing to look at the poster of Jim Morrison that hangs on my door. It's kind of depressing, but I leave it up anyway. Janice, Jimi, Jim – all gone in a year. I guess the sixties are really over. Without waiting for an answer, Daphne goes on in. I hope I didn't leave my underwear sitting on the bed.

Apparently not. She's plopped herself right in the middle. And she's not alone.

Molly the demon dog has made my futon her personal doggy bed. Four thick legs point straight up in the air, twitching occasionally. Groans of pleasure emanate from deep within the slumbering beast. Probably dreaming about disemboweling someone. She wakes long enough to nestle her head into Daphne's lap.

"I guess your mom didn't tell you we were coming. I don't think she's real happy to see Harold."

"You mean your dad?" I ask. This is getting confusing.

"Yeah, well I'm eighteen now, so I call him Harold. You know, you can't be an adult and talk like a child. Just like its says in the Bible. I'm putting an end to childish ways."

Wow. I nod my agreement, quickly recalling Dad's first name. Just in case.

"His name's not even really Harold. It's Harry. Says right on his birth certificate. But he thinks Harold sounds better. Less like an adjective or something."

"Really." The opposite of a nickname. What is that? "So, what brings you to Hoople?"

Daphne laughs like I've told a joke to which only she knows the punchline.

"Well, I guess I can tell you. It's you. We're here for you."

posted by Jeremy 6:11 PM

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

All of the sudden, I feel my brain make contact with the back of my skull. Lest anyone take this for some dumb metaphor for my reaction, I need to add that Lucy had swung open the door, knocking me to the floor with a grace I'm sure wasn't lost on my female guest.

"Ooopsie," Lucy says in a syrupy sweet voice as she sweeps into the room. "Sorry, Gruber. Hope I didn't interrupt anything." With that, she plops on the bed next to Daphne and rubs Molly's belly. Hell Dog responds with a contented growl, sliding her head from Daphne's lap to Lucy's.

"No problem," I mutter as I pick myself up, reminded of a similar fall I took while trying to dance with my ex-girlfriend, Darlene Stuker, at junior prom. "Tried" being the key word, the main problem being that she was there with Stu Williams, the captain of the debate team. There was some shoving, and we wound up in a messy, klutzy pile. Stu gave me a good thrashing out in the parking lot, which would have made for a semi-decent story, had he been captain of the football team, not the debate team. Story of my life.

Trying to make it across the room with some shred of dignity intact, I slide next to my sister on the bed and smile at Daphne, gently tickling Molly's neck. Damned if the dog doesn't attempt to take my index finger clean off at the class ring.

"Yikes!" I shout, sliding off the bed in a less than fluid motion. Daphne leans over and grabs Molly's collar, presumably to keep her from jumping off the bed and repeating the Stu Williams treatment. Lucy, ever the supportive sister, just laughs.

"He's great with animals," she tells our visitor, snortling. "And you should see him around babies. They scream their heads off."

Brat. Unfortunately, she's right. I've given up smiling at the kids at the stand. It would be hell on the tips, only Donler doesn't let us accept them, even on those rare occasions someone's so bowled over by the tater dog experience they feel compelled to leave one.

Which, of course, reminds me of the now-soggy hundred dollar bill in my pocket, and the incredibly pretty girl next to my sister on the bed. Daphne's loosened her grip on Molly's collar and is just sort of looking at me.

"Don't worry about Molly," she says. "She's a little weird around strange men. Finds them threatening. We adopted her, and I have a feeling her previous owner was a guy and wasn't real nice to her." Unless her previous owner was Paul Bunyan or maybe the Jolly Green Giant, I find that hard to believe, so I just nod.

At this point, Daphne's nose wrinkles up, revealing some freckles I somehow missed. Oh, right—California. Sun. They're disarmingly cute, but still I brace myself for the question every newcomer to Hoople eventually asks.

"What's that smell?"

"Hoople," I reply with a sigh, hoping that's enough. People from cities never get used to the smell of the country, and with the poultry plant on the far side of town, Hoople's got country aroma to spare. Fortunately, Daphne seems satisfied with my answer and nods, staring off into space.

I feel the moment slipping away. "So," I say. "You guys know my dad."

"Uh-huh," Daphne smiles, absentmindedly petting Molly, who's long forgotten threatening Gruber.

"And you're here for me," I continue, glancing over at Lucy for help. If she knows anything, she's not talking. The brat.

"Yep," Daphne says, giving Lucy a knowing glance. Both girls giggle, making me feel even more the odd man out.

At this point, I just want to scream, but before I can, I hear the back door slam. Molly leaps off the bed, damn near giving me a heart attack as she jumps over me before bounding out the door, rounding the corner to the stairs with a loud thud. Sportcoat must be back.

"That's Harold. C'mon," Daphne said, standing up and heading for the door, Lucy in silent tow. I make a mental note to enjoy the quiet while I can as I follow them downstairs.

Walking into the kitchen, I see Harold, still wearing his sportcoat as he stomps his feet, scattering bits of snow and slush across the linoleum floor. For someone who's apparently been outside in a blizzard for some time, in now-soaked loafers, even, he doesn't look cold at all. Just tan, rested and ready. My mother follows him inside, closing the door behind her. When she turns to look at us, it looks like she absorbed the cold for both of them; her face is all ruddy and her eyes are swollen. Then I realize that she's been crying.

"Gruber," she says, wiping her eyes. "This is Harold."

"We've met," I reply, fingering the money in my pocket. I can't think of anything else to say.

"He's a friend of your father's. And he's got some news for you."

"Hi again," Harold said, taking off the sportcoat for the first time since I met him. It must be soaked through. "Your dad said to say hello, by the way."

And to eat a tater dog for him, too, I'll bet. What the hell is this all about?

"What the hell is this all about?" I snap. Lucy gasps. Molly growls. Mom looks away. Daphne just smiles that knowing smile.

"Relax, son," Harold smiles, patting me on the back. "I'm actually here to help." Noticing my blank stare, he blinks. "You don't get out much here in Hoople, do you?"

Now I'm annoyed. "Nosiree, Bob," I say, affecting my best rustic accent, shooting for deep Mississippi but probably only managing a drawling Illinois. "Garsh, they just put in the traffic light last year, and that's still keeping me right occupied!"

"Gruber!" Mom yells, clearly embarrassed. She hates my sarcastic side, though I often think it's the only interesting thing about me.

But Sportcoat—even with it off, Harold looks like he's still got it on–just laughs. "Relax," he says. "It's cool. I'm here to help you lose that rustic patois. Shake off that small-town dust. Get your bootheels a-wandering, as Bob Dylan once said."

I just blink. What the hell else am I supposed to do?

"Grab your stuff," he says. "We're heading to Hollywood."

posted by A Right-Thinking American 7:57 AM

Monday, November 11, 2002

"Lucy?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, this is Duney! How you doing, kid?"

"Don't call me kid. Let me save you some time — he's not here."

"Oh. Well, tell him to call me when he gets back from work."

"He's not at work."

"Look, Lucy, just tell him to call me when he gets back."

"He's not coming back. Look, I got to go."

"Wait a minute. Where'd he go?"

---

We just passed the Tater Dog stand.

I've been so busy wrestling with this freaking monster of a dog I missed all of Hoople. Not that there was anything I really wanted to get another look at.

I got to tell you, I'm pissed with this seating arrangement. I had been thinking about sitting in the backseat with Daphne. Instead she's sitting up there with Harold.

Now it looks like I'm going to be taking the longest drive of my life sitting next to this damn dog. Now that he's decided he likes me he won't stop drooling all over me.

The thing I don't get is why did we have to leave tonight. In a blizzard.

He said if they take turns driving, we can get to California in a day and a half. Jesus, what's the damn hurry. I only had time to pack my guitar and a paper bag full of clothes.

