The Ice Age (11 page)

He came and sat on the edge of the bed. He had on a button-down shirt, his undies, and socks. Gunther never was too concerned about covering up and all that. Let's face it; we've been sharing hotel rooms for a while now. And we're practically family. Better than family.

He said, ‘I don't want to hurt you anymore.'

‘OK.'

‘I was happier being your humble chauffeur.'

We piled everything into the car, and when I slid in beside him, he said, ‘Where to, Miss?'

I vaguely remembered my days as a frustrated small-town bumpkin, dreaming of a promising and colorful existence in the big smoke. Besides, I thought we'd already decided.

‘New York City?'

‘New York City.'

The words filled me with sort of a sick euphoria. I was destined to have an interesting life after all. What's more, Gunther did love me, but from the abstracted distance of just wanting me to be me. The optimal me, that is. Fulfilling potential and all that. Just following him around like a puppy dog probably isn't the best I can do with myself. I guess. I don't like pining after him in his absences, that's for sure.

It's a long, hot drive to wherever Gunther has us headed next, and I've had plenty of time to think. I thought, I wouldn't be looking like a silly puppy if he loved me properly back. Everything would be OK.

He'll probably be dropping me in NYC permanently, after these little trial runs of leaving me stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere for a few days. At least there will be stuff for me to get on with in a proper city. But the thought of him leaving forever is…unthinkable. Surely that could not be his intention, after all this time out here bonding, getting to know each other out here on the road. Unless he considers himself some kind of Buddha master, instructing me until he decides I'm ready to tackle the world alone. Sometimes it feels that way.

Vampires don't do that, though. They don't go to all that trouble with someone and just desert them. You live that long, you see how fucked up the world is, you travel around…you find a friend, you stick to them. You find someone to love, you make them your obedient slave. You bind them to you by sheer need. A loneliness that immense needs to be shared.

I shot him a look. Me and my overactive imagination! But looking at him there didn't help matters. He was squinting palely into the sun, looking withered but dashing. Looking every bit like he'd like nothing more than to climb back into his coffin, wrap himself in the satin lining.

We stopped for lunch at a pizza parlor. I was pretty sure Gunther made eyes at the waitress. She wasn't even pretty. She was kind of nervous. The food was average. I got a calzone, which was spelled ‘callzoni' on the menu. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Gunther was being way too nice to that dame.

Maybe he was just trying to spread himself around again. I'm feeling a little the same way. In a way it's been nice to stop all that romantic crap; all that touching. I don't have to worry about what I'm doing wrong, and if it's going to make him go away again. He doesn't have to act so guilty around me. Things are almost back to normal.

We hung around town for a while. The streets were covered with red dust. I sat down by the car and painted bottle caps. Gunther kept a bag of paints in the glove box. He's a much better artist than me. He came back from his walk and said, ‘Oh, look at you, with your folk art!'

Damn Gunther has a name for everything.

Then he said, ‘Little bottle cap miniatures!'

I smiled up at him.

‘May I have one?'

I gave him a little happy skull with a bone in its mouth. He cradled it in his palm, and carried it back to the car. We got back on the road and tried to get as far as we could before dark. I rolled a joint. I smoked and watched the land stretch out all around us.

It looked just the same. The world, that is. The road; the shimmering gray asphalt, pea-green grass, people's houses, people's barns, people's cars, the trees, were all unmoved and unchanged by recent events. Gunther and I, an item…Gunther and I, just friends. Me, precocious slut, tempting Gunther to nail me. Me, repentant youngster trying like hell to learn some respect for my elder(s) again. The sun just ruthlessly shines.

‘Gunther,' I said, ‘the sun is so relentless.'

I leaned over and handed him the joint. It wasn't official Gunther Smoking Time. But he grinned a faint grin and took it. He smoked it a damn long time (Bogarting if you ask me) then handed it back in slow motion. Zen and the art of handing over a joint. I think it took a full thirty seconds for it to reach my hand. And it looked like he was flying it in on a little plane. I was deeply amused.

‘Gunther,' I said, ‘you're not getting this back.'

He laughed heartily. ‘Well, I
am
driving.'

