Thursday, November 3, 2010
Daryl practiced reloading and shooting his bow to make sure he was ready for the trip. It took him awhile to get back into the hang of doing it quickly, and he had to admit it wasn't as easy as it used to be and that his shoulder ached slightly after all the effort. He bagged three fox squirrels during his practice time, which he skinned and left chopped in the freezer for future stew meat.
Then he tinkered with his truck for two hours, checking the oil and other liquids, topping them all off, filling the tank with gas, and even wiping the dust off the dashboard and seats and washing the windows with Windex and paper towels he'd gathered from the park's cleaning supplies. As the crowning touch, he dangled a "Royal Lilac" air freshener in the shape of a crown from the rearview mirror. Carol was always making things nice for him. There wasn't much he could make of his old beater, but he did his best.
He had thought of taking the work truck they'd appropriated from inside the park, but he didn't know it like the back of his hand, the way he knew his own pick-up. He knew exactly how to fix this old beauty if it needed it. The work truck was newer and nicer, but it was also an unknown.
Finally, he attached the empty U-Haul trailer to his hitch.
Carol ended up asking Michonne to keep an eye on Sophia, since she'd been teaching her katana already, and Michonne was happy to do so. When the couple announced their plans at dinner that evening, Rick was reticent. "That's a long distance. That's a lot of gas."
"Come back with a full tank and more gas," Daryl insisted.
"And if you don't find gas, you come back with an empty tank," Shane said.
"We'll find gas," Daryl said coolly. "Them houses are near a private lake. They got motorboats and shit. They'll have gas for the boats."
"What if it's been looted already?" Rick asked.
"We'll find some place else to loot!"
"Okay, okay," Rick conceded. "But after what happened with that shoot out at the tavern, I think we should travel in threes at a minimum for supply runs. Maybe T-Dog could go with you."
"No!" Daryl barked. "Ain't room in the truck for three."
"It's a bench seat," Rick said. "There's a mid – "
Support came from unexpected quarters. Lori put a hand over Rick's hand that was on the table to silence him. "They'll be fine," she told him. "It's Daryl. And Carol shoots well now."
"And I've got plans for the weekend myself," insisted T-Dog, grinning at Andrea, who smiled back.
"Well, good thing I caught that deer if you're going on vacation," Shane said with a smirk.
"Get two bigger ones when we get back," Daryl grumbled.
Friday, November 4, 2010
Carol wished they could take Daryl's motorcycle, but it wasn't exactly practical for a looting trip. She climbed into the passenger's side of the pick-up with her AR-15, which she wedged between the door and her leg.
"Nice touch." Carol tapped the air freshener as Daryl shut the driver's side door. The crown swayed slightly on the rearview mirror. The aroma was actually strangely cloying on top of the smoky scent of the cab, but she hadn't failed to notice he'd made an effort to spruce up his ride for her, and she wanted him to know she appreciated that.
"Like lilac?" he asked.
"I love lilac." It wasn't a lie. She did love the flowers, if not so much this gaudy crown air freshener.
Daryl gave the truck a little gas and cranked the engine. Glenn hopped into the bed, and when they got to the gate, he hopped out so he could open it for them and lock it behind them again. They'd brought one of the walkie talkies, but they would soon be out of range. It would get them back in the gate, however, when they returned.
Daryl turned on the radio, began turning through static, and then switched it off. "Sorry. Instinct," he muttered. "Forget there ain't nothin' on."
"At least the van has a CD player."
"Yeah, well, I ain't a Rockefeller like T-Dog. Bought this truck for $6,500."
"I don't think T-Dog is a Rockefeller." Carol smiled. He always made her smile when his feathers were ruffled and he said something defensive like that. "And that van belonged to his church."
Daryl grunted.
"The good thing about this truck," she said, "is it was built to withstand an apocalypse. It was made to be fixed up without all the newfangled computers. Made to be held together with duct tape."
"Stahp. 'S a good truck," he said as he turned out of the Fun Kingdom parking lot onto the road that led to the highway.
"That's what I said, wasn't it?" she asked innocently.
"Ain't what you implied. You never would have gone for a ride with me in the old world, Miss Murphy."
"You never would have asked me to," she shot back with a raised eyebrow. "Be honest. Would you have?"
"Nah. 'Cause you were married."
"Nice save. Convenient."
"Got a tape player," he said. "Got cassettes in the glove compartment. Can check if there's anything you like."
Carol opened the glove compartment and three brass shell casings toppled out to the floor. He had several cassettes tapes wedged inside, along with a wrench, a tire gauge, some fast food napkins, a pencil, a crumpled car manual, and an old paper map. She pried a tape out from the mess. "The Band. Of course. Now I suppose I can finally be introduced." She opened the cassette and slid it into the tape deck. There was a grinding noise and then a whirring of tape and Daryl slapped the eject button hard. The cassette popped out, tape hanging loose and stringy and caught up in the tape deck.