He says we'll buy new stuff in L.A. I'll need to be stylish, he said. She said she'd help me pick out some clothes. That sounded good to me. But it's weird--she hasn't said a word to me since we got in the car.

---

"Hey Duney, Gruber said you've been smoking pot and going to protests."

"Well, I may have exaggerated. Listen, why isn't Gruber coming back? He didn't go climbing in this weather, did he?"

"No, Doon, he went to see Dad in Hollywood."

"What are you talking about, he hates that -- Oh, I'm sorry Lucy. But I thought he was too mad at your dad to do something like that."

"Well, Harold says he's going to be famous?"

"Who's Harold?"

"A friend of Dad's. A record producer. He came up here in a Cadillac to take Gruber to California. Me and Mom are going to move down once he's famous."

---

The thing I can't figure out is that Dad never liked my guitar playing. We always had to go to Duney's house to practice because he always threw a fit about the noise. So why would he tell Harold that I'm so good? And why would Harold drive up here in a blizzard just because of something my dad said?

"Excuse me, Harold?"

"Yeah?"

"How did you know I was good enough to drive all the way up here for?"

"Your dad said so. I told you."

"But there must be lots of guitar players in Los Angeles, why would --"

"Look, I'm trying to drive through a blizzard here. Why don't you get some sleep."
"Alright, sorry."

All of a sudden, they glanced at each other up there. It's so dark I can only see the shapes of their heads moving. But I know that glance, man.

---

"Screw you, Lucy, I'm on a payphone here. Stop fooling around and put Gruber on."

"First of all, I'm going to tell your mom that you said s-c-r-e-w and that you're smoking pot. You asked me where he was and I told you."

"Alright. I'm sorry, Lucy. I'm sorry I said s-c-r-e-w, but I'm running out of dimes here. Let me talk to your Mom."

"She's out."

"Great."

"I'm telling you the truth."

"That a Hollywood record producer drove all the way to Hoople to hear Gruber's shitty guitar playing?"

"You guys always said you were going to be famous."

"Yeah, but we sucked."

"Maybe you did, but Harold said Gruber was great."

"So he took him to Hollywood? Gruber is in Hollywood?"

"Well, not yet, they just left."

"Gruber and Harold?"

"Yeah, and Daphne."

"Who?"

"The record guy's daughter. She sat on Gruber's bed! I was going to tell on him, but it doesn't matter now cause Mom says we're never going to see him again anyway. She's been crying a lot."

"When did all this happen?"

"Like two hours ago. The record guy said he was a big hurry for some reason. Gruber even said he thought the record guy should go see you, too. But he said there was no time for that. He said you could get an audition later."

"Where did they go?"

"I already said - Hollywood."

"No, I mean do you know exactly where he went?"

"No."

"Didn't he give you a business card or anything?"

“No.”

"Alright, I've got to go. You promise me you're not shitting me."

"Yes, and I'm going to tell your mom about the s-h-i-t and the s-u-c-k and --

"Goodbye, Lucy."

---

When I was in the fifth grade, everybody had to bring a permission slip for a bus trip down to Rapid City. Duney's friend Eric kept forgetting his. When he finally brought it in, we got this idea to tear it up. It seemed funny at the time. I did it in five seconds without even thinking about it. Then when the teacher asked him for it he opened his desk and found it ripped up. And right away, Duney goes "Francis Gruber ripped it up."

All of a sudden it felt like every vein in my body was being stretched out from the inside. I'll never forget what the teacher said. She didn't even get mad. She just said, "Well, this is a matter for the principal."

But she didn't do anything. She didn't send me to the office. She just gave Eric a new permission slip and asked him to bring it right back. Then she went on with the class.

I just sat there. My veins were still stretched. I felt sick. And it didn't stop. And I couldn't think of any reason why I tore up that paper.

That's exactly how I feel right now. I can't figure out why I got in this car.

Finally Daphne says something.

"Thank God, I think we finally left that smell behind."

posted by Tom 7:16 PM

Thursday, November 21, 2002

We've been on the road about six hours. It's 2:00 in the morning and I'm having a hard time sleeping. For something to do, I eat the left-over crusts from the peanut-butter and jelly sandwich Mom packed me for dinner. It makes me kind of homesick. Or maybe just carsick.

A fuzzy white glow on the right suggests we're passing Bismarck, which takes about 3 minutes at our current death-defying speed. Harold's clearly not planning on getting a hotel room for the night. I try to get as comfortable as I can with 20 pounds of dog head lying unconscious in my lap.

The lower half of my body is completely numb, partly from the reduced blood flow to my legs and partly from the Caddy's sophisticated environmental controls that keep it a constant 50 degrees. Perhaps the cold helps Harold stay awake. For the most part, he sits there motionless, one hand resting on the bottom of the steering wheel. This isn't hard – they say a dead man can drive 100 miles on these roads. He only stirs to fiddle with the radio knob, trying to achieve a tolerable ratio of music to static. Strains of John Denver fade in and out:

Take me home, country roads
I hear a voice in the morning how she calls me
The radio reminds me of my home far away
Drivin' down the road I get a feelin'
That I should been home yesterday...

Depressing. I fucking hate John Denver.

Daphne doesn't seem to be having any problems sleeping, judging by the faint snores coming from the passenger seat. The sound is vaguely melodic, more like nose music. Nose music? I must be losing my…

***

I can smell him in my room. A mix of booze and cigarettes, like the beer-can ashtrays he leaves scattered about the house. Headed out to go ice-fishing, undoubtedly, the only thing that would get him up this early on a weekend. He puts his hand on my shoulder, shakes it gently. I lie perfectly still, pretending I'm asleep. I don't want to go sit in a freezing-cold tent while he gets loaded. A moment passes and disappears forever. His warm, musky breath whispers in my ear, "Goodbye"…

***

"Come on, sport, rise and shine." The dream flickers and fades back into my memories. I try to hold on for a few more seconds, but I'm pulled back into consciousness by cold vinyl, a warm, hairy flank against my cheek, and the seat belt buckle biting into my hip. And I really have to pee.
"Welcome to Butt, Gruber."

Butt? I groggily pull myself up in the seat. It's very bright. Squinting, I can make out Daphne leaning over the front seat, arms folded on the headrest. Apparently, we've stopped. Good thing. I'm about to pop.

"It's pronounced 'Butte', Daphne." Harold opens the car door and lights a cigarette. Any warmth that remained in the car quickly escapes.

"Whatever." Daphne shoots a tongue in Harold's direction. "Harold says they call valleys 'holes' out here. Do you suppose Montana has a Butte Hole?"

This is my kind of girl. "Mmm. I don't know, but I think they've got a Square Butte," I offer.

"Ha! Hear that, Harold? You're not the only one."

"Hilarious, Daphne. I'm going to walk Molly. C'mon, girl!"

With an enthusiastic yelp, the dog hurls herself over the front seat and out of the car. I know how she feels.

"C'mon, Gruber!" says Daphne in a husky voice.

Obediently, I follow her out of the car. We're stopped at a roadside diner that sits right off the highway behind two ancient gas pumps. There are a couple of pickups parked alongside us and a big-rig idling out back. The diner is sided in gleaming aluminum and topped with big neon letters that read, "Silver Streak Café." A cow bell jangles as we open the door and go in.

A waitress at the counter hands us two menus and mumbles through her cigarette, "Sit where you like."

Daphne stakes out a booth, while I head to the restroom. Not a pretty sight. It's like the Vietnam of truck-stop toilets. Holding my breath, I unzip and prepare to find out which has more capacity, my lungs or bladder. Bladder wins. On the back of the bathroom door, someone's written, "Have a Butte-iful Day!"

Back at our table, three cups of coffee have materialized. Daphne's staring blankly out the window. I slide in across from her and check out the tattered menu, which features such local specialties as the 'Bunyan Burger', 'Tuna Smelt', and 'Teton Taters'. Cute.

"Gruber, I have to level with you. You're not going to be a rock star."