‘Yes, you are.'

Apparently this was funny, too.

The town we reached as the sun was setting looked to consist of little more than a whorehouse and a gas station. Men were actually having fisticuffs by the side of the road. We drove straight through. Gunther asked me if I'd like us to drive another hour and a half or so to a bigger town he knew was half decent. I said yes.

We had a big pasta dinner, found a movie house, and watched Citizen Kane. I was too stoned to remember much about it, apart from the fact that it was long, and that an old man liked his sled.

I was so tired when we got back to the room, I flopped down on the bed, kicked my shoes off, and said, ‘Goodnight, Gunther.' I hadn't even brushed my teeth.

‘Goodnight,' he said, with no shortage of tenderness. He was sitting in an armchair.

When I awoke the next morning he was already running the taps. He must have been halfway through his morning procedure. I was worried things would be weird now. Staying perpetually wasted was clearly the key to weaning myself off the carnal side of our dealings with no trace of awkwardness. I can be warm and sleepy, and just glad he's there.

We had breakfast to go at a really nice old-style bakery. I got a blueberry muffin. Gunther got a ham and cheese croissant. Then more driving, driving, driving. I didn't roll a joint this time. I was kind of groggy.

Seems like we've been on the road half of forever. We stopped at a crappy roadside diner sometime in the afternoon. I swear Gunther flirted with that waitress, too. And she was not much to look at either. Permed yellow hair, cigarette hangin' out of the side of her mouth. Isn't that a health violation? She may as well have had ‘NOT GUNTHER'S TYPE' tattooed across her forehead. I picked at my meal and moved it in piles around my plate, muttering things like, ‘Is that mashed potato gray?'

Was Gunther always this charming? I don't seem to recall. I remember him being happy in my presence. I recall feeling like co-conspirators in something I didn't fully understand, but was stoked to be a part of.

So more closeness has yielded more distance. And the earth getting hotter will bring about an ice age. My head hurts. And I must be getting old now. Because it seems I'm starting to make crucial errors, rack up regrets, and muddle around in them. Sitting here smoking, looking at Gunther, typing on the typewriter. It hurts now.

He's still physically exactly the same. That Gunther sitting there, watching the news, in those slacks, in his brown shirt, with his elegance and his moody calm. That's the same Gunther from the happy innocent cocoon days. The same Gunther of limitless passion, horizonless love. And so am I: the same. Those are my scrawny bitten chipped black nails on the keys. My mousy hair falling over my eyes.

A morning shower bright and early confirmed this further. I wiped the steam from the mirror. That's me; it was always there, that little blank mouse face staring accusingly back at me.

‘You're up early,' said Gunther.

‘Yeah,' I said, and mumbled, ‘Like two ships passing in the morning.'

‘Hmmm?'

‘Nothing.' I am really not a morning person, and I probably should never attempt to get up before him.

I found a video channel and blared loud music while Gunther took his shower.

A song came on that knocked me for six. Now, I know it's cheese, but sometimes cheese hits you the hardest. A pretty-boy loud band. They said:

I just lost my best friend. I miss you so much I wish
my life would end…
(something, something)
And I
can't let go. Because it hurts like I've never been hurt
before…I cannot sleep without you here. All I wanted
was to be with you
(something…)

Or something like that.

Gunther came out wrapped in a towel and made some disparaging comments about the lead singer's haircut. He didn't see my eyes welling with tears. My wet hair was falling over my face, dripping onto my lap.

It was an overcast day, one of those silvery-gray ones. I slouched in the passenger seat, staring out at the sky's metallic glare. I couldn't tell if I was quietly weeping all day, or if my eyes were just sensitive. I'm generally not a crier.

We drove all day and ate nothing but corn chips. We had a bag stashed on the back seat.

Gunther's in the shower. I get the impression he's going out. Just a hunch. I'm not getting the social vibe. We've barely spoken all day. I wouldn't say it was an uncomfortable silence, it's more like we're just tired.

Now he's trudged back into the room with his lank wet hair and asked if I'm hungry. I said not really. Sometimes sitting in the car all day makes you feel like a slug. He said, ‘Yeah. I'm not either. I have kind of a headache. I think I'll go for a walk.'

