Runaway
Chapter Two
Behold the Power of Cheese
By: VincentM
Dear Virgil,
Well, this is my first letter to you from out on the road. I have to tell you... all those movies of the week we watched and the books we read about kids going on road trips to find themselves? Total fiction. This isn't some grand adventure. It's hard, scary, stressful, and smelly.
The smelly is mostly due to the fact that I really need a shower. Cherish your hot water, bro. It's hard to come by when all you've got is two hundred dollars in your pocket, fifty of which you just blew on a bus ticket and a futile attempt to buy stale Cheetos. Also, having people chasing you makes it difficult to relax enough to where you're not imagining being a vital part in a reenactment of a particular scene in "Psycho", but I'll come back to that later.
I've already started to meet some interesting people. By interesting, I mostly mean annoying, but it's giving me some insight into the human condition. I actually started keeping a journal about it. Maybe when I get home, I'll turn it into a book, get featured on Oprah, and make us both a couple of million dollars. I've already got the first chapter written.
It begins with cheese.
"Do you want my cheese?"
Richie suddenly found an odiferous white box of what he assumed was cheese shoved under his nose. It didn't go well with the omnipresent scent of trash, urine, and body odor that hung like a sickly fog around the South Central Dakota Bus Station. Granted, Richie didn't think any scent could go well with that particular aroma, but if such a scent existed, he knew for certain it was not cheese.
"No, thanks," he said, gently pushing the box away and inching forward slightly in line to put a little distance between himself and the pudgy, frizzy-haired, middle-aged woman that held it.
"My kids gave me this cheese as a going away present," she said, stepping forward as Richie did, completely ruining his efforts. "They know I'm lactose intolerant."
"Do they?" Richie replied idly, not exactly listening. A creepy looking man in a dark coat with shiny, high-polished black shoes sitting on a dirty bench was staring at him from behind a newspaper. Richie shouldered his oversized rucksack a little higher, shrinking down as much as possible into his trenchcoat. Making eye contact didn't seem like a good idea.
"Yes." The woman leaned closer, her heavy, floral-scented perfume making Richie's nose twitch. Maybe she wore it to go with the dumpy floral dress that hung on her body like a circus tent missing its supporting poles. "I think they're trying to kill me," she whispered in a conspiring tone.
"Why's that?" Richie asked before he could stop himself. Making conversation with strangers didn't seem like a good idea, either.
"They want their inheritance," she said solemnly. "They don't know I've already left everything to my cats."
"Next!"
Richie breathed a sigh of relief, practically jogging up to the ticket window. A bored looking young woman stared at him impassively through a sheet of dirty, bulletproof glass, chewing nosily on sweet-smelling bubblegum. Several silver hoops stuck out of her ears, all of them far too large to be considered fashionable.
"Destination?" she asked, blowing a giant pink bubble. It exploded, bits sticking to the bulletproof glass. She wiped it off with her shirtsleeve.
Destination. Right. Richie needed one of those. He didn't think telling her that anyplace far away and fast would work. He quickly studied the rickety board behind her, ignoring her not-so-subtle hints that he should hurry it along.
The sheer force of the reality of the situation chose that moment to hit Richie in a way that was not unlike having a building fall on him, which he could completely relate to since this afternoon. In a few moments, he would tell her the name of some city, be on a bus, and leaving Dakota. Maybe forever.
Richie contemplated exactly such a scenario before, but never like this. The one he'd planned in his head involved not only himself, but also Virgil, possibly a classic convertible of some sort, lots of money in his pockets, and himself cheerfully flipping his father the bird as the two of them tore off down the road to find their futures. It never involved dirty bus stations or people chasing him with the intention of taking off his skull and picking out pieces of his brain for study under a microscope.
He was going it alone. Virgil wanted to come along, almost insisted on it while Richie ran around the gas station packing, and he still didn't know how he talked the other boy out of it. It could have been anything, from his passionate reminders of how much his family needed him, to the joking about how Hotstreak would take over the city in his absence. In the end, though, Virgil agreed to stay behind and Richie took off alone for the worst part of town to the bus station he was currently more or less loitering in.
He'd done his best to throw them off the trail over the past year. Richie knew just how interested in him Alva's former scientists, now gone rogue, were in the way the Bang Baby gas affected his body and mind. From spying on their supposedly secure network, Richie knew exactly what they had planned: Figure out how his brain was affected, duplicate it, patent the process, and sell the information to the highest bidder, regardless of their ethical leanings.
The effects were potentially devastating.
Richie wouldn't let them. He couldn't. He wanted to believe he was being noble, thinking about the fate of the world, but between his island getaway, being kidnapped by a man obsessed with nanites, and having his brained turned into a processor for a psychotic computer program, Richie decided he'd had enough being strapped to tables for one lifetime.
Everything since he woke up in the hospital, since he knew he was in trouble, passed by in a rushed panic. He could only wrap his mind around short-term plans and goals, figuring out what he needed to do that second, that minute, that hour. Now, the future loomed, so uncertain, so outside of his realm of experience, that it scared the hell out of him.
"Destination?" the girl repeated, clearly getting irritated.
As much as Richie wished he could curl up in a ball on the floor, though maybe not this particular floor since it was covered in some indefinable gunk, he knew his time was up.
"The 12:12 to Boston, please," he said, his voice sounding as though it was coming from somewhere far, far away.
The girl nodded, typing something rapidly on the keyboard in front of her. A small ticket printed out of a slot on the table. "That'll be forty-seven dollars."