"Yeah." It doesn't come as much of a shock. Like finding out you didn't win the lottery. "So what the hell is going on?"

"The truth is, Harold's not really a record producer. He's a used car salesman, on and off. The car's not even his. We have to get it back to the dealership by Monday. That's why he's in such a hurry."

"See, he and your Dad have this plan to start their own record business, hit the big time and all that. At least that's this week's plan. Funny thing about Harold is he'll drive halfway across the country and back for one of their stupid schemes. But he won't just go and get a real job. It's a crazy, fucked-up world out there. And Harold's got to keep one step ahead."

"So, what's this have to do with me?"

"Harold and your Dad say all they need to get started is some 'street cred'. That's where you come in. Harold thinks every teenage boy in America's got a hard-on for Hollywood, so he figured you'd come running."

"Well, anything's better than flipping hot dogs," I say defensively. Maybe I was a little star-struck. "But what am I supposed to do?"

"You're their first client."

posted by Jeremy 7:19 PM

Thursday, December 26, 2002

"Client?" I ask. Daphne merely arches an eyebrow as she sips her coffee. I'm starting to suspect that she's getting a kick out of stringing me along, dishing up little nuggets of information just often enough to keep me on board. Now's she's locking eyes with me as she starts making loud slurping sounds with her coffee, sounding every bit like the obnoxious six-year-old with a straw who always seems to sit right behind me during matinees. I'm no Cassanova, but suffice it to say I'm getting mixed signals here.

I take a swig of my own coffee, which tastes exactly how I'd imagine coffee filtered through the leavings from the grill back at the stand. The stand. By this time of the morning, I should getting ready to open for the so-called Saturday "lunch rush." That's what Donler, in his delusional moments, calls the sporadic bursts of cars and pickups that pass by the stand as folks from the county drive into town to pick up groceries and pig feed. He keeps forgetting that the Hoople Co-Op has its own grill. More importantly, they're willing to grill something other than Tater Dogs.

Thinking of the stand sitting empty on—in, actually—the shoulder of the road, I momentarily feel a pang that resembles guilt, only in a distant sort of way. My God, am I actually getting homesick?

At this point, nothing would surprise me, but amazingly, something does. Harold staggers into the diner, somehow carrying Molly in his arms. He looks like he's trying to bench press a big, furry sofabed, and the absurdity of it all makes me stare blankly at him for a long minute before I notice: Molly's bleeding. Badly.

The waitress is a bit faster on the uptake. "Mister," she barks, managing to raise her voice without losing the cigarette between her lips. "You can't bring that damn thing in here."

Harold ignores her. His eyes have a faraway look to them, which strikes me as kind of funny. If I was carrying a giant bleeding dog that may or may not have bitten my ring finger off at some point, I'd find it hard not to live in the moment.

"Guys," he barks. "We gotta go. Now."

Daphne gets up, rolling her eyes as if bleeding dogs and sudden exits from roadside diners were all part of the drill. Who knows, maybe they are. Unable to take my eyes off Molly, I follow until I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. Hard.

"Not so fast. You forgot to pay." It's the waitress, what's left of her cigarette still dangling between her lips. It's practically a butt now—a butt in Butte, I want to tell Daphne, only she and Harold are practically sprinting across the parking lot.

"Uh, um…" I stammer as I pull out my wallet, knowing full well it's going to be empty. As usual. Harold and Daphne are at the car now, and I see them trying to slide Molly into the back seat. Great. It's going to be a fun ride, assuming they even wait for me.

"C'mon, pal," the waitress snarls, practically extinguishing her cigarette against my face. "Do I need to call the cops?" An insistent honk from the Cadillac's horn suggests that no, that's probably not what I want. As I rummage around my pockets for change, I hear gravel fly. Harold pulls up front, laying on the horn again for good measure. My fingers hit the crumpled 100-dollar bill, and without thinking, I yank it out of my front pocket and toss it at her. For some reason, this doesn't upset me as much as I thought it would -- easy come, easy go, I guess. "Keep the change," I mutter as I sprint for the door. I notice that Harold's popped open the Caddy's trunk. Not a good sign.

"Get in!" he shouts, extending a bloodied thumb to point to the trunk. "If you try sitting in the back, Molly's likely to rip out your throat," Harold adds, somehow finding the one sentence that makes me willing to step on the bumper and climb up. As soon as my feet clear the ground, Harold peels out, damn near throwing me from the car as he careens back onto the highway. Scared half to death, I hit the deck, hoping to God that the swaying trunk door doesn't slam shut, trapping me inside.

It could be worse, I guess. At least the trunk's open, if dangerously so. And the Caddy has a nice, roomy trunk – not like those flimsy VW bugs, where I'd be sitting facing oncoming traffic. Even Lucy probably couldn't squeeze into that trunk, I think, again feeling a pang of something resembling homesickness. Or maybe it's just the exhaust fumes. And for some reason, there's a TV in here. Too bad I can't plug it in, or I'd be set for the next 700-mile leg between bathroom breaks.

Then I notice the sign on the side of the TV, made with one of those plastic label-making guns: PROPERTY OF GUNDERSON REST HOME – NO CHANGING CHANNELS WITHOUT PERMISSION OF MANAGEMENT.

Weird. And it's not even time for the Saturday lunch rush yet.

posted by A Right-Thinking American 2:43 PM

Wednesday, January 01, 2003

Normal people never even think about having someone ride in the trunk.

Normal people don't have televisions that have been ripped off from old folks homes.

Normal people would have found out where the nearest vet's office was.

Okay, so now I need to start thinking about abnormal people. I'm either riding with or kidnapped by abnormal people.

We're driving so fast that every bump rattles me around in the trunk. The exhaust fumes are giving me a throbbing headache. But some things are starting to become clear.

These are abnormal people. They don't play by the same rules as everybody else, especially not Hoople people.

I realize Harold didn't stop at the Tater Dog by accident and he didn't give me $100 by accident. He was just setting me to fall for his record producer story.

I realize, too, that the story was as much for my mother as it was for me. I don't know if he really knows Dad or not, but he obviously knows something about my family. He knew my mother could never say no to my father. She didn't want me to go, but if that's what dad wanted ...

And then he brought along Daphne--who knows if she's even his daughter. Any time I doubted the story, she just had to smooth things over, give me one of those looks of hers, maybe hold my hand. Harold knew I'd follow her like a puppy.

And that dog. I can't figure out where a huge, bleeding hellhound fits into the picture. What's the point to that?

Jesus, the car's stopping.

Maybe I should just open the trunk and run as fast as I can. But what if he has a gun?

I wonder if there's something in here I could use as a weapon. Just gain control of the situation long enough to start running.

Maybe a tire iron, but I didn't see one earlier and I can't see anything now that we're away from the town streetlights. I feel around.

The TV's too heavy to lift.

The car’s still running. One of the doors opens. Sounds like the driver’s side.

There's a board or something wrapped in canvas. This could do it. I fumble with the canvas. The wood feels too light. My fingertips touch the surface and I realize it's old, rotten, worthless. Familiar. I remember it. It was in the basement for years, but I hadn't seen it since my father left. Why is something like this in the trunk, I start to wonder.

Footsteps coming towards the trunk.

Maybe I don't need a weapon. Maybe he's just coming to get me out.

Wouldn't a normal person say something? Wouldn't a normal person call "Hey Gruber, you alright?"

Just more footsteps.

I've made my decision. I lay flat on my back with my knees up to my chest. After all that bouncing around, the trunk lid has come to rest about two inches above the edge of the trunk. I can see a sliver of the outside, just slightly less dark than the inside of the trunk.

Footsteps stop. I think maybe I see a darker shape, it must be him.

I've heard about people being strangely calm at desperate moments, but I'm not. I feel my heartbeat in every part of my body at once. My body is panicking and my mind is fighting to keep it still. Then it snaps.

