Taking 460 north out of Wakefield and up towards Waverly there are a few spots where one might stop and dine. In the best of broad daylights it would be super simple to see these locations, easily perched besides the road, identified with big signs and a beckoning sense of something local.
The snow had drawn deep enough to crust the highway, and the sleet put a nice slick glaze on it so that the car seemed to glide along on skis, with each bobble threatening to careen him off the road. He edged slowly, trying to see and more importantly stay in his lane. But nobody was out. Nobody was stupid enough to be out.
dreamers and daredevils he murmured, the cold of the wet in his hair dissipating, replaced by a new fear...of running adrift and being stuck and being stuck would lead to being dead.
He wondered why he had even departed, why he wouldn't debate her to stay...stay in a separate room, stay on a separate floor...but he knew that if she was left to that choice that there might be the chance that she might come find him...and right now she wasn't in a searching mood. She was rather in a mood to stay alone. Stay away.
And so that was why he found himself driving in hazard conditions, idiotic and insane, up a highway that was so poorly lit he sometimes was lost in the horizon of white and had to crawl along, looking for any markers swept wet by the sleet so that he could orient his angle. It was in these crawling that he saw some pale yellow lights...and at first he thought they might be a car or maybe even cars...but cars had white lights. As he moved forward he realized it was a building...and in closing the distance it became a restaurant.
no fucking way.
He kept on, the yellow against the sleet sluicing in front of him, until he was alongside of it. There were no cars outside in the lot...but he saw somebody in there. So he pulled in.
There are a ton of tales about good samaritans, peaceful folks who lend a hand, extend a gesture...people that help lift you up and brush you off and send you on your way. This is not about those people. This was about something dark. About something that doesn't give you peace but only extends your agony. He wished he had known that before pulling into the lot.
He sat for a moment with the car turned off, the gravel beat of sleet against the car, and a lone flurry mixed in. It was dead on 32 degrees, per the car outside temperature gauge now blackened without the engine being on but just before he turned the key he checked.
The yellow lights spilled gingerly out. He opened the door, pelted by the wet, and strode to the door.
It was open.
He stood in the entrance, looking around. Completely empty, save for the man behind the counter who regarded him curiously. He looked like he might have been just about to wrap up...head out, flip the sign and go home. But there were no other cars in the lot.
Do you have liquor?
The man behind the counter grinned and set down his hand towel. He gestured towards one of the seats with his hand and nodded. Yes sir...we do.
So with that he strode towards the counter, dripping a few drops as he walked and sat in one of the sturdy chairs bolted to the floor. Victor said the man behind the counter, introducing himself. He offered his hand and shook it...it was warm.
What kind of bourbon do you have....Victor?
Victor frowned for just a second, doing mental inventory. Then nodded....well we have the usuals...Makers, Knob...
I'll have a Knob...neat...double.
Done.
Victor disappeared into the swinging doors and he could hear him rummaging. He had picked Knob as it had been a piece of their puzzle...an introduction to her. It was synonymous.
Victor emerged, holding the door with one hand...I'm sorry, I thought we had it. Looks like we're out. I do have Makers...and I'll give you a double for the price of a single.
He shook his head slightly...the night was bespoke of things that were no longer...
That'll do.
Victor closed the door and the rummaging started again.
He finished his third and there was no letting up outside. The sleet wailed against the glass and the roof...he could see his car melting into some sort of ice object and he officially was stopping to care. The storm outside would not or could not compare to what ice was inside of him. Victor had left him to his own devices, cleaning and straightening so he stared at his dying phone and dying ice in his glass and felt warm finally. Despite the ice.
Victor? he said, turning to the man across the room.
Yes sir?
Why are you still open?
Sir?
Why. Are. You. Still. Open? I mean it's shitting the world outside...nobody is coming. Why not kick me out?
Victor approached, toweling off a glass. Well...it's because I live out back...I can walk home. So I stay...in case...you know, people drop in.
People drop in? It's a fucking hurricane in winter outside.
You came in.
He picked up his glass. He regarded it and took a sip. Amen, brother. I did come in. In the nick of time too.
Well sir then there you go. I'm still open for you in the nick of time.
He set down his glass. He realized that he was in no shape to be driving...no way under pristine conditions and with the weather outside he may as well go stumble into a snowbank.
Victor?
Again, from across the room....Yes sir?
Victor, I'm not going to be able to go out...I'm not going to be able to call a cab or an Uber and I'm not going to be able to walk home or to a hotel. So...Victor...Vic...do you have any suggestions?
The place was quiet...like a church on a Monday...but without all the prayers save the one he was saying to maybe fix the ruptured and fractured parts of him that were definitely not healing but were feeling a little better with the brown in his glass.
Sir...Victor was weighing his answer...looking around and knowing the options were what one might call exceptionally limited.
Sir you could stay here...not in the chair...but you know...in a booth? He was looking with his eyes as he spoke, regarding the rows against the window.
Here?
Yes. Here...inside. I could turn out the lights and you could stay here.
A slight pause as one places odds and the teeter-totter leans in one direction...Well fine...but fuck me Victor, this ain't some hotel. So you may as well pour me one on the house. He held up his glass...and Victor took it and ambled back behind the doors.
In the morning the sun came through the plate glass windows like a carving knife, waking him up way before he intended. His neck hurt from the angle and he was cold, his feet still asleep as they dangled off the edge of the booth. But he had survived...not unexpected...but in his departure earlier last night he had low hopes and very few chances of making it as far as he had come.
He saw the empty bottle of Knob on the counter, and just like that the doors in his mind blew open and she blazed in with a fury of scars and the sense of flowers plucked from stems and bite marks on lips and he remembered that he was tasting the memory of the past evening and it was bitter and it was reminiscent and it was familiar and outside was a cold that took your breath away but inside his chest it was even colder, even cooler and infinitely darker than that day outside in Wakefield.
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