Richie sighed and dug around in his pocket, pulling out two neatly folded twenties and a ten, sliding them into the little drawer at the base of the counter. The rest of his money was secured in a money pouch under his shirt. Two years of fighting crime told him he could trust people about as far as Superman could throw them.
The girl gave him back two very old ones and one Sacajawea dollar. He stared hopelessly at the golden coin. If there was ever a stupider form of currency, Richie hadn't found it. Those damn things were useless, but at least they didn't look like quarters, like the Susan B. Anthony's.
He put it in his front pocket anyway, still holding the crumpled, stained ones in his hand.
Richie left the counter when the girl shouted for the next person, hurrying for his bus. A quick glance at his watch told him he had all of five minutes to be on it. At that moment, though, a vending machine caught his eye. It beckoned to him, like a sweet siren of old, and Richie felt his stomach remind him audibly that he hadn't eaten a thing since lunch at school nearly twelve hours ago. His logical mind told him he could spare a few seconds to provide his body with chemical-laden, pseudo-sustenance.
The machine ate his first dollar.
It spit out the second one several times, as if it couldn't decide if what Richie was shoving into it was a dollar or not. If he didn't know better, he could swear the thing was mocking him. He tried again, first straightening the dollar along the edge of the machine in a rough, hurried gesture, nearly ripping the faded bill. He put it in again, prayed, and let out a shout of joy that drew odd stares when the machine finally accepted it. Pressing B7 with reverence, he practically drooled at the artificially flavored and colored, cheese-like, corn-based snacks that he would soon be digesting in his stomach.
The Cheetos never fell, getting stuck halfway.
Richie moaned, the loss like a physical blow, and he banged his head against the metal bars covering the front of the machine. He caught sight of his watch again and realized he didn't have any more time to mess with it. Resigning himself to the fact that he'd be hungry the first leg of the eight-hour bus ride to Boston, he left the snack machine behind, running for the yard.
The invisible cloud of burning diesel fuel attacked every one of his senses as he dashed between the busses, looking for his own. It made his skin feel oily and he was certain his lungs were now a not-so-healthy shade of black. Finally, he found his bus. Richie threw his rucksack into the undercarriage bin, knowing Backpack was sturdy enough to handle the rough treatment, and dashed up the steps.
The bus driver tore his ticket without looking at it. Richie made his way down the aisle, looking for a place to sit. There were only two seats unoccupied, right next to each other. The reason for this was clear. In the third seat sat a twitchy junky with rapidly darting eyes, muttering to himself. Not seeing any other option, Richie took the seat on the aisle.
"Last call!" the bus driver shouted just as Richie sat down. He almost closed the door, when another person came up the steps.
It was the cheesy cat lady. She laboriously made her way into the bus, said something to the bus driver, who ignored her, and she looked down the bus for her own seat.
Richie sighed and moved over next to the junky without being asked. He looked at Richie suspiciously and elbowed him in the ribs. The flowery woman with the murderous children squeezed down the aisle, taking up her seat as well as half of Richie's as she sat down. The junky elbowed him again.
"Are you sure you don't want my cheese?" she asked Richie.
The bus lurched forward, the scent of exhaust filling the small space. Richie rubbed at his watering eyes. The junky elbowed him again and, when Richie glared, looked away quickly, staring out the window. The woman shook her box of cheese in front of his face.
"Sure," Richie said, taking the box from her.
He'd done it. He looked out the window as they pulled onto the freeway, watching as they flew past a sign that read "Now Leaving Dakota". The city lights started to fade and Richie slumped down in his seat, nibbling on warm cheddar, covering his ribs with one hand to avoid them getting elbowed, and nodding occasionally as the woman began showing him pictures of all of her cats.
I have to tell you, bro, riding in a bus for four hours straight doesn't exactly rank up there with things I ever want to do again. Don't get me wrong - it was rank. Remember how I described the smell of the bus station? Okay, now concentrate that a hundred times in a very small space. Yeah, rank is a good word to describe it, along with hot, stuffy, and miserable.
The junky started talking to me after about hour two. Well, I think he was talking to me. He may have been talking to someone else who he believed me to be. All I know is that he kept calling me Jack and accused me of sleeping with his sister. It got to the point where I almost wished I had slept with his sister just to piss him off.
... wow. That was harsh. Can you tell this is starting to get to me? Okay, I'll calm down. I don't want to worry you, man.
The bus I was on didn't go straight to my destination. We had a layover in some middle-of-nowhere town whose name I can't remember. The town was pretty much the bus station and a convenience store. I don't know why they put a bus station in the middle-of-nowhere. It doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. From what I can tell, all the busses stop here and they make everybody stand around for several hours, confuse the luggage, then move everyone from one bus to another for no reason. There are no new riders.
I really, really don't get it.
Anyway, it was about this time I decided to end my journey by bus. There were a number of reasons for this - a man can only look at so many pictures of the same cats before he starts feeling homicidal. Besides, walking is healthier. And...
Okay, there was a little excitement at the layover. Nothing you need to worry about, V. Really. I promise.
The woman in the flowered dress screamed as Richie ran past her and leapt over the bench, his heavy rucksack banging painfully against his back. Three men chased after him, one the strange guy in the black suit he saw at the Dakota station. The layover station was small and there wasn't anyplace to go. Richie bought himself some time by dashing around, ducking under the arms that tried to grab him, occasionally using the rucksack containing Backpack as a kind of weapon.