Almost without me thinking it, my legs suddenly explode upward. my feet punching at the trunk lid.

At the same moment I hear his voice begin, "Hey Gruber ...

His words are cut off a sound that's both a low thud and a sharp crack. Just as I had planned, the trunk lid had hit him just as he was leaning forward to lift it up.

The lid ricocheted off him and began to slam shut. Instinctively I put my feet back up to stop it. I'm scrambling out of the trunk, Daphne is scrambling out of her door.

“Jesus Christ, Gruber what did you do? Jesus. Daddy, are you okay? Are you okay?” Headlights come from behind me, illuminating the whole scene.

He's not okay. He's on the ground. Not moving. Bleeding a lot.

She looks up. Anger's gone. Terror. She's terrified.

She's looking past me. Looking into the headlights.

"Oh Jesus, Gruber, you've got to help me. They'll kill us."

Tires screech, the car fishtails in the gravel, then stops.

The headlights click off. I'm blind for a minute but soon see it's a huge battered Buick. Four men are climbing out. Big men.

They come forward. They stand together. They bow their heads. One mumbles.

The rest say "Amen."

Then they walk towards us.

posted by Tom 9:24 AM

Friday, February 07, 2003

I’m tempted to take the Caddy and get the hell out of here. I glance over my shoulder. The driver’s door is standing wide open, just have to slip her in gear… But for the first time, Daphne’s looking at me like she doesn’t get the joke anymore. Like something’s gone terribly wrong. And Harold doesn’t look so threatening – just pathetic, groaning there on the pavement, one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth.

A man separates from the group and walks slowly towards us. He’s dressed entirely in black, face hidden under a broad-rimmed hat tilted down against the wind. He carries a large, gnarled walking stick that rises almost to shoulder height. The tails of his leather trenchcoat flap angrily behind him as his boots and staff thud against the pavement. Clop. Clop-clunk. Clop. Clop-clunk… Cringing, I’m reminded of a jack-in-the-box, ready to spring. Daphne grabs my arm.

The man stops by Harold’s prone form and pokes him with the staff. Harold opens one eye, gurgles a profanity, and spits out a mouthful of blood.

“Greetings at last, Brother Harold. We have squandered many days following this twisted path of yours. Behold, brothers! The schemes of man are but folly. Make straight the way of the Lord!”

“Amen,” reply the others solemnly. I almost chime in, out of habit. Mom’s adamant that we attend church every Sunday. Even Lucy can’t talk her way out of it, though she sure gives the Sunday School teacher fits.

The man turns to Daphne and me. He looks to be about seventy, with a strong, deeply lined face and a bushy white moustache. His eyes are light blue or maybe grey, so pale that the pupils jump out. The wide smile on his face looks more sinister than friendly.

“Sister Daphne, it is a blessing to see you again. How long has it been since you were taken from us? Four…five years? There will be much rejoicing at your return.”

“Piss off,” replies Daphne with an icy glare, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Hmm. Well, of course, you are free to do as you choose. But time is short and the kingdom of heaven is near. Do you bear good fruit, Sister Daphne, or does it wilt on the vine? The axe is poised at the root of the tree.”

Turning to me, “You must be Brother Gruber. I am honored to finally make your acquaintance.”

“Yeah, charmed. Who are you exactly?” I ask, cutting to the chase. “How do you know my name?”

“My name is Gideon, but I am known as the Verger. God has called me to clear His way on earth. I am his rod and staff, an instrument of his earthly procession. He lifts me up as a beacon to the righteous and brings me down on the back of His foes.”

“These men serve me as acolytes of our Order, as Brother Harold once did. We are a small group of the faithful who shun worldly pursuits in favor of God’s work. We call ourselves the Doorkeepers Guild, because, in the words of King David, we would rather be doorkeepers in the house of God than dwell in the tents of the wicked.”

Man, I’ve heard these Montanans are a little off, but this is ridiculous. Truth be told, the guy’s making me a little nervous. “Sounds like fun. So, how do you know me?”

“Oh, we know you quite well, better than you know yourself. Seventeen years, nine months, and 22 days ago, the Lord spoke to me in a dream and said, ‘Gideon, you have been a faithful servant and minister of my Word, but it is not meant for you to see my kingdom restored on earth. On this day is born the child that shall turn the key to the temple. You will find him in a town called Hoople, which means “holy place”. When he is eighteen, go to him and teach him my Way.’ So I have waited patiently for you all these years, until…” – smile fading – “…these minions of Satan attempted to interfere.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure. So does this gig pay well? Any magical powers?”

The Verger says nothing, just stands there looking me straight in the eye. I can feel my palms start to sweat. This is really awkward.

Suddenly, he lifts the walking stick above his head, closes his eyes, and hurls it down on the ground. Daphne and I both jump back, but we’re right up against the Caddy’s bumper. The stick lands with a plop barely inches from our feet.

“Hey, what the…?!” A loud shriek cuts me off as Daphne’s fingernails dig into my arm.

At our feet is a very real un-sticklike snake. A writhing, hissing, mean-looking snake.

“Holy crap!” I shout. Seems appropriate.

The snake slithers towards me. The cold, lifeless wood now throbs with energy, each glistening row of scales in constant motion. Its body glides over my left shoe, then the right. Instinctively, I kick, hefting the snake a couple of feet back towards the old man. It quickly rights itself, fixing me with a familiarly beady stare. Inch by inch, the snake’s head rises until a third of its body is off the ground. It’s preparing to strike.

Suddenly, the Verger reaches to the ground and grabs the tail of the snake. At his touch, it immediately stiffens, the head falling to the pavement with a loud clack. He raises the staff and slowly straightens, a pained look on his face.

For a moment we all just stand there looking at each other. A chorus of ‘Hallelujahs’ breaks the silence.

“Gruber,” whispers Daphne.

“Yes, Daphne?”

“Get in the car. Fast.”

I glance down at Harold, but there’s nothing we can do. So I make a break for it, practically diving for the open door of the Cadillac. I get about two steps when the Verger’s staff whacks me in the back of my knees. My legs go out from under me and I fall hard to the ground. As I start to get up, one of the men grabs my coat and pushes me up against the side of the car.

Daphne isn’t faring any better. I look over to see another ‘acolyte’ heft her over one shoulder, her feet kicking helplessly in the air.

“Get these two in the car,” directs the Verger. “And put him,” pointing at Harold, “in the trunk.”

posted by Jeremy 1:40 PM

Saturday, February 22, 2003

We've been driving for what seems like hours now. All I know is that it's dark, and I'm sliding all over the Caddy's back seat. I wonder why, and then realize I'm sitting in a drying pool of Molly's blood. I realize that I've just realized this for the third time in the past hour, which makes me realize that it's not just incense those four freaks are burning in the front seat. Yep, all four of them are sitting side by side up there with their stupid black hats, silently passing a joint back and forth. Kind of like the Four Stooges of the Apocalypse.

That makes me giggle a little. Yep, definitely not incense. God, I wish Duney was here, being the college boy and all. Call me a wuss, but the one time I was at a party where the wicked weed was being passed around (and that was the one time I was at a party period, or at least what passes for one in Hoople), I was scared to give it a try. Duney passed me the joint, and I was ready to take a puff when all of the sudden, into my head popped an image of myself sitting in the Oval Office, a Nixon crewcut on my head and my finger on the button.

God, I'm a mess. But then again, maybe it was a premonition. After all, I just learned that I'm the Chosen One, whatever that means. I'm getting what Duney would call a bitching contact buzz. Or maybe I'm just carsick.

I look over at Daphne, but she's staring out the window, drawing lazy curlicues in the fogged up glass. Off in her own world. Couldn't be any worse than the one where we're barreling through the Montana darkness, that's for sure.

All of the sudden, I get spooked. It's got to be the weed, I know, but it seems justified, given the circumstances. Was that snake real? I can't even remember at this point. I clear my throat.

"Hey, uh… Verger?"

