The Nightcrawler (28 page)

With an audible sigh, Scott checked his mirrors then pulled out onto the highway. He accelerated to seventy-five in seconds and turned on the radio, Rain by the Beatles came from the high end stereo as clear as could be. Scott tentatively checked his rearview again. The backseat was empty.
 

“Fucking perfect,” he muttered to himself. When the song ended the DJ came on. “God, I love that song don’t you, Scott?”
 

Scott checked the backseat again. Still empty, but he felt odd, like he wasn’t alone. The DJ was blabbering on about the storm that had just passed and something about a music festival in Pueblo on the weekend. Scott was oblivious to his shtick. He was equally unaware of the majestic peaks that flanked the highway. The median began to widen as the opposite lanes veered off and disappeared behind a towering stand of pines and granite boulders. The pavement widened as an exit lane to the Scenic Lookout opened on the left shoulder.
 

Scott steered the car along the exit ramp, the pines on each side created a tunnel leading to a white-washed cement block building. The roof was steep and painted green, evenly spaced rust stains ran down from the screws holding the metal sheets in place. Several RV’s and trucks with camper trailers attached were parked along the length of the building, their hot engines tinkling as the metal cooled. Scott had to park fifteen spots past the restrooms.

Having retrieved a clean shirt and his overnight bag from the trunk he walked quickly for the men’s room. Behind the building, a diverse group of tourists stood against a railing, pointing and snapping pictures. Scott passed the ladies room and swung open the next door, the hinges protesting loudly. Had he not already tossed his lunch he surely would have entering the men’s room. He continued inside, where water ran in a urinal against the back wall, its white porcelain rust-stained worse than the roof. A single sink, mounted to the wall next to one of those plastic fold out baby change stations dripped steadily. A solitary toilet stall sat empty next to the urinal, its door missing. Scott wondered, would anyone actually squat there and shit, in this filth, no door, exposed like that. He just hoped his bowels didn’t fuck with him now. Overhead, a florescent light flickered, on the verge of going out.

He turned both taps on full in the sink, those spring loaded taps that stay on for a few seconds then shut off unless you hold them. “Great,” he muttered, thinking what ever asshole got the idea for these things should be shot. He removed his shirt, using a face cloth from his bag, wiped himself as clean as he could from the waist up. He tossed the cloth in the trash, thinking he would just get a clean one in his next hotel room. He pulled a fresh shirt over his head, stuffed the dirty one in his bag and walked out back to see what the attraction was.

The mountain air was stimulating, after the awful smell of the restroom. Scott felt rejuvenated. Tourists took turns snapping pictures in front of a stone carving of a Grizzly bear, nearly eight feet tall. It was as though the bear was standing guard, so overzealous photographers didn’t climb the guardrail to get the ultimate picture of the drop. The view was stunning. Directly over the railing was a vertical fall hundreds of feet to a lush green valley. At the far side, two summits climbed to the billowing white clouds that reached down from the sky just low enough to caress each peak. The snowcaps blended with the white fluff becoming part of the sky.

Scott had little interest in sightseeing, so he flung his bag over his shoulder and walked briskly back the way he came. When he got to the Charger, there was a man pressing his face against the glass of the driver’s side window. Scott was sure it was the bum again. He stopped in his tracks, ready to return to the sightseers if his fears were correct.

Before he could speak, or retreat, or even hide behind the minivan he was standing next to, the figure beside the Charger stood up straight.
 

“Hey, man, this your car?” The stranger gave a wolf whistle, like a horny construction worker. “My name is Denny, what’s yers dude?” He was peppy, in his enthusiasm. Peppy would be the only word that could describe Denny.
 

Scott calmed at the sight of Denny.
 

Denny was by his own account, “nineteen, but very mature for his age.” Scott didn’t think he looked all that mature; his hair was reddish blond, and was in need of shampoo. His pale blue eyes seemed a bit dull for such a young soul and acne covered his face. Scott was sure he was gay. After all what straight, nineteen-year-old male wears a Backstreet Boys T-shirt? This kid was as queer as a three dollar bill and Scott wanted more than almost anything to get him away from the car. The problem was what Scott wanted even less than looking at Denny was another visit from The Nightcrawler.