A panic started filtering through the crowd awaiting their bus changes, people constantly getting in Richie's way as he tried to escape the men. He plowed into a man dressed in overalls, going down in a tangle of limbs. One of the men grabbed Richie by the back of his collar, grabbing and twisting the fabric, temporarily cutting off his air. The sharp end of a syringe glinted in the flickering sulfur lights above.
"Jack! Jack!"
The junky took a running leap at the man who held him, inadvertently taking down the two others as well. He wrapped his arms around the man's neck and he let go of Richie in surprise. The junky held on tight, gesturing wildly at Richie with nods of his head.
"Go, Jack, go!" he shouted. "The feds found your stash, man! You gotta get out of here! The hell if I'm going to let you go to prison after you knocked up my sister!"
Richie rubbed at his sore throat, but didn't need any further coaxing. Grabbing his rucksack, he ran straight for the exit to the bus yard. He could hear the men following him soon after.
The busses stood in rows, the area barely lit by the occasional headlamp left on. He dodged between the maze of rumbling, smoking vehicles, making turns at random, crawling under the buses, nearly falling several times as he slipped between the dim, hazy patches of light. The men lost him, but he could hear their shouts close by. They were splitting up, intending to comb the entire area. There were obviously more than three of them.
He crouched in the shadow of a massive wheel, holding the breath he so desperately wanted to suck in and out, afraid to make a noise. Glancing under the bus, he saw polished black shoes on the other side, shining gently in the light from the bus station behind them. They belonged to the original man with the newspaper. He took several steps, then stopped right across from where he was hiding. Richie's heart pounded in his ears, he thought he'd been spotted, at least until the man spoke.
"Foley!" his voice boomed across the yard. "I know you're still hiding around here. Come out! We just want to talk."
That made Richie smile. It was a nervous, slightly grim smile, but a smile none the less. They just wanted to talk. Right. That's why they ambushed him in a bus station and attempted to drug him. Sure. And he was Catwoman.
"You can't hide forever!" the man went on. "We will track you down. It's only a matter of time."
Shiny Shoe Man started to walk around the side of the bus. Richie inched on his hands and knees further into the shadows, taking a risk and dashing to the next bus over, crawling underneath it. The bus's clearance from the ground was high, but not high enough so he couldn't feel the extreme heat of the engine radiating onto his skin. A drop of oil splashed onto his glasses and he closed his eyes. He didn't need to see to know the man with the shiny shoes now stood the place he'd previously been hiding.
"You're a smart boy," the man said. "Maybe you think you're smart enough to hide from us. Maybe you are. But even the smartest people make mistakes. We will find you eventually and it would go much easier for you if you cooperate now."
Raising his hand to wipe the oil off of his lens, Richie bit back a hiss as the back of his hand touched the engine block, burning his skin. He turned his head to the left, biting his bottom lip to keep from crying out, looking with watering eyes out across the bus yard. A thick line of trees stood at the edge of the clearing. Tall and scrubby, the forest didn't look especially old and Richie didn't even know how far back it went. It might go only a few feet before opening up into another field, or a ravine, or a river, or a freeway, but it looked like Richie's only way out.
Going flat on his stomach, Richie crawled through the muddy ground, the grass unable to grow in a place where heavy busses rolled over it constantly, their fuel soaking into the soil. Arm over arm, he moved away, fearful of going too slow, but more fearful of giving away his position. The dark foreboding tree line looked like an oasis.
He ran out of busses to hide behind. If he got up and ran now, he'd be spotted instantly. With a sense of loss, he reached into his pocket and drew out a single, modified zap cap. He didn't have very many of them. Who knew when he'd get a chance to make more? This wasn't like a battle with metahumans in Dakota. He couldn't go back and retrieve the zap caps he'd thrown.
This one would have to count.
With mathematical precision, Richie rolled the zap cap under the busses, watching as it came to a stop near the feet of Shiny Shoes Man. The man didn't see it, still yelling for Richie to come out. He counted backwards to ten, precise intervals of time between each digit, and when he reached three, he got to his feet and ran for the woods.
The men saw him at once, yells rising up from between the busses, the sound of feet slapping into the muddy ground as they chased after him. At exactly the silent count of "one" in Richie's head, the zap cap exploded. Even though he was heading straight for some very sturdy looking trees, Richie briefly closed his eyes.
Even behind his lids, he could see the light. Intense white light filled his eyes and he heard the men screaming as they were temporarily blinded. The flash lasted only a few seconds, but it was more than enough to incapacitate his chasers.
Without looking back, Richie plunged into the woods, not caring as twigs, branches, and thorny-things ripped at his clothes and skin.
They call cities urban jungles, bro. I don't think that's such a great description anymore. Sure, the city is like a jungle in some ways, but after spending five days hiding in dense, thorny, poison oak-filled woods, I'll take the fear of walking down Ramone Street at two am any time. It's amazing how much we take for granted.
Remember me mentioning that I needed a bath? You should have seen me, man. Covered in mud, smelling like diesel and god knows what else, scratches and cuts on every bare part bit of skin, my hair sticking up in all directions and not in the cool way... I looked like I just crawled out of a horror film.
Or like I just crawled out of the woods after spending a fun-filled evening or six hiding from potential kidnappers. You know. Whichever.
I think it's safe to say I'm not cut out for this country life. I don't know what's safe to eat or what's safe to drink. I really started missing Burger Fool when I spent the better part of one morning contemplating if eating these red berries I found was a good idea or not. I'm writing this letter to you now, so I'm guessing they weren't poisonous, but they certainly didn't taste good.