A long pause.

"Yes?"

"Where are we going?"

"The destination is immaterial, my son," he said, never taking his eyes off the road. God, I hope he's the one that's driving. "The journey is what makes the difference."

The journey? In a borrowed Cadillac with a stolen TV and a comatose con man in the trunk? That's a laugh. At least I'm not the only one in the car that's stoned. On the radio, I hear John Fogerty, singing about a bad moon rising. He isn't kidding.

"Right," I say. "So. Where are we going?"

"My son," Verger replied. "The journey is what makes the difference, yet it is also important to remain on the path of righteousness. The land of California, where the Fallen Prophet was hoping to take you, is a veritable den of iniquity, a modern-day Sodom replete with bikini wax, a twentieth-century Gomorrah in the guise of liberation and open relationships, and other salaciousness which my tongue does not dare to form into words."

In other words, my Dad's kind of place. And mine, too, if given the chance. Probably. God, this stuff makes it hard to think straight.

"Your vessel is pure, Gruber," he continues. "We cannot run the risk of having the taint of such an evil place stain your soul."

Damn the luck. "So," I repeat, "Where are we going?"

Verger laughs. "To the place that has sustained your essence for these past 17 years. The holy place to which our thoughts always turn, and from where the charlatan in the trunk plucked you, like a rose before its bloom."

Yeah, right. Roses, vessels. My Lord of the Flies-loving English teacher would have a field day with these guys, and they haven't even mentioned a conch shell. Yet. I'm getting a bad feeling, and it has nothing to do with all the creepy imagery or the moon rising, bad or otherwise.

"I'm getting a bad feeling," I say aloud. "What the hell are you talking about?"

One of Verger's pals laughs, and turns back to look at me. His eyes have the look of a long-time stoner's, but that's not all. They look completely devoid of color, drained. "He means we're headed back to Hopple," he says, and God help me, he's looking right at me and I can't tell if he's making eye contact or not. "We're already back in North Dakota, praise be, and we should return to the most sacred of sacred ground before the cock cries."

The cock? Geez, what is it with these guys? Lucy would be jabbering about Freud at this point. It just figures, though. My first trip out of state, and it was over before I even knew it.

"So," I say, trying to remain calm, "Who are you guys?"

Verger laughs, a clipped little chuckle devoid of all humor. "I'm not a Horseman," he says. "But when I'm at home, I do drive a blue Ford Mustang."

posted by A Right-Thinking American 12:10 PM

Monday, March 17, 2003

Good, Verger's got a sense of humor. I'm starting to relax.

Even if these guys are nuts, at least I'm headed back to Hoople.

I can get a shower and get some sleep, and tomorrow I could think about all this "chosen one" stuff.

Now, you're probably thinking that I'm thinking that there's been some kind of mistake. Well, no shit. I mean, I don't even go to Sunday school if I can help it.

So we'll get that straightened out tomorrow. And Daphne and her dad and this damn dog can get the hell out of here. They loaded him in the trunk. I think he'll be all right. I know I won't be in trouble for smashing him in the face because they practically kidnapped me.

I wasted so much of tonight wondering if Daphne might like me, but now I realize that she's some kind of freak anyhow.

I look over to where she's been drawing circles on the window. It's not just circles.

She's written: "danger!!!!"

Sorry, Daphne. Earlier tonight I might fallen for it, but no more.

Just to show her that I don't care, I start talking to Verger again. "So, you guys followed us all the way from Hoople, huh?"

"Yeah. We've been keeping an eye on you."

"Why didn't you just stop me from going with them in the first place?"

"Didn't know about it. Maelwyn didn't foresee it. But we got a phone call from another brother that let us know you were gone."

"Who's Maelwyn?"

"He. Maelwyn is a man. A special man. You'll meet him tonight."

"Tonight? I kinda wanted to get some sleep when we got back."

"We'll see."

"You are taking me home, right?"

"We'll see."

Daphne is underlining the word danger. The lines she draws on the window make little openings in the fogged glass. I see the trees rushing by in the dark. Just tiny scraps of dark shapes in the dark.

"I can help you," she writes and then seeing that I've seen it, she rubs it all out.
I'm still not buying it.

"Hey guys," I ask, "what was that big hunk of wood in the trunk?"

Verger hits the brakes so hard that me and Daphne slide off the seat and hit the back of the front seat hard.

Verger swerves the car off the road. There's hardly any shoulder here. We hit a big rock that was hidden in the weeds with the front wheel. The Caddy takes a huge bounces and then comes down hard, but stops.

Verger pulls the keys from the ignition, opens his door and runs for the trunk all in one jerky rush. That's a fast fat guy!

One of the guys in the passenger seat says "Sit tight, kids. Don't move a muscle."

"But what ..."

I start and his hand shoots out and pops me in the jaw. More of a swipe than a punch, but it makes me bite my tongue.

"Shit." I taste blood or copper, or maybe both.

"Holy Jesus! Holy Jesus!" I hear Verger shouting. He’s got the trunk open. "Blessed Redeemer! Blessed Redeemer! You've lead us to it! At last, at last!

The creeps just can't wait any longer. They practically climb over each other to get out. The last one, the one that hit me, stops for a second to say

"I mean it, don't move or Verger's snake will bite your ass off." Then he's headed for the trunk, too.

I hear then rummaging around back there, probably trying to get the TV out so they can get to the wood that they're all freaking out about.

Daphne grabs my shoulder.

She holds up a key. A car key.

"Let's go!" she says, like she's Mannix or something. Like she's my hero all of a sudden.

I don't know what to do. I just look at her.

"Fuck you then," she says. Hurling herself over the front bench seat and sliding into the drivers seat. "Get out if you want to stay with them."

Frankly, I don't want to do that, either.

"No, let's go."

She starts it and floors it. We go about five feet when the rear wheel hits that same rock and the car shudders and she loses control for a second, then jerks the wheel and we fly out onto the highway leaving four outraged nuts screaming behind us. One of them must have started shooting because there were a bunch of shots, but I don't think they even hit the car.

Daphne hasn't let her foot up yet. The Caddy builds speed slowly but surely. The engine is roaring. the trunk lid is bouncing up and down. I wonder if the wood is still in there. I wonder for a second if the TV is in there. It was a nice TV. Nicer than mom's.

Then I remember that I'm in a car with a freaky girl and a wounded dog-beast and we're probably still being chased by all those nuts. And those nuts know where I live. I'm screwed.

Actually, there's no way their crappy car is going to catch us. Daphne must be going 85 now. I crawl over the seat and land in the passenger’s side.

"That was nice," I say. "but I need to know — are you still kidnapping me?"

"I'm trying to save your life, dumbass."

"Oh, thanks. Sorry. Really?"

"Yes, really. Mine, too, of course. Now tell me where to go. I have no idea where we are."

I look out the window and I realize I don't either. I don't think this is even the road to Hoople.

"Just keep going, I guess."

"Great," she says, like its all my fault we're lost.

I realize there's no snow on the roads, so we can't really be in North Dakota. They were taking us somewhere else.

It must be like 4 in the morning and the roads are totally empty, nobody ahead or behind. Daphne must realize this too, since she relaxes a bit and slows down to 60.

We just ride on, silent in the big noisy car.

Finally I ask what I have to ask.

"So, what was in the trunk?"

"Don't you know?" she asks and looks over to see my reaction.

When her eyes hit me, even though it's mostly dark and even though she's been mean to me all night, my guts just seem to seize up. She's beautiful.

"It's the Cross," she says, but I hardly hear her. I wonder if she's starting to like me.

"The what?" I ask.

"The one true Cross."

posted by Tom 8:50 PM

Friday, July 25, 2003

Well, of course. The cross of Christ has been sitting on a shelf in our basement. That makes total sense.

“Daphne. I can’t even begin to tell you how crazy this is. Are you on drugs or something?”

“Very funny. Look, I need to pull over and check on Harold. And the Cross.”