Before he could stop himself, he offered Denny a ride. Within thirty minutes, Scott thoroughly regretted inviting Denny into his life. Much to his dismay, Denny was the male version of Ashley. A relentless barrage of meaningless chatter constantly spewed from Denny’s mouth. He tried to imagine having Ashley back, seated where Denny was.

Then Denny, pimple faced, nattering, faggoty, Denny, would say something like, “Hey dude, where you at?” or “Earth to Scott, Earth to Scott.” This would kill Ashley’s image, leaving Scott alone with Denny. Alone with Denny and hating every minute of it.
 

As each mile dragged on, Scott became more agitated. He needed to get this little fag out of the car, even if it meant getting revisited by the bum. Even the fucking bum didn’t grate his nerves like this little prick. Scott began to have visions of telling Denny to get the fuck out of the car, just open the door and jump out, at sixty plus miles per hour.

Denny began a new tirade, concerning some video game; “It was like so unfair,” Denny began. “I spend a week getting to this point in the game and I get stuck.” He checked to see if Scott was keeping up then continued. “I check five websites, to get past that spot. I did exactly what they all said to do and still I was stuck.”

Scott was beginning to boil, it wasn’t as though Denny’s crap was any less frivolous than Ashley’s, but he liked Ashley. To Scott, Denny’s voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard.
 

“Denny,” Scott said in a tone that shut Denny up instantly. “Denny, if you don’t shut the fuck up I am going to kick your ass all over the side of this road.”

Denny stared at Scott for a few moments, and then his lips slowly turned up. Scott was taken aback as Denny began to laugh, then, through his laughter he said, “Good one Scott.” He shrugged his shoulders and continued the story of how he persevered and beat the game. At the end of his tale he laughed, and laughed. It was an awful laugh.

Scott had reached his breaking point. He could no longer take Denny. He steered the car to the side of the road. The Charger fishtailed violently, coming to a stop, half on the grass beyond the shoulder. He got out of the car and ran to the passenger side. He pulled the door open and hauled Denny out in an adrenaline assisted fit of strength. Denny lay sprawled out on the grass fifteen feet away, tears welling up in his eyes. They were not tears of a child in pain, but of a man overtaken with fear. Scott glared down at him. His unshaven face glowed red. His chest heaved as each breath filled him with more rage.
 

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

Denny didn’t answer; he just looked up completely overwhelmed by what was happening to him.

Scott grabbed Denny’s pack from the backseat and threw it with the same force he had thrown Denny. The pack struck Denny hard in the face, then careened over his head. His face burned scarlet from the force of the blow. Blood poured from his nose, covering his shirt, yet he made no attempt to stop the flow. Scott took a step toward him and Denny whimpered weakly then looked down to his lap. He had wet himself and when he realized that he pulled his knees up tight to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and began to cry. Completely deflated, the young man buried his head in his lap, his nose still oozing blood and sobbed.

“You pathetic little pussy,” Scott said, then slammed the door he had just dragged the boy out of, walked around the car, got in and drove off in a spray of loose stones.

The 440’s throaty hum grew higher with each passing second. The speedometer passed fifty in mere seconds, then sixty, seventy; Scott was trance-like, almost a zombie as the landscape of Colorado passed in a blur. The car seemed to defy gravity as it continued to accelerate up a steep incline, overtaking an occasional RV or minivan towing a pop-up trailer. At the top of the hill, a truck loaded down with timber and heading for the sawmill was at a near standstill in the right lane. The driver blared his horn as the streak of red, motor city metal flew over the peak of the hill nearly leaving the pavement. Hitting the even steeper downgrade, the Charger’s suspension protested slightly then settled in for what must have seemed to Scott like a free-fall. Moments after blowing by the lumber hauler the needle was resting just past one-twenty.
 