We think we're big and tough city dwellers, who live on the mean side of the tracks and daily face horrible gang crimes and psychotic metahumans. I realize now how smug I was about my life, and that I thought folks living out in the safety of suburbia and the country must be simple and stupid people. After all, I'm a skinny white boy living in the inner city. I could handle anything.
I'm thinking now that a country boy could kick my ass with ease.
Eventually, I ran out of forest. I walked across several big, empty fields, got chased by a herd of emu, learned the fine art of climbing over barbed wire, and found myself walking along the edge of a lonely highway. I saw maybe all of three vehicles the four days I walked down that road, but they never saw me. I got pretty adept at jumping into the tall grass and keeping still until they passed.
It's strange, being by myself. It's not something that ever happens living in a city. Even if you go someplace to be alone, odds are, there are still people around in the background. You always hear the noises of the city around you - busses, police sirens, gun shots, car doors slamming, etc.
The country is noisy too, but in a completely different way. I kept hearing strange animals and birds, the sound of the wind rustling through the grass, and at first it freaked me out. I got used to it eventually, though. That meant I had four days alone with just my thoughts to keep me company.
I have a lot of thoughts.
You know I talk a lot. I babble, I wax poetic, and you've told me I even mumble in my sleep, which I'm still not sure I believe, by the way. I think that's why I called you so much, even though I know it annoyed you sometimes. I needed to talk to somebody, anybody, because otherwise I'd be talking to myself, and that's not a good sign in terms of my mental health.
Nowadays, I find myself talking to Backpack a lot. I let it out and it walked along side me as I made my way down the road, kind of like a loyal pet, and I just babbled at it. Maybe it's crazy, but I think it's the only thing keeping me sane.
Which... is kind of ironic, in a way, but it's probably better we don't dwell on it too much.
At first, my mind whirled about with thoughts of science and innovation. I've got so many great ideas, man, things that would revolutionize the very world we live in. My fingers itched to create and I never wanted to see that old gas station with my makeshift lab more than ever in those first few days. I drew sketches in the mud along the side of the road, wiping them clean with my foot before I moved on. I don't have that much paper and I didn't want to waste it, since I wanted to write to you instead.
After awhile, though, my mind skipped over to a completely different train of thought, one I don't care for in the least and that I've spent the better part of my life avoiding.
I realize now I was using you. I was using you, your dad, and even Sharon, to some extent. I used your transformation into Static at first, and when I became Gear, I threw myself heart and soul into that. Be it video games, comic books, dinners with your family, or fighting crime, I used it all, every bit of it, to runaway from the hard truths I didn't want to face.
All alone on the road with nothing to do but walk and think, those hard truths danced about in front of me like a fever dream and I ran out of places to run.
I love my father. I honestly do. I don't like him at all and, truth be told, I utterly despise him, but I still love him. It's a strange conflict to deal with. He doesn't understand me and I'm not the son he wanted, never will be the son he wanted, and because of that, I think he finds it hard to like me. I'm a failure in his eyes and it's something I've never been able to accept.
It makes me angry, sometimes, so angry all I can see is red. I used to just put up with him, with his belittling and racist comments, but I felt so damn guilty. There were days when I could barely look you in the eyes, my father's hateful words ringing in my ears and shame cutting me deep through my soul because I never said anything.
He kept antagonizing me and I suspect he did it on purpose. He wanted to make me angry, to draw something out of me he could identify with, something he could understand. My quiet capitulation must have looked like a weakness, even though your father always taught me it was a strength. Talk about confusing.
I don't want to be him, Virgil. I don't want to be anything like him. Yet, that anger he pulls out of me is exactly who he is, who I am at my most real. I don't think it has anything to do with his prejudice, but rather that he's just an angry, angry man lashing out at any convenient target. Who's to say I'm any different? I just beat up metahumans instead.
Even with my hyper intelligence, I feel out of control. It deifies all logic. It's not something I can reason away, for all that I've written here. It's just a part of me I have to learn to accept.
Maybe I was wrong, V. Maybe, like those movies we once watched, this is a kind of grand adventure to help me discover who Richie Foley is and what kind of man he wants to be. There's an old aboriginal tradition known as "Walkabout" that comes to mind.
When you feel like you've been separated from yourself, you leave everything behind, everything, and start walking. You keep walking until you meet yourself. Then you sit down and have a long talk. You talk about what you've learned, what you've felt, what you think you understand. You talk until you run out of words. It's necessary, because the most important things can never be spoken. Finally, if you're lucky, you look up and there's just you.
Then you can go home.
I'm going to keep walking until I find myself. I'm going to have a nice, long, hard talk with myself until I feel whole again, until I find peace. It's something I have to do. It'll be hard, it'll be difficult, but I know I'm not alone. I have your friendship to carry me through, the happy memories we shared and the one's we've yet to make in the future lingering at the front of my mind. Also, I think I found a guide, spiritually, if not physically.
I just didn't realize it until I almost traded her for a hot dog.
His legs felt like lead. Walking had long since become automatic, a rhythmic, steady stride composed of putting on foot in front of the other and trying not to stop. Richie feared if he stopped, he might not be able to muster the strength necessary to continue. So, he just kept walking.