As Daphne slows down, I venture a glance over the backseat to see how Molly’s doing. For my trouble, I get a growl and that I’d-tear-your-throat-out-if-I-wasn’t-bleeding-to-death look.

“What about Miss Congeniality?” I ask.

“Oh, she’ll be fine. She’s been through worse.”

Now that’s a scary thought.

Daphne pulls the car onto the berm. The road ahead disappears over a hill, winding its way towards the mountains – a jagged silhouette in the early morning sky. The thought of driving through them with the Verger’s gang on our heels makes me shudder.

As Daphne and I get out of the car, the trunk suddenly pops open. I almost have a heart attack.

“Thanks for stopping, Daph. It was getting cramped in there!”

Two booted feet swing out of the trunk as Harold hefts himself up on the bumper and lights a cigarette. He looks a lot better.

“Dad! Are you okay?”

“Not too bad for getting cold-cocked with fifty pounds of sheet metal. Son, you need to get your head screwed on straight. And I might just be willing to do it for you.” Harold flashes me a toothy smile, equal parts menace and irony.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to do get involved in any of this – whatever this is. Just drop me at the next town, and I’ll call my mom to come get me.” I sound like a sniveling kid. But I don’t care. I want to go home.

“Hmm. Don’t think that would be such a good idea. The Verger will be looking for you. Besides, you have to take care of this.”

Harold reaches into the trunk and pulls out the green canvas bag from our basement. I always assumed it was something Dad brought back from Korea, some Army surplus stuff. Dad didn’t talk much about the war, and I didn’t ask.

“Behold,” he shouts, affecting the evangelical drawl of a southern preacher, “the Cross of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ … and one big pain in the ass!”

Well, you can say one thing for Harold: he keeps you guessing. “Excuse me?”

“That’s right. This banged-up piece of lumber has been the bane of my existence. Our cross to bear, so to speak.”

Harold opens the bag and pulls out a chunk of wood, about a foot long and extremely gnarled, like driftwood. The heavens do not part. Trumpets do not sound. Not even one fat winged-baby appears.

“Um, this cross of yours,” I ask, “shouldn’t it be…bigger?”

“What?!” Daphne squeals, “Are you kidding? That’s the biggest piece there is. By far.”

Leaning back against the car, Daphne starts to chomp on some gum she must have had clenched between her teeth all this time.

“Gruber, do you know who Saladin was?”

“You mean the guy from ‘Have Gun Will Travel’?”

“No, that was Paladin. Saladin was an Egyptian king who defeated the Crusaders and captured Jerusalem. He tied the Cross to his horse and dragged it through the streets. By then, it was already over a thousand years old. Pieces of it broke off, other were cut off, until only a small section remained. This last piece – soaked in the blood of Jesus – could not be destroyed. Saladin tried everything: the sharpest axes, the hottest fires. Boy, was he pissed. Finally, he tied it to a suit of armor and threw it into the sea.”

“But, somehow the Cross turned up again and again through the centuries, all over the globe. Thousands have died protecting it.”

“Protecting it from whom?”

“All kinds of people. Kings…treasure hunters…and fanatics, like the Verger, who think it’s the key to unleashing the Apocalypse.”

“What category do you fall into?” Nine-fingered lunatic kidnappers?

“Some people – like us – think it is better that the Cross not be found. That it remain lost, a legend, a figment of history…”

“And it would, if your father had just kept his damn mouth shut…”

“Harold!” Daphne cuts him off.

“What? What about my father?” Harold and Daphne just look at each other. “Could someone please tell me what the heck is going on?!” I’m starting to get really peeved. I can feel the blood rushing to my head, ears pounding.

“Your father,” Daphne speaks softly, calmly, “was supposed to keep the Cross hidden, but someone found out about it. That’s why we’re here.”

“I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? Don’t they have this kind of stuff in churches and museums? Why don’t you just mail it to the Vatican? ‘Here’s your damn Cross. Love, Daphne and Harold.’”

Harold laughs. “You don’t read much history, do you boy? I wouldn’t trust the Catholic church with my laundry, let alone with the world’s most important holy relic.”

Daphne gives me a serious look. “You have to understand, there are a lot of good people and a lot of bad people looking for the Cross. Problem is, it’s hard to tell the difference. Maybe there is no difference. Nothing good’s ever come from having it…”

Up the road, the hillcrest is suddenly illuminated in a bright halo. Two spots of lights flash as a car bounces wildly through the pass, careening towards us. A heavy, sick feeling seizes hold of my stomach.

Harold sees my look and jumps to his feet. “Damn! Verger.”

Daphne turns and gasps, “But they were behind us...”

Brakes squeal, and the car fishtails across the centerline, coming to rest a few feet from the Caddy’s bumper. The barrel of a shotgun pokes out the passenger-side window.

“Don’t move!” One of the Verger’s goons.

“Think fast!” Harold tosses me the Cross.

Before I can even think, I reach out and catch the hunk of wood. It’s not heavy, but it hits me with a jolt. A rushing noise fills my ears, as the wind suddenly picks up, blowing bits of snow everywhere. The Cadillac fades into white nothingness. Harold and Daphne, just a few feet from me, disappear into the blizzard, standing silent and still as the snow whips up around them. I try to shout to them, but I can’t even hear my own voice over the roar of the wind.

The wind subsides, but the whiteness remains, blank and bright. I can’t move; there doesn’t seem to be anything to gain traction against. Something very weird is going on. Maybe I passed out. I feel like I’m in a dream, just seeing things without being there.

“...shape...moment...”

Voices! Very soft. I realize there’s a constant buzz, like the static from the stereo speakers when you forget to turn off the tuner. I try to concentrate on the sound. Bits of words bubble up here and there. It’s like hundreds of people are whispering at once.

“...riders...break...”

I can pick out more words now, words on top of words, pieces of words mixing together. Cascading syllables, chords, harmony. And, suddenly, it all comes into focus.

“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together…”

Hands? I don’t seem to have any. Or a body, for that matter.

There’s a microphone floating in front of me. I don’t remember seeing it appear, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there before. A dark figure materializes, walking towards me through the mist. Actually, more like strutting. A hand reaches out of a baggy velvet sleeve and grabs the mike.

“Hey, brother. Welcome to the flipside.”

Before me stands a tall, black man with a huge Afro. It’s Jimi Hendrix.

“Uh, excuse me?”

Jimi gets a look on his face like he’s about to sneeze. Instead, he starts to sing, fingering an imaginary guitar:

“‘There must be some kind of way out of here,’
Said the joker to the thief.
‘There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief…’”

As Jimi jerks and twirls in a sort of epileptic ballet, I notice a subtle skipping, like the movies we used to watch on the high-school movie projector. Picture, picture, picture – all still, the movement just an illusion.

“…Outside in the cold distance,
A wildcat did growl.
Two riders were approaching,
And the wind began to howl.”

Jimi’s suddenly leaning over the microphone, looking at me. “Sound familiar?”

“All Along the Watchtower. From Electric Ladyland.” I’ve played it a million times. It’s one of the few songs Lucy likes.

“It’s more than a song. Remember that, brother.”

Jimi blows a smoke ring that seems to pass all around me.

“I don’t understand. What’s happening to me? Where am I?”

“One groovy place, man. This is where all times flow by. You and me, we’re outside of it - getting the whole picture. You dig?”

A sudden thought sends chills down my non-existent back. “Am I dead?” They say you never hear the shot…

Jimi laughs. “Relax, brother. It’s cool. You’re just here to visit. Al, educate the man!”

“Certainly.” Albert Einstein replies. He’s standing right next to Jimi, messy white hair, bushy mustache and all. Behind him is a blackboard with the words ‘Multitemporal Macrodynamics 101’. If this is a dream, it’s the strangest one ever.