"Sorry," Carol said.
"Not your fault. Happens sometimes. That's what the pencil's for. See if you can wind it back."
She couldn't wind it back. The tape was a tangled mess. "I think it's a lost cause, Pookie. Maybe we can find a CD of The Band in one of these houses and you can play it on the fireplace player when we get back. Or Sophia's boombox."
Daryl grunted.
"Should I try another one?" She began to pull the tapes out: Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, The Who, Lynyrd Skynyrd. "A bit stuck in the 70s where you?" she asked. "Supertramp? That's the name of the band?"
"Hell yes it's the name of a band! Your music education is sadly lacking, Miss Murphy."
"I mostly listened to 80s country."
Daryl made a gagging sound.
"It's good! Dolly Parton. Kenny Rogers."
"Ugh."
"Tammy Wynette. Dwight Yoakam. Kris Kristofferson."
"A'right. Can give you Kris Kirstofferson. Didn't you listen to any rock?"
"I loved Bon Jovi."
Daryl scoffed. "Yeah, all the sixth grade girls did."
"I was actually in ninth grade," Carol admitted. "But why so much 70s rock? You were a baby in the 70s!"
"Yeah. But 's what Merle had on."
"Well, I'm going to risk this Supertramp." She popped it into the tape player and this time the player didn't eat the tape. It began mid-song:
…Won't you sign up your name, we'd like to feel you're acceptable
Respectable, oh presentable, a vegetable
Oh, take it take it yeah
But at night, when all the world's asleep
The questions run so deep
For such a simple man
Won't you please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd
Please tell me who I am, who I am, who I am, who I am…
"It's rather contemplative," Carol observed.
Daryl grunted.
"I like it," she declared.
They drove in silence for about twenty minutes, Daryl concentrating on his driving and scanning the highway for threats, often maneuvering around abandoned cars, and Carol listening to the music as she watched the passing scenery. Nature was the one thing that was unchanged about this world, except it was changing, with the season – the trees had become a brilliant tapestry of golden yellows, oranges, and reds.
The tape reached its end and clicked off. Carol turned her attention back to Daryl and rested a hand on his thigh.
He looked down at her hand, then at her. He smiled.
She smiled back.
"Oh, yeah," he said, and she wasn't sure why he said it like that. Then he started unbuckling his belt.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
He flushed and stopped. "Nothin'."
She slid her hand away and glanced down at the belt he was now struggling to latch closed again with one hand while he drove. He managed it. "Why were you unbuckling your belt?"
He gritted his teeth, glanced in the rearview mirror, glanced in the side view, and didn't answer.
"Daryl?"
"Obviously misinterpreted," he muttered.
"Misinterpreted…what exactly?"
"Put your hand on my thigh!" he exclaimed. "Thought that meant, you know…you wanted to do the thing where you…" his voice dropped to an almost indecipherable mutter, "blow a guy while he's driving."
"That's a thing?" she asked.
"It's a thing."
"That sounds dangerous."
"Kind of the point. Kind of part of the thrill."
"Is that really a thing?" she asked.
"Yeah," he muttered. "You ain't never heard of it?"
"Does it have a name?"
"Not it ain't got a name. What kind of name?"
"Like the mile-high club?" she asked. "Because I've heard of that."
"Not that I know of."
"Is it a thing you've done?" Carol asked.
"No. Ain't never given a guy a blowjob while he's drivin'."
"I mean something you've had done to you, of course."
"Just once," Daryl muttered. "Picked up this chick who was hitch hikin'. Guess she wanted to thank me."
Carol shook her head. "And you said your life wasn't a Penthouse letter."
"Look, I ain't been an angel," Daryl answered. "Never pretended to be."
"I know. I know, I just…I don't know." She looked out the window. "I guess I'm puzzled about how you could be so intimate with complete strangers. You don't even like taking off your shirt in front of people. You couldn't even take it off in front of me at first, but taking out your dick? That's okay?"
"Ain't nothin' intimate 'bout that. Don't require no explanation. Don't require me to tell nobody nothin' 'bout myself. Not like my scars."
That made some sense, Carol thought, though it had never been easy for her, personally, to get sexual with a man until she thought she cared about him. She'd cared about Ed, once. Maybe her whole marriage she'd cared about him in some way, even when he was hurting her. But not the way she cared about Daryl, like sometimes she was aching for him and sometimes she was aching with him, like she could show him her scars, and he could show her his.
