34.
I have two quarters hidden in my shoe, Taco Bell hot sauce both medium and spicy shoved deep into my pocket, a polaroid in the other, a half-drunk bottle of lukewarm water dangling between my fingertips, dust in the crevices of my eyes so dry it turns them sharp and achy, lines on my forehead that are beginning to grow deep and permanent, a surprise in the mirror, hair too long curling over the nape of my neck hole in my jeans grass stain. It amazes me, how much I've aged. How old I am and how young I feel. An ancient idiot, naive as a newborn babe, wandering the side of the highway thumb out lost. Two nights ago I left the backseat of a Subaru with a bumper sticker on the back that read NO WAR! Two exclamation points. None! No War! Not now, not ever! The upholstery inside smelled of cigarettes and there was a half-drunk bottle of to-go Starbucks in the passenger's seat cupholder. The desert air blasted through the cracked windows two inches, the thump thump thump of wind in crevices fast motion, like a heartbeat, like a drum.
John, where are you?
Esme's voice in my ear: panicked, reluctant, fear under tempered glass. The voice of the operator asking if I'd like more time. The click of the handheld meeting the plastic. Where are you? Where am I? Good question. Desert, huge, reaching trees. Needles that fall around me like little daggers floating in the breeze. They crunch, brittle, as I walk atop them. Few cars. Two lane highway. I walk on the solid line, one foot in front of the other, back to the traffic left hand out. Dust kicks up with every passing truck, little tornados of it, little whirlwinds. I walk through them. I walk and walk and walk. My mind is blank. John, where are you? I am nowhere. I am everywhere. I am one with the earth and the earth is one with me. I smell the dirt baking. I hear the bird's call. The sky sings endless, expansive, blue on blue on blue. Not a single cloud, only the warped and hazy arc of a jet plane's path from one horizon to the other.
From behind, the sound of tires on the road like breathing. Inhale on the approach, exhale into the distance. I am miles from water. I take a sip from my bottle and it's coarse, sandy in my throat. Another vehicle approaches. I hear the music from far away, a thundering, consistent bass. A whump, whump, whump, louder and louder and louder. The crunch of loose rocks as the car slows down beside me, pulls off into the embankment ahead. I jog, the heat so thick it's as though I'm swimming even though I am miles from water. It's a pickup truck, common in this area. Chipped paint. Three twenty-somethings sardined together, sandwiched with sweat. There's little room for me but I squeeze in, beckoned by the driver, his hat pulled down low over his eyes, shielding his expression. In one hand, he holds the wheel. In another, a half-drunk can of beer. There's condensation on the side. I lick my lips.
"Where ya headed?" he asks, voice gravelly, no hint of an accent.
"Anywhere but here," I say because it sounds coy, because I read it in a book somewhere, heard it in a movie. It smells badly in the cabin of the truck, body odor and something sour, something stale. The boys chuckle.
"We're headed to town, about an hour north. You good for it?" he asks, loud on top of the music, something repetitive and unimportant. I've heard the song before in other cars on other roads through other speakers with other people. I think I know the chorus. Its general message of long drives, cold beers, hot girls.
"I'm good for it," I say. And even though we're all pressed together, I still rattle around as the car starts up, swerves back onto the road. The boys joke back and forth, outdo each other. Try to figure out who I am. Don't like that I'm quiet but love it all the same. There's an intrigue, I've found, in withholding my story. The more people want me to talk, the less I do so. And then the more they want it. It compounds, a snowball of curiosity, growing and growing and growing until it's not worth saying anything at all, until it's overblown, an inevitable let down. The window is open and I stick my head out like a dog, let the breeze run across my overheated skin. I can feel the sweat wick away.
With my eyes closed, I see wild hair. I see red lips. I see rain.
I open my eyes again when we've hit town, an hour as promised. It's not much of a town, actually. More of a pit stop. A strip of the necessities: gas station, convenience store, Walgreens, antique shop, bar, bar, bar. No one walks main street. The driver parks parallel, canted, one wheel on the curb. Stumbles from the vehicle. The sun is setting a fiery color, red and yellow and orange. I hear cicadas screech in the distance, only the beginning of their siren's call.
"You want a drink, bud?" the driver asks me.
"No cash," I reply, turning out my pockets. A hot sauce packet drops to the sidewalk, extra spicy.
"No worries. I know the bartender."
That's all I need to know. The thing is, I'm good at getting drunk. Great at it, really. I've never particularly liked the act of drinking itself, the bitter liquid, the chalky aftertaste of beer. But liquor… Liquor… The warmth hits my gut like a hug. It fills my gaps. Cements in the crevices and spreads, beginning at my organs and extending all the way to the tips of my fingers, to my nails, their half-moon, their crescent. I wander through the bar in a state, two hours in and many drinks deep, sleeping, awake, drifting. Wood panelling, bottles on shelves. A bartender with a flirtatious smile thrown in my direction. She has blonde hair up in a loose pony; it's too dark to see the color of her eyes. The boys I came with gather in a loose circle greeting friends, neighbors, childhood comrades. Everyone here knows each other, speaks the same language. I grin along with them. It's a joy to be included. The air conditioning blasts and I remember Arizona. I tingle.
"He's a fighter, I can tell," the driver says, jutting a thumb in my direction.
"Nah, he's scrawny. Passive. Some liberal pussy ain't never been in a fight," another guy contradicts. He wears a muscle T and it does the job nicely, biceps flexing.
"See, that's what you think at first glance. But it's the ones you don't expect, those are the ones you gotta worry about. There's something about him, you just gotta find the trigger."