With each exhale, his breath coalesced in a misty cloud. The monochromatic sky overhead hung heavily above, feeling too close, an oppressive gray in color with no sign of the sun in sight. From the clouds dripped a consistent flow of chilly, tiny droplets. The rain had been falling for days and it didn't look like it intended to stop anytime soon. Richie's clothes were so sodden, he barely felt the water striking him.
He'd long since given up trying to wipe the moisture from his scratched, fogged glasses. There wasn't anything worth looking at anyway. The long gray highway stretched on straight to infinity, the tall, dry and crackling shoulder-high weeds at either side of the road going on just as long. The puddles he stepped in didn't bother his already numb feet. The only real splash of color on the landscape was his red rucksack, which no longer felt like a burden on his shoulder, but instead had become an extension of his body.
He had no concept of time. His watch ticked its last when he slipped in the woods several days ago straight into a creek. He'd hated being wet then, but the next morning it started raining and hadn't stopped. Backpack possessed an internal chronometer, but Richie turned off the robot, needing to conserve its energy reserves in case of a real emergency. It was, effectively, a dead weight in his pack.
His mind wandered idly, not picking any specific thing to think about. He trudged forward in an unblinking haze, too hungry to notice his hunger, too tired to notice his exhaustion. His body felt like a separate entity, his mind no longer taking any interest in it.
As a result, he didn't register the gas station until he'd passed it by about seven yards.
His mind sent out the alert to the rest of him, a bit belatedly, and Richie spun around, nearly slipping in the mud. He blinked at the gas station, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then blinked at it again. It wasn't fading away or doing anything a gas station shouldn't do, so it wasn't a mirage. It was really there.
Richie thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Letting out a hoarse shout of delight, he hurried as fast as his exhausted body would let him back to the little store. A single, rusty pick-up truck sat out in front, the light shining out from the glass windows pulling him like a moth to a flame. The sound of the bell ringing as he pulled open the door reminded him of singing angels and Richie basked in the blessed warmth of the heater, wiping his feet in a hopeless, but automatic gesture, before stepping into the store and letting the door slam behind him.
An old man behind the counter lowered the paper he held in his gnarled hands, dark eyes studying Richie intently, nearly hidden under bushy white eyebrows. He chewed distastefully, then spit on the floor, a metal ting telling Richie he had a spittoon under there.
Trying to look as dignified and sane as possible, not an easy task when he was covered in mud, leaves, and completely sodden, Richie approached him.
"Could I get a key to the bathroom?" he asked hopefully.
The old man spit again. "Bathroom's for paying customers only," he said, his voice a near growl.
Richie nodded and backed away from the counter, going towards the shelves. He heard the paper rustle and the old man appeared to be reading from it again, but Richie could feel the dark eyes following his every move. He was careful not to let his hands stray near his pockets, not wanting the man to think he was shoplifting.
The store had a fairly good selection of items, although they were all grossly overpriced. Richie selected a travel-sized bottle of shampoo and a miniature tube of toothpaste with a toothbrush included. He also grabbed a small bar of soap and a tiny box of laundry detergent.
Walking over to housewares, he took a small box of plastic zip-loc bags and a somewhat sharp looking utility knife. The grocery aisle held him up for a few minutes. Buying food was tricky. He couldn't buy anything that would spoil and nothing that was too heavy. He didn't dare trust his complete lack of wilderness skills, so building a fire to even boil water for instant oatmeal seemed like a bad idea. Leaving the grocery aisle behind, he decided to contemplate his purchases while he was in the bathroom, hopefully while getting a chance to clean up a little.
He carried the items to the counter, dropping them in front of the old man. He didn't lower his paper right away and Richie waited patiently, even while he was aware he was dripping on the man's floor. Finally, the old man looked at him, looked at what he intended to buy, then spit again.
"You got any money?" he asked gruffly.
Richie nodded, setting his rucksack on the ground and reaching under his shirt. From the money pouch, he drew out a soggy twenty-dollar bill, handing it limply to the man. He took it between two fingers, held it up to the light, then nodded and set about ringing up his items.
The cash register was an old, dusty thing, with a pull handle and little tabs that popped up on top to give the amount due. It rang and clanged and cha-chinged loudly, echoing in the empty little store. For some reason, the sound made everything seem more real to Richie.
The man changed his money without announcing the actual cost, which was just under ten dollars, handing him back a crisp, clean ten-dollar bill. He put Richie's things in a plastic bag, upon which was written that the store thanked him for his purchase. Almost as an afterthought, the man grabbed the key from under the counter and flung it at Richie, who caught it with a quick flash of his reflexes.
A nod from the old man told Richie he'd impressed him at least a little.
"Bathroom's in the back," he said, jerking his thumb at an unlabeled door. "Gotta jiggle the handle on the commode. It ain't flushed right otherwise since '77."
"Thanks," Richie said sincerely, taking his bag and his rucksack and going straight for the door. The lock opened with ease, the door swinging open on noiseless hinges. Maybe the old man didn't do a lot of business, but Richie saw that he clearly loved his store and took good care of it. It had to be the cleanest gas station bathroom Richie had ever seen, at least.
The first thing he did was strip off all of his clothes. He ran the water in the sink, stuffing a few paper towels in the drain so it filled, adding a small amount of the laundry detergent. He washed the mud off his shirt, his jeans, shoes, and his trenchcoat as best he could, but they remained permanently stained and probably would remain so until he could get to a proper laundromat.