"Mean, back then," Daryl murmured. "Wasn't intimate to me back then. Don't mean with you. Mean…" He sighed and looked out the window like he was looking for the words. "It's different. With you. Everything's different with you." She could feel him glancing at her and then back at the road, at her and then the road again. "Sorry," he murmured. "Didn't mean to be an asshole. Really wasn't tryin' to. I'm a dumbass, and I ain't used to…girlfriend-type women."
Carol smiled. Then her smiled faded, and she looked down at the rifle resting between her knee and the door and sighed.
"You mad?" he asked.
"No. No. I'm not mad. I'm…" She leaned her head back the headrest. "I'm worried."
"'Bout what?"
"Like I said before. I'm worried that I might be just a little too plain vanilla for you."
Daryl glanced at her and then back at the road. "Fuck that shit. Ain't like I need to get blown while I'm drivin'. You're right. 'S dangerous. Be a dumbass thing to do. Wasn't thinkin' with my head."
"Well, you were thinking with your head," she quipped. "One of them anyway. Just the wrong one."
He chuckled. He caught her smile and looked relieved. "We a'right?"
"We're great." She put a hand on his knee. "I just want to rest my hand here. It doesn't mean anything."
He flushed but lowered his hand over hers and squeezed. He kept his hand there for a minute before returning it to the wheel.
"Favorite 1980s sitcom," she said.
"Taxi."
"Mine was Charles in Charge. I had such a crush on Charles."
"That the dork with suspenders?"
"He was adorable. I wanted Charles in charge of my days and my life."
"Pfft."
"Favorite poem."
"Poem? I look like a poetry reader to you?"
Carol chuckled. "Mine's She Walks in Beauty by Byron. I can recite it for you if you like."
"Really?" Daryl asked skeptically.
"She walks in beauty, like the night," Carol began, "Of cloudless climes and starry skies." She paused to recall it, "And all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes…" Daryl glanced at her twice during her recitation. "And on that cheek, and o'er that brow," she concluded, "So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. / The smiles that win, the tints that glow, / But tell of days in goodness spent, / A mind at peace with all below, / A heart whose love is innocent!"
"See why you like it. 'S 'bout you."
"Hardly," she said. "I'm no great beauty. And my mind is not at peace with all below. Although…right now…" Carol glanced out the window at the gold streaming into red then orange. "The trees are so pretty. And I like being on the road. With you."
"Yeah?"
"I do."
"Like it, too," he said.
"No favorite poem though? Not even a nursery rhyme you can recite for me?"
"Do know one."
"What's that?" Carol asked. She was half expecting him to recite a dirty limerick.
"Used to read it in detention in eighth grade. 'Cause we weren't allowed to read a book or talk or do homework or do shit. Just had sit there staring at the walls. Mr. Meyers thought it would be like torture for us, but I was used to just sitting in the woods with nothing but my own thoughts, waiting for game. And Mr. Meyers had this poem framed and on the wall near the desk he always put me in. Forget who wrote it. But I read it over so many damn times I half-memorized it."
"Recite it for me," Carol asked. "Please?"
"Can't 'member it all. Just gonna be bits and parts."
"I don't mind. I like your voice."
Daryl cleared his throat. He was less gravely and more smokey as he began:
"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losin' theirs and blamin' it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubtin' too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waitin',
Or…somethin' something…
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can somethin' somethin' somethin'…
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!"
"I think I know why Mr. Myers sat you there."
"Yeah, why's that?" Daryl asked.
"Because he believed you'd commit that poem's message to heart and live it one day."
"Pffft."
"I think it describes you pretty well. It's Rudyard Kipling, by the way. My dad had that poem framed and in the bathroom."
They drove without talking for some time, each off in their own heads. Carol was thinking about those condoms that were probably in his back pocket. She was thinking about the sex, how it would go, if her body would cooperate with her heart and mind or instinctively react like it was being invaded even though she wanted him. She wondered if he would find her boring, frigid, if he would expect her to be more into it than maybe she was capable of being at this point in her healing. "Daryl," she said quietly.
"Mhmh?"
"I know what this trip is about, and I don't want to disappoint you. You should know it may not go as smoothly as you hope. I may not turn out to be what you expect."
"I ain't expectin' Xena the Warrior Princess. But you're gettin' better at it. Better each time. You're learnin'. Room for improvement, sure, always room for improvement, but I been pretty damn impressed with your progress. And if ya don't pull it off, ya know, just take care of it m'self. No big deal."
"What?" she asked.
"You'll do fine with the walker slayin'. You've already killed a bunch. Yeah, there could be more than you're used to up in that housing complex, but we start with guns from the wall. Then we go house to house. Won't be but four max in each house. Be fine. I got your back."
Carol laughed.
"Hell's so funny?"
"Nothing," she said. "I thought you were talking about…" She laughed again. "Never mind." She turned her face to the window, to the distant buildings passing through the trees, and smiled.