He's confident and sure, walks up to me hat turned backward, a thin red line where the band formerly dug into his forehead now shifted.
"Right, kid?" He's speaking to me directly now. "You're a fighter, right?
I smirk. Laugh it off.
"Nah," I say.
"I think you are." He pushes my shoulder a little bit, enough to get me to stumble backwards a half step, meet the bar with my hip. I chuckle. There's an overload of testosterone. Perhaps I'm seeing double. There are two of him, six of him, everyone in this bar a clone of everyone else. Where are you, John? In a bar, Esme. In a bar. In a fight, shot in reverse. I see the ending before I see the beginning. I'm in a bar. Somewhere in this country built for the automobile.
My interest is piqued, hip throbbing. I am ready to go. Fighting is familiar. I know how to fight. My hands clench into fists, appraising him. He's bigger than me, stronger. He has his friends to back him up. And yet… I am thirsty for more than just alcohol. I unleash myself, just a hair. I know I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. I hold back, change tack, keep it together.
"I'm not," I reiterate, become still and limp.
"Told you," the friend says, knocking back another shot. There's that song again. Long drives, cold beers, hot girls. My reflexes are slow, leaden with the alcohol. I don't stop him when he reaches for me, digs into my pockets. Pulls out the remaining hot sauce, the polaroid. Examines it closely.
"Who is this?" He sneers at the picture, appraising. "Hot." It's Tanya on my lap, taken at a party. It's the last thing I have. My trigger. My tackle throws him sideways, surprising the both of us. We go down together, tumbling into barstools, tables, landing with a combined grunt on the sticky floor. Automatically, the atmosphere transforms. Animalistic. We roll atop each other. It's a lawless fight, full of cheap shots and grappling. Teeth on skin, fingers in hair, yanked. He twists and lands atop me, presses me to the floor. I wheeze underneath the pressure of his forearm on my windpipe. Knee to groin and he tumbles over again. Now I am truly unleashed. Now there is nothing but my fists, their curve, the thumb tucked beneath the fingers. The way it feels when my knuckles ram into his face over and over and over. How, at first, there is little give. But then the bones transform, become soft and mealy. Tender, loving.
Strong arms pull me back, hook beneath my shoulders and yank. I am flailing against them, furious with my captors. The driver lays limp on the ground, unmoving.
"Fucking psychopath," I hear someone say. There are blue and red lights. Time is passing in montage. The polaroid on the ground. The last thing I have, leading me to a jail cell. I snatch it up, pepper it with blood. I will clean it. Handcuffs in the backseat. Where are you, John? Where am I? The automatic voice provides the answer without me needing to. It's a preface for my desperation after calling the only number I know by heart. Would you like to accept a call from the Deschutes County Sheriff's Office?
Esme on the other end of the line, reassuring. I'm coming to get you. One of my eyes is swollen shut. With the good one, I can see through the bars of my holding cell. My world is so large, yet so small. I am trapped within it. I must let go. I am blind to destiny, no matter how obviously it seeks me out. On the desk of the officer on duty is a Bible, King James. Its cover worn, cloth bookmark hanging loose like the tongue of a snake. It's strange, how little I know. About this part of the country. About who resides in it, waiting. About how, so nearby, so close, outside of the Bible and in the real world, there is a self-proclaimed Garden of Eden, no apples, no snakes. No Eve. Only an endless line of Bellas, mother before her and daughter after.
x
"Edward?" She's surprised. I can barely hear her. Two bars of service. "Where are you?"
Where are you, John?
Before me, the sky is still dark. Smoke spewing from the engine. I'm frozen, still locked in by the seat belt. A police officer taps on my closed window with the butt of his flashlight, flips it and shines the spotlight on me. I squint, feeling myself under scrutiny, locked in high definition.
"Come down from the truck, sir." His order, muffled through the glass. I'm panicking. I take a breath.
"Bella," I say into the phone, unsure if she can hear me.
"I'm here," she confirms, but it's crackly and distant. "Where are you?"
Where are you, John?
I'm in this country! In this country built for the automobile! I unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door, stumble to the gravelly sand below. Runaway truck ramp. My boots sink deep. I am tired.
"Can you hang up your phone please, sir?" The cop in silhouette, light still shined on me. I continue to squint. "You're not in any trouble, we just want to ask a few questions. Make sure you're okay." In my ears there is a ringing, the screech of failed brakes. A keening wail.
"Edward." Her voice through the phone, tinny.
"I'm coming. I'm coming home," I say, rushed, unsure if she can hear me. Running toward instead of away. There is no response. "Bella?" A chime, the flash of a message on the screen. Call lost. "Fuck," I curse, dropping the phone to the ground. The truck is hot behind me. It emanates heat like a midnight sun. Another police officer arrives behind the first. Shorter in stature, female.
"You're in shock, sir. Can you come with us? We need to move away from the vehicle." She reaches out a hand, wedding band on her fourth finger. I wonder if there is an imprint. Inside my pocket, Bella's still holds weight. I move forward on clumsy feet like trudging through snow. The cops look relieved as we make our descent down the slope to where their cars cluster, lights still flashing. The tires of the truck left deep-cut grooves. I walk inside their scars.
The officer turns to me, her face red then blue then red then blue.
"You have your license on you?" she asks, finger on her walkie, ready to relay information. I fish my wallet from my pocket, hand her the card. "John Doe," she reads, holding it up, comparing the photo to my face.
"Edward," I correct her quickly. "My name is Edward."
x
are y'all too busy reading Midnight Sun to read this? couldn't help give it a lil nod ;)