An electric hand dryer hung on the wall and Richie yanked off the side panel, using the non-metal end of the utility knife to change the settings so it wouldn't turn off after thirty seconds. Creating a makeshift drying rack from a loose towel bar, Richie laid his clothes across it and let the hot air blow over them. With any luck, they'd be a little dry before he set off again, not that it really mattered since he was heading straight back out into the rain. He guessed it was the principal of the thing.
Taking the soap and another paper towel, he washed himself off as best as he could with the cold water, scrubbing every where he could reach, concentrating on his face and hands. Satisfied with what he had accomplished thus far, Richie grabbed the shampoo, maneuvered his head under the faucet, and washed his hair. It felt fantastic. The hand dryer served as an admirable hairdryer as well, he discovered.
Giving the toothbrush a little wave, he triumphantly brushed his pearly-whites, spitting the excess paste into the sink, and grinning at himself in the mirror. He nearly laughed at himself. Clean teeth, clean body, and clean clothes... when had such things felt like a reason to celebrate? Life on the road was certainly different from home.
Nothing, however, compared to the fantastic experience of using a real toilet with real toilet paper after living off the land for a week and a half.
His clothes finally seemed dry-ish. At the very least, they were less wet, which Richie saw as a vast improvement. He put them back on, then fixed the hand dryer so it turned off. Opening his rucksack, amazed to see that everything inside was still dry, he activated Backpack. The robot's green electronic eye blinking up at him felt like a friendly hello. Plugging the robot into the nearest outlet to charge, he took a small wrench from one of its hidden compartments and set about fixing the toilet.
Once the handle no longer needed to be jiggled to achieve maximum flushitude, Richie took a few minutes and cleaned the entire bathroom, top to bottom, until every spot of mud he'd tracked in was history. It looked as clean as when he'd first entered it. It made him feel a little less like the leech he was, especially since Backpack was sucking so much juice out of the wall.
Deciding that his robot buddy had charged enough, he coaxed it back into his rucksack, and deactivated it once more. The light blinking out made his heart hurt a little. He quickly zipped the rucksack closed so he wouldn't have to look at the idle machine, but not before tossing his now zip-lock enclosed bathroom necessities inside on top.
Somewhat clean, mostly dry, and minty-fresh, Richie shouldered his rucksack and left the bathroom, almost feeling like a real person again. The old man was still sitting at the counter, still reading the newspaper, like he hadn't moved at all. Richie knew that wasn't true, though, because the entire store was spotless, every puddle Richie dripped now soaked into the barely significant mop propped up in the corner.
Richie threw the keys back to him. The old man snatched them out of the air without so much as lowering his paper. It made Richie grin.
Heading back to the grocery aisle, his head feeling much clearer now that his body was cleaner, he started to browse the shelves, calculating weights, nutrition, and spoilage dates. The sound of the bell at the front door startled him momentarily and he poked his head up over a four-dollar box of Froot Loops. A woman stood inside the store, stomping her booted feet on the mat.
"Amos, you old badger!" she boomed, going up to the old man who stared at her impassively. "Your diesel's runnin' damn slow!"
"Waitin' on a fuel delivery," the old man, now Amos, Richie amended in his mind, said as he turned to the next page in his paper. He spit once more. "Can't be helped, Jackie."
"Bull," the woman returned, but she didn't look upset. "You're just too cheap to get the filters changed. Don't lie to me, badger."
Amos only shrugged and Jackie laughed.
Richie looked at her in shock, her loud voice and boisterous attitude sending a jolt through his system. She was a short woman, older, probably in her mid-sixties. Her long white hair was tied at a ponytail at the base of her neck. She wore several layers of clashing flannel and a pair of jeans that looked liked they were at least half as old as she was. She turned to start browsing the store, then finally caught sight of Richie.
She dismissed him completely half a second later.
"Here, Amos. I brought you a bat," she said and Richie looked up again in confusion. The woman held a rubber novelty bat in her hand from an elastic string. When she moved her hand up and down, its wings flapped.
Amos spit. "Take that thing outta here," he grumped.
Jackie ignored him, reaching up and hanging it from a low hook on the ceiling in front of a glowing, round, neon Budweiser sign.
"Where's your Halloween spirit?" she asked him, going back to lean against the counter. "Two days away and I don't see a plastic skeleton or a pumpkin in sight. Besides, I got a ton of them in a rig and I hate to drag 'em all the way back to Canton."
With a shake of his head, Amos sniffed and buried himself back in his paper. Clearly, Jackie had just gotten her way. She grinned at no one in particular, then turned and winked at Richie.
Richie ducked back into the shelves and resumed his shopping. Grabbing several packages of ramen, some peanut butter crackers, a bag of trail mix, and two bottles of water, he juggled the lot up to the counter. A rack of fifty-cent Slim Jim knock-offs caught his eye and he grabbed a few, determined not to look at the ingredients.
"Excuse me, miss," he said to Jackie, who looked amused and a little startled. Richie didn't know if it was because he asked her to move, because he called her 'miss', or because he was being so polite. His stomach clenched and he didn't care to worry about it. Even eating dry ramen noodles sounded good, which is what he intended to do as soon as he paid for them.
Amos rang him up quickly, for which Richie was thankful for, because he could feel Jackie's eyes burrowing into the side of his head.
"Nine-fifty," he said and Richie started to hand him the ten he'd received in change earlier, then paused, looking over at the hotdogs.
He shouldn't waste his money. The food he got would carry him for at least another four days, if he rationed it carefully. He had plenty of cash left, but he knew that once he ran out, which he estimated would be far too soon, he'd be screwed. The further he could stretch it, the better. That meant not throwing it away on over-priced hotdogs, no matter how good they smelled.