“Herr Gruber, you are in the space between moments, the medium of time. Here, timelines propagate with quantum fury, filling the vast realm of possibility. The entire course of the multiverse is stretched out before us in its full potential, bound together by the threads of causation…”

As he talks, Einstein quickly fills the blackboard with circles, crisscrossing lines, and formulas packed with Greek letters. All I can think is that he sounds just like Sergeant Shultz from ‘Hogan’s Heroes’.

“…Of course, here you are only an awareness, an imprint of your neural patterns. Your body – the physical world – cannot exist outside of time, for all matter is embedded within time in constant oscillation, every attribute a function of its frequency. For a single moment, nothing can exist. But, string together two moments, and an entire universe appears. It’s a beautiful paradox.”

Well, that clears things up. “I’m sorry, timelines? Multiverse?” I should have paid more attention in science class.

Jimi sighs. “Look, you’ve got your scene, right? Like the time and place you’re living in, and your situation and so forth. And to you, that’s the main scene, the only scene. But in actuality there are these other scenes — these timelines — where things happen different, where you don’t even exist. Where your dad meets your mom and thinks, ‘man, that’s one skanky chick.’ And, bam, no Gruber.”

I think Jimi Hendrix just insulted my mother.

“Do you mean like some alternate reality or something?” At least I do read science-fiction.

“No, man. It’s all reality, as far as that goes. But you can only get a good look at it from here.” Jimi waves at the empty white nothingness.

“Okay…but I don’t see anything. Except the two of you.”

“Yeah, well that’s your frame of reference – your physicality and all. You gotta free your mind.”

“How do I do that?”

“Well, 8 or 9 reds will do the trick. But I don’t recommend it.”

Einstein rolls his eyes. “Herr Gruber, your physical mind is incapable of perceiving this dimension, just like the blind man who is given sight but cannot see. We are your eyes, constantly watching the contours of all space-time. And we are very concerned.”

“Why?”

“Well, brother,” Jimi answers, “some cat’s been messin’ with your timeline. It’s all out of shape, twisted in on itself. Basically, you’re running out of time.”

“Time for what?”

Jimi looks at me over the rim of his glasses. “Man, time to be you. Time to exist. All roads are leading right off the cliff.”

“What Mr. Hendrix is saying is that your timelines have a concurrent discontinuity – a break. Your futures are still propagating, but they will soon decay if they remain severed from the past. In about a week, the causal threads will unravel to the point that individual moments cease to cohere. And then,” Einstein pauses, a pained look on his face, “you, in your glorious multiplicity, will cease to exist — to ever have existed.”

I’d pee my pants, if I had any.

“So, what do I do?”

Jimi smiles. “You do some timeline voodoo, with the help of your Uncles Jimi and Al. We drop you a new timeline for a spell, call it borrowed time. You piece it all together. Zippity.”

Frankly, I’m not sure which of these bozos speaks better English. “How do I do that?”

Einstein answers. “You should start by locating the Cross. But remember it is only an object, a piece of wood. What you’re looking for is not a thing, it’s an understanding, a knowledge. Only this can guide you in mending the break.”

“I don’t understand any of this. Why can’t I just go home and forget about it?”

“Bah!” Einstein’s chin disappears under his mustache. “That would change nothing. Why cling to the top of the mast when your ship is sinking? You must jump in!”

“Herr Gruber, you must ask yourself, ‘Why were my timelines so vulnerable? How could I be so easily erased? And, ultimately, what is the essence of my existence?’ Questions for a lifetime. You have seven days.”

“But where are you sending me?”

“Brother, it ain’t where. It’s when.” Jimi raises his hand above his head and brings it down in a hard, wide arc, like he’s hammering out the last chord of a guitar riff.

The whispering voices return as the figures of Hendrix and Einstein begin to fade. “What? Wait!” I shout.

“Walk on, brother,” bids Jimi.

“Good luck, young man. Use your noggin!” calls Einstein.

The whispering becomes louder, frenzied. I have a sensation of falling, the sound of wind rushing by me. Someone is speaking in my ear, but I can’t make it out…

“…coffee?”

The white nothingness starts to congeal. My arms and hands come into focus. A table, windows. An orange blob hovers at my right. There’s a warm, tingling sensation in my lips and a stale taste in my mouth.

“More coffee? ?Mas café?”

Ack! I almost inhale a cigarette. I spit it out onto a plate of scrambled eggs. A string of saliva dribbles lazily down my chin onto the newspaper I’m holding. It’s the Los Angeles Times, the date: November 23, 1984. Oh, man.

“Are you okay?”

The waitress sounds awfully familiar. “Daphne?”

“That’s right,” she says, tapping a plastic nameplate clipped to her orange smock: D-A-P-H-N-E.

“It’s me! Gruber.”

I immediately realize this is a mistake. Daphne looks at me without a hint of recognition. I almost wouldn’t recognize her, either. She’s wearing make-up, for one thing, a very bright shade of lipstick with blue eye-shadow. And her hair is sticking way out and kind of wavy.

“Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell. Did we go to, like, high school together or something?” She seems dubious.

“Uh – no.” Think, think... “How’s Harold?”

Daphne blinks. Once, twice.

“Screw. You.” she says, loud but calmly. Several heads at nearby tables turn to stare. Daphne waits one more blink, for emphasis, and makes a quick turn back to the kitchen.

This is going well. Jimi? Al?

Nothing. Looks like I’m on my own.

posted by Jeremy 12:14 PM

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

Crap. Here I am in the future, or whatever this really is, and my only link to the past—my past, anyway--is royally pissed. And here I was, assuming that things got better as you got older.

Without thinking, I stand up, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the diner's floor-to-ceiling window, which opens to a busy city street. Crap. I am old. Or at least I look it. Glancing back down at the newspaper on the table and doing some quick counting on my fingers, I figure I should be about 30. The face looking back at me, though, would be wildly flattered by that guess: Long, greasy hair with a dowel-sized white streak on one side, more than a few wrinkles, ruddy cheeks and a nose red enough to border on the clownlike. Plenty of not-so-middle-age folks look like this back home -- unless you have a long attention span, there isn't much to do in Hoople but nurture a decades-long drinking habit -- but back home, anyone with hair halfway as long as mine would have never made it further than three steps inside a bar.

I walk to the counter, trying to peer through the porthole-like windows to the kitchen. Instead, I manage to get the attention of the rotund, middle-aged woman scowling behind the counter. Not that I'm anyone's idea of a prize myself at the moment, mind you, but at least I'm not glaring at anything that moves with sheer hatred. "'Help you," she asks, a phlegmy cough substituting for the question mark.

"Uh… yeah," I say, startled by my own raspy voice. Geez, I must have spent most of the '70s smoking. "Can I talk to Daphne?"

The waitress turns her head and spits, or at least makes the sound. "Forget it," she snorts. "You and all of your creepy friends can talk to her on her own time. How long have you been sitting over there, staring at that goddam paper over a cold plate of eggs, anyway?"

13 minutes? 13 years? God, I don't know. "I-I-"

"Just get out," she says, pointing to the exit. "If you want to talk to her, her shift ends at 7." I shuffle out, almost too distracted by my own reflection in the window to hear her finish, "And tell the rest of your over-the-hill greaser buddies they're not welcome here, either!"

As the door to the diner swings shut behind me, I walk out into 1984. Wow, it's warm in the future -- palm trees line the street, which is jammed with tiny, plastic-looking cars that somehow fail to enthrall me. I'd always figured we'd be zipping around in flying cars by then. I mean, by now. Then I remember—Los Angeles. Explains the palm trees, but not much else.

I look at my watch. It's about 2 in the afternoon. Not knowing what else to do, I start walking in the general direction of the marquis of a movie theatre a few blocks down. Even though the only things I see that suggest I'm visiting the future are the tiny, crappy cars, I'm starting to feel wobbly, kind of like I have the bends. Sitting down in a dark theatre would probably do me good.