Very slowly, Scott regained what remained of his sanity. A slight speed vibration had developed in the front end, and he gently eased off the accelerator. The speedometer was still maxed, but the ride smoothed the moment the car slowed. The grade leveled out and the needle retreated, a minute later the throaty drone had returned as the Charger cruised comfortably at seventy. Coming into view, a sign read, Wheeling 18 Miles. And perched on the sign was the crow, its head following the Charger as it passed. Scott’s eyes were drawn to the bird as though it were controlling his will. As he passed, Scott was sure the crow winked at him. He depressed the gas pedal and didn’t slow down until he found a filling station in Wheeling.

Wheeling was a small town very much like Staples, where he had lunch at Mollies, and gassed up at Stew’s Texaco. Wheeling was a one-horse town about three miles south of exit 375 off I-70. Scott went through the familiar song and dance with Josh at the Mobil station. He got advice on where to eat, asked Josh to fill his tank, and he used the restroom. Josh had little to say; he told Scott that his only choice for food was The Gold Nugget about a half mile up on the right.

The Gold Nugget looked oddly modern in a town that was a throwback to an earlier time. It had a façade of red brick and the large windows in front were flanked by white shutters. Inside scarlet walls were adorned with an assortment of Norman Rockwell prints, and the tables were covered with brown paper, the kind you would use to wrap boxes for parcel post. Scott sat at the table nearest the door and pulled the menu out from between the stainless steel napkin dispenser and the red plastic ketchup bottle.

Moments later a plain looking, chunky young woman with a faded blue skirt and neatly ironed blouse approached, pen in one hand and notepad in the other. Before she had a chance to speak, Scott announced that he would have a steak sandwich, fries and a Coke.

She smiled, and was gone as quickly and quietly as she had come. He put the menu back and looked around the room. A few tables to his right a grubby looking man in a soiled plaid short sleeve shirt and a Yankees cap was scarfing down a burger with the grace of a pit bull. Through the window behind the Yankees fan, a gleaming Volvo truck sat, no doubt waiting for the Yankee.

The only other table was occupied by a pretty young girl in her late teens or maybe early twenties, sipping from a coffee cup. She was sitting alone. The same waitress who took Scott’s order cleared two empty plates from her table.
 

Movement at the far end of the room caught Scott’s eye. It was him, that bum. This was the first time Scott had seen him while other people were present. This was the time to confront him. This was the time to end it for good. As Scott stood to face him, the waitress set his Coke down on the table. Scott looked at her, then back to the bum, but he was gone. In his place, a young man, tall and gangly, with short reddish hair walked toward the pretty girl.

“The restroom is over there, sir,” said the waitress.

“Sorry?” Scott replied.

“I said the bathrooms are over there. It looked like you were looking for the bathroom.”

“I’m fine,” Scott replied in a far off voice.

He stared at the young couple as they crossed the room toward the exit. As if the young man felt the penetration of Scott’s gaze, he turned and locked into Scott’s eyes. The two men seemed to connect on another level. A Twilight Zone level.
 

The young girl nudged her boyfriend and said, “Hey Vermont, let’s go already. He turned and they walked out the door.

Scott sat, head in hands until his meal arrived. His head had ached since waking to see the bum in the rear seat singing. Now it felt as though there was a bass drum pounding out the back rhythm for the Army Drum Corp. He tried to eat, picking at his food until it was cold.

“Is there something wrong with your food, sir?”

Scott looked up and shook his head, “Just not feeling great.” He looked toward the door as if to make sure the coast was clear. “Is there a place nearby where I can get a room for the night?”

“Well, if you want to stay in a nice hotel you might want to get back on the interstate until you get to Grand Junction, maybe an hour and a half should get you there. If you don’t feel up to that you could try Annie’s.”

“What’s Annie’s?”

“Annie isn’t a what. She has a couple of spare rooms. She rents them out when she feels like it. They ain’t much, but at least you won’t have to drive if you don’t feel well.”