But they did smell really, really good.
"Can you add a hotdog to that?" Richie asked, looking back at Amos, somehow not surprised to see he already had.
"Ten fifty-two," Amos said.
Richie dug around in his pocket, coming up short on the change, he thought, until he noticed the Sacajawea dollar. Smiling, he handed it over. At least he didn't have to break another twenty.
Amos squinted down at the coin, spit, then said, "What's this? Play money?"
"No," Richie said defensively. "It's a Sacajawea dollar. It's real US currency."
Amos snorted. "Sacaja-who-a?"
"Sacajawea." Richie took the coin back, flipping it over on his palm. The noble, serene faces of mother and child smiled up back at him. "She was a Native American woman that lived in the early 1800's, a member of the Shoshoni tribe. In the early nineteenth century, she became part of the Lewis and Clark expedition, whose mission was to find a land route to the Pacific Ocean. With her knowledge, experience, and translation skills, she kept the party on track, well fed, and well supplied. Strangers in a strange land, she helped to guide the party, a true leader with her cool head and temperance."
Jackie, who had been listening in, looked carefully at the coin. "Wow," she said quietly.
Amos only sniffed again. "Money's money," he said, taking the coin from Richie's hand.
Before he could drop it into the cash register, Jake snatched it back out of his hand, looking at it intently for a moment more, then pressed it into Richie's palm. She dug into her own pocket and pulled out several bills, dropping them on the counter. Richie looked at her in confusion.
"She sounds like a classy lady," Jackie explained, "and you look like you could use a guide like that in your life. Keep her. I got it covered." She tapped the counter, snapping her fingers at Amos. "Kid's got the right idea. Ring up two more of them hot dogs, badger. I'll make 'em up for me and Bo."
Amos shrugged and took her money before Richie could protest. He turned, prepared to offer Jackie the difference in price, but she was already gone, off to fetch her hot dogs. Riche slipped the golden dollar into his pocket. It felt strangely heavy.
Tossing the rest of his purchases into his rucksack, he lifted it once more, intending to speak with the woman. He didn't want to owe anybody anything. The moment he opened his mouth, though, she looked at him over her shoulder, giving him a warm, motherly smile.
"You need a lift, kid?" she asked, slathering an unbelievable amount of ketchup on one of the dogs. "We got room in the rig for one more."
Richie didn't know what to say to that. Horrific tales inspired by gruesome after school specials told him that children should never, ever take rides from strangers. That's how one ended up dead in a ditch somewhere, as his mother was quick to remind him.
It was more than the possibility of ditch-death, though. Jackie hardly looked like the serial killer type. In fact, she looked more like his grandmother, if his grandmother had been a trucker, of course. No, Richie was more worried about his own situation, which ran deep and already proved to be extremely dangerous so far. He didn't want the kindness of a stranger to be repaid in tragedy.
"Thank you, but..." Richie started, but Jackie cut him off.
"The small towns probably ain't what you're lookin' for," she said, "but we're passing through Gotham in about three weeks."
"Gotham?" Richie repeated, and the moment the word left his mouth, a loud clap of thunder sounded outside. He looked out the window, startled to see the sky had turned against him during his short time in the gas station, the gray clouds replaced with rolling black ones. It certainly did not look like weather that encouraged sleeping on the side of the road.
A second arc of lightning tore across the sky, but his time, Richie's eyes became transfixed on the rubber novelty bat Jackie hung from the ceiling earlier. It swayed slightly in the draft from the heater, its wings moving gently up and down, almost as though it was alive. A third crack of lightning lit it dramatically from behind.
Gotham.
"Sure, I could use a lift," Richie told her as she approached.
"Great." Jackie clapped him on the shoulder, then hustled him toward the door. "See you in a month, Amos," she called back to the old man. "Get those damn filters changed!"
Amos only spit in response. Richie found himself out of the store and in the parking lot, the bells of the door jangling behind him, before he even knew exactly what was happening. A big rig sat by the diesel pump and Jackie dragged Richie toward it.
"Bo!" she shouted.
A tall, muscular man, just as old as Jackie, if not a little older, looked up from where he was crouched by one of the truck's massive tires. He stood, and Richie couldn't believe his height. He was dressed like Jackie - all clashing flannels and worn jeans - and had a long, white beard that he'd tucked under his belt.
"Yes, dear?" he asked, giving Richie a quick once over, his voice deep, but surprisingly soft.
"We got ourselves a passenger. Kid," she began, pushing Richie forward, "this is Bo, my husband of forty years. Bo this is..." She trailed off, looking pointedly at him.
"William," Richie said, holding out his hand in an effort to show his respect for the tough-looking man, hoping it wasn't shaking. He wasn't quite sure what he'd gotten himself into. "William McDuff."
Bo shook Richie's hand, his grip strong, but not painful. "Pleased," he said, then let go and kneeled once more next to the tire. "Jackie, we're a little low back here."
"She'll make it to Canton," Jackie said, dismissing his worries with a wave of her hand, already going over to the driver's side, "but we won't if the roads wash out. Let's get a move on."
Bo stood once more, shrugged at Richie, then took his rucksack away from him, gesturing that Richie should follow. He went to the passenger side, opening the door and climbing the steps up to the seat. Richie climbed up as well, Bo catching his hand to help him into the cab, eyes going wide.