Jeez, I hope that's not a euphemism for anything. I feel like stealing his car keys. But I also feel kind of numb about it all now.

So, as it were, Gunther went out, and I stayed in and got as stoned as possible. I watched little snippets of various crappy TV shows. I daydreamed. I missed having Gunther around to talk stoned shit with; missed him, full stop. He was a solid entity. Being stoned without him was just too floaty. I never know where the hell I am. I fell asleep. I heard Gunther come in much later. He was fumbling around with his keys. He must have been drunk, which is an exceedingly rare occurrence. Almost enough of a curiosity to warrant turning on the lights and attempting a chat. Drunk Gunther is one Gunther I am relatively unfamiliar with. He smelled funny. He crashed onto the bed like a felled redwood. God, why is he being such an anti-hero?

This room had two double beds, and we had one each. We must have woken up around the same time. The first thing I saw the next morning was Gunther lying motionless on his side, gaping bloodshot eyes pointing straight at me. He looked like a corpse. I felt the corners of my mouth turning up tenderly. (Gunther calls this my cat smile. He says cross the Mona Lisa with the empathy of the all-knowing housecat, and you have my smile.) More of a faint grin, really. I suppose Gunther and I are alike in that respect.

He said, ‘Good morning, sunshine.'

I said, ‘Morning.'

‘Might sleep a while longer,' he said, then craned his neck toward the digital alarm clock and moaned, ‘Ach, I already have.'

There was no point in missing checkout time. Clearly Gunther had already had all the fun there was to have in this town.

I had another few hours in the passenger seat, of just staring out the window. I figure we must be getting near our destination now. America's funny that way. You'll feel like you're in the middle of the most forsaken dreamless expanse of nowhere, a crater. Then you get a half an hour of strip malls, then half an hour of 'burbs and crappy townships. Then you're in some fucking huge city. All of a sudden it rises up, like Godzilla out of the ocean. This huge factory, spewing people and money, glitz and garbage, noise, smoke, and so many promises.

Unfortunately I am only aware of one promise at this stage. The only thing I can be nearly certain of is that there will be no me and Gunther there. I can stop wondering if and where he is going to drop me. He is dropping me there.

We're not zig-zagging around the country anymore. Not visiting friends.

‘Gunther?'

‘Hmmm?' He shoots me a sideways glance. He is concentrating very hard on the task of operating a vehicle today. He looks even more pallid, if that were possible. Glowing, borderline light blue.

‘We never visit friends anymore. You never take me to visit friends.' I noticed the visits stopped pretty much around the time I jumped him, and the shame started to set in. He was ashamed of me. Maybe all he was doing during his disappearances was visiting friends on his own. He didn't like what he was doing with me, and could only feel like himself again without me. Or maybe he was trying to prove he didn't feel a thing for me, by porking his way around the country. I can't really imagine it; can't really see Gunther gathering the compulsion to be intimate with that many ladies in so short a time. He's given me several indications that he is not as motivated by lusty pursuits as he used to be. He said he just didn't feel like it anymore. But then, he has always been the secretive one.

‘Well, we can if you want to,' he replied, casually, and then mumbled to himself, ‘Hair of the dog.'

We stopped for lunch at a kind of truck stop diner. Gunther ordered a doughnut. It must be a cold day in hell. I've started bringing the typewriter into places with me, and I've got it here. It's light, and I can just put it up on the table, and write about Gunther while he's sitting there. I like lining up new blank pages, winding them into position. It makes me feel like I have something important to tell. We're talking less lately; I may as well. He doesn't seem to mind much. I know he minds a little, because he sits there grimacing at me, but there's a hint of a smile there, too.

‘Why don't you ever write?' I asked him. ‘Or draw?' By this stage I was doodling on a napkin. I've seen Gunther's handiwork before. The first time I decided he was truly a vampire, and didn't just look like one, was standing in front of his painting of old Glorie. It would take more than a lifetime to amass that much skill and talent, I decided. And then I found out he could play the harp. The fucking
harp
. Do mortals play that?