As I walk up to the theater, I pull out my wallet -- at least I have a wallet. And more good news -- there's actually a couple hundred bucks in it, mostly in the form of faded, crumpled twenties. I walk up to the counter and say, "One, please."

"That'll be six dollars," comes the voice from behind a thick sheet of what I assume is bulletproof glass. Damn, the future's bland and expensive. But I'm flush with cash, so a minute later I'm in a dark, nearly empty theater watching something called Footloose. The music's pretty strange -- there's not a guitar riff to be heard anywhere -- but I suppose I ought to be able to relate. It's about a big-city kid who moves to a small town and gets pissed off at their small-minded ways, so he runs off to an abandoned steel mill, smokes a cigarette and… starts dancing. Angrily dancing. Maybe that explains why the one kid I knew in high school whose family moved to Hoople from Omaha moved back after about three months. I never saw him dance, though.

The movie ends and the lights come on. I feel no less numb or washed out, and I definitely don't feel like dancing. A check of my watch confirms I have way too much time on my hands before Daphne's shift ends. Fumbling around in my pockets, I come up with the world's most crumpled pack of cigarettes and a set of keys, including one from the Normandie Motor Lodge, with the room number -- 12 -- and address right on its oversized tag. At last, a break. Or at least a break for an hour or two.

A desultory thumb from the ticket-taker points me out the door and around the corner to the motel, which is only slightly less squalid than I imagined. The key easily slides into the lock for Room 12, though, and I hit the light switch next to the door. A tiny lamp on the battered nightstand makes a valiant effort at brightening the room, but doesn't get much further than a weak half-circle revealing a rumpled bed, the sheets partially pulled off the mattress. Daily maid service doesn't appear to be among the Normandie's amenities.

I take a look in the mirror bolted to the cinderblock walls above a cracked porcelain sink. The same creepy, time-worn face looks back at me, and I'm glad the room isn't any brighter. I try to flip on the TV, which doesn't work, and lacking anything better to do, flop backwards onto the bed, which groans before absorbing me like a vat full of marshmallows.

So far, 1984 pretty much sucks. I try to remember Al and Jimmie's words of wisdom, but beyond a fading mental image of a blackboard full of circles and lines, I come up blank. Hopefully Daphne will be able to clue me in on the game plan. Actually, I'll be lucky if she doesn't try to mace me when she walks out of the diner in a couple of hours.

Bored, I pull out the wallet again. No driver's license, which seems kind of odd. There's just the cash and a small piece of paper, which looks like it was crumpled up, then unrumpled and stuck in the wallet as an afterthought. I absentmindedly turn it over, read it, and bolt straight up in the bed.

"Oh, shit," I whisper. The card is a business card, and it reads "David Gruber, Esq., Talent Manager, G&H Records." A post office box follows in smaller type, meaning I can safely assume it's not a wildly successful operation, but before I can think about that, I'm racing over to the mirror, nearly tripping over the tangle of bedsheets in the process, to look at myself again. Myself? The hair's longer and whiter, but I'm starting to get a feeling that the "G" in G&H Records is definitely not me.

And it isn't. The face staring back at me is my father's. And if the "H" in G&H is who I think it might be -- has to be, really -- I'm not sure Daphne's really going to want to give me a hand. At least, not unless it's firmly attached to Molly's collar.

posted by A Right-Thinking American 6:23 PM

Thursday, January 22, 2004

I have no idea what to do. Admittedly, I hadn’t had any idea what to do since yesterday, or whenever it was that all this started.

What I really need is some advice from Jimi and Al. I’m still not sure if that was just like a weird dream or if that was real and this is a dream or they are both dreams, but frankly, Jimi and Al are the first people I’ve run into that I know I can trust. Even if they are dead.

Yesterday I would have thought this was a stupid idea, but I decide to turn on the radio. Maybe Jimi has something to say to me.

The cheap-ass motel has one of those preposterous cheap-ass motel radios that is built into the wall near the head of the bed. The knobs are grimy.

The radio may be as old as me, I mean, it looks old enough to have been installed in 1970. But then I see that the dial is split in two and the top half is labeled FM and the bottom half is labeled AM. I remember hearing about these new FM stations, but there weren’t any in North Dakota.

I turn it on.

“Wake me up before you go-go,” someone is hollering. “Don’t leave me hanging on like a yo-yo-yo-yo.”

Now I’ve had a lot of nasty shocks in the last 24 hours — identity destroyed, kidnapped, messiah complex, etc... — but this just sickens me. What the hell is this? Music?

I spin all the way through the dial and although I don’t hear anything else that bad, I don’t hear any Hendrix either.

I notice there’s a little switch that says FM/FM Stereo/AM. I flip it to AM. Static at first, but I quickly tune in a station and there is Jimi:

No reason to get excited
The thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke

Wow, what a perfect description of my situation. I listen to the song as if I had never heard it before. Actually trying to tune out the guitar and tune in the lyrics.

But you and I we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us talk falsely now
The hour's getting late
Hey

You’re right about that, Jimi, the hour is getting late. About 14 years too late.

“So let us talk falsely now.”

That’s not a bad idea. Everybody’s been lying to me — Verger, Daphne, Harold. The recording contract, the chosen one, the one True Cross. Good grief. For all I know, not one bit of that was true. Maybe if I start spinning a few lies of my own I can stop being the pawn in this stupid game.

I had been planning to get some sleep, but suddenly I felt like it was time to act. After all, as Jimi says, the hour is getting late.

I’m about to switch off the radio when I realize I’m listening to the most incredible piece of music I have ever heard. It’s like rock and roll and weirdo classical music all mixed together. My God, it’s better than Hendrix even! Sorry, Jimi.

“If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow ...”

Wow, I stand there for like ten minutes while it goes on and on washing over me in sound waves I can practically see. Finally it ends and a commercial for joining the army comes on. I switch it off. Man, I feel supercharged, I can’t wait to get my guitar back and try out those chord changes.

But first things first. Jimi has energized me. I’m ready to take control.

I stomp back down to the diner. I know I should be looking around me in wonder, but really, there’s nothing to see but a bunch of crappy cars and trash everywhere. The future! Whoopteedoo! I have to get out of this place.

I start thinking about what I’m going to say to Daphne. Nothing comes to mind so, as I yank open the door I make a little prayer to Jimi, “Let me talk falsely now!”

“Daphne,” I yell. She looks up from behind the counter.

Suddenly the lie pops into my head.

“Verger’s found us,” I shout, with every customer staring at me with a gaping mouth. “He’ll be here any second.”

The rotund waitress starts to say something, but Daphne is headed for the door, running, taking off her apron.

“I gotta go, Val,” she says as the rotund waitress looks on disapprovingly.

“Better go out the back,” I say, shoving Daphne toward the kitchen.

“There’s no way out through there,” she says. “But you should know that—”

She freezes and looks at me hard.

“Who are you?” she whispers.

“I’m Harold, who do you think?”

“You don’t look like Harold, you look like Gruber.”

Who? Oh, she means my dad.

“Well, we both know where the real David Gruber is, don’t we?” I bluff.

“You know?” she says in shock.

“Of course, I just saw him.” Then a crazy idea comes into my head. If I look like him, maybe he looks like...

Suddenly the door of the diner flies open again. The customers, who have been shamelessly watching us, turn to look at the new arrival. So do I.

It’s a smirking teenager in a leather jacket with no shirt. His hair is purple and sticking straight up. He’s got a safety pin through his nose. And evil eyes.

There’s three other weirdos behind him. He’s got a big stick, they’ve got sawed-off shot guns.

Shit, it’s Verger. At least 20 years younger than the last time I saw him, but that kind of crap doesn’t surprise me anymore.

I guess I wasn’t lying after all. Sorry Jimi, I tried. Well, maybe I should try again.

“Verger, thank God you’re here,” I say, “I have a message for you from Maelwyn.”

posted by Tom 8:30 PM



posted by A Right-Thinking American 10:28 AM