There was certainly more to it than he ever imagined of a truck cab. The back half had been converted into a very little room, a small, single-person-sized mattress bolted down on the floor behind the two seats. It was clear Bo and Jackie lived out of their cab, their personal possessions similarly secured to the wall of the cab in a neat and orderly fashion. It was small, but perfect for what they needed it to do between truck stops. Bo somehow managed to find a space for Richie's rucksack, then amazingly got his large frame settled down comfortably on the tiny mattress, strapping himself in with an interesting seatbelt system. Jackie reached over from behind the wheel and pulled Richie into the passenger's seat.
"We take turns sleeping. Cuts down on the driving time," she said, then passed the ketchup-slathered hot dog back to her husband. "Here, Bo-bear. Eat this."
Richie took in all of this as he ate his own hot dog. The easy mesh of action and word between the two, old, married truckers struck him as amusing, yet touching. Along the front of the cab were letters from school children. A few letters yet to be sent back sat on the dashboard of the rig. The seat felt incredibly comfortable, the CB radio crackling lightly, though no one was talking over it, and there was a pine-tree shaped air freshener hanging from the ceiling that smelled like bubblegum. A Tanya Tucker song started playing out over the radio, Bo humming along.
He knew then and there this was going to be an interesting three weeks.
The rig rumbled to life and lurched forward. As they pulled out from under the gas pump awning, the sky finally opened up, fat raindrops splattering on the windshield. Jackie flipped on the wipers and made a smooth turn onto the highway, all the while eating her own hot dog. Richie's was gone even before they left Amos's gas station behind.
Jackie must have noticed how quickly Richie wolfed down the food, because she reached under her seat and pulled out a white box, holding it out to Richie while she controlled the truck and held what remained of her hot dog with one hand.
"Do you want my cheese?" she offered and Richie was momentarily taken aback. "It's good stuff," she continued when Richie just stared at her. "Wisconsin cheddar, aged a couple of years, and pretty sharp. There's some crackers in there, too, if you want 'em."
Richie took the box and smiled. "Sure," he said, then started on the cheese, looking out the window, watching the lightening dance across the sky as they rolled on down the highway.
So began my illustrious stint as a trucker! It's not bad, V. It's not like that six-hour road trip we took with your dad to go fishing that time. The cab's really comfortable and riding in it for ten hours at a time isn't difficult. I've seen lots of interesting places and people. I also think I've eaten more fried food in the past two weeks than I have in my entire life. You know what my eating habits were like back in Dakota, so you know that's saying something.
I can imagine you shaking your head in disapproval, bro, but don't worry - Jackie and Bo are good people.
Bo was a driver for a major food distributor back in his youth. He met Jackie somewhere between the Carolinas when his truck broke down. The way Jackie tells it, she pulled over in her old Ford pickup, fixed his rig up, and it was love at first sight. I'll have to trust her version of the story. Jackie does the talking for both of them. Personally, I suspect Jackie simply decided that she and Bo were going to get married and Bo went along with it, not that it didn't turn out well for him.
They have one daughter who was apparently born somewhere along the side of the road in the back of the very cab I'm sitting in now. Jackie home schooled her... or truck schooled her, I suppose. She's a law student at Harvard now. Go figure.
Right now, Jackie and Bo are running loads for a company that sells the junk you see at checkout stands, meant to entice whiney children and gullible adults. They haul stuff between the many distributing centers, though occasionally we'll stop at a gas station in a small town and set up a display. Jackie has me doing their inventory and keeping track of their expenses. She's perceptive.
Thankfully, she and her husband also respect my privacy. They never ask questions about my past or why I'm running or where I'm running from. The few times it's sort of come up, they always change the subject, insisting that it's none of their business. It's easy not having to make up a lie, with the exception of my name, of course. Jackie's taken to calling me Billy the Kid. I don't mind.
I couldn't have asked for better traveling companions at this point of my life. I'm grateful fate or chance or luck brought us together at that gas station. Still, I won't be staying with them much longer. Their route takes exactly one month and I can't afford to start going in circles. I have to keep moving.
We're coming up on a big city in about a week, and that's where I'm taking my leave. I can't say which city it is, not here, because I'm still not sure this letter won't be intercepted. I'll just say this much - I've been there before and so have you. Odds are, I may even run into a couple of old friends, though I won't be actively seeking them out. Last thing I want to do is drag them into this.
It's a big city. It'll be good to disappear in for a few weeks. I keep saying I need to take some time to figure things out, but I think I'm mostly going to be 'flying by the seat of my pants', as Jackie likes to say.
I wish there was a way you could write back to me, bro. I miss you. Hearing from you would make me feel so much better, make me feel like this isn't some kind of weird nightmare. For now, just promise me you'll be careful and I'll promise to do the same. Maybe I can figure out someway to call you, though I'm worried they might be tapping your lines. At least, that's what I would do.
Please be careful, V.
Say hi to Mr. H and Sharon for me.
Peace,
Rich
TO BE CONTINUED....
A/N 2: So, what do you guys think? I was thinking I might keep using the same sort of style for each chapter - interspersing letters home from Richie with prose. It's a great way to break up the action and allows me to skip scenes that would otherwise drag. I mean, did you really want me to write Richie walking through the forest for six days? Nah, me neither. ;p
One final thing... the Walkabout legend Richie mentioned? Actually modified from something very similar in a show called "Babylon 5", which actually grossly modified it from a real aboriginal legend. RIP, Richard Biggs. This is my tribute to you.
Thanks for reading!