He awoke and his eyes danced over his surroundings confused. A beamed
hardwood ceiling, his old typewriter on the table surrounded by empty gin and rum
bottles that glistened in the sun, crumpled pages that laid next to an overflowing trashcan.
He swallowed a dry, fermented swallow and realized he was in his friend Friedrick’s
cabin which he retreated to when a story was nudging its way out of his now throbbing
head.
He blinked, pushed his feet over the edge of the couch where he lay and groaned
as he sat up. He rubbed his face, rustled his hair and winced as he got up. He passed the
typewriter with a page filled with obscenities and made his way to the bathroom. He
squeezed toothpaste in to his mouth followed by water and gargled. He stared at his
stubbled face and darkened eyes after he spit and remembered why he was there. He
shuffled over to the kitchen grabbing bottles and holding them up to light to find
something to drink. He opened the refrigerator, surprised, he grabbed one of his short
story collections that had found it’s drunken way in, tucked it under his arm and searched
the rest of it’s innards row by empty row.
Nothing.
He dropped the book in to the trash and wandered over to the table holding the
typewriter and shook every one of the bottles, refusing to look at the page curling out of
the typewriter, knowing that after a few more stiff drinks the story would continue as it
had for the past week since he’d been there and find it’s way to her mailbox. The bottles
were empty, but he still sucked on a few, trying to get the last ounce of bitter nectar from
their guts. He noticed a wooden pistol grip peering out at him and slid it back under a
messy stack of papers with the bottom of a bottle.
After stepping, barefoot, on pieces of a busted phone and getting tangled in the
chord, he plopped down on the edge of the bed tucked in the corner of the room and lifted
his foot. He plucked out the sharp little pieces, looked around the ground for some socks,
slid them on followed by shoes and headed towards the door.
The day was bright and the sweet forest air reminded him that he hadn’t showered
for a few days now, but it didn’t matter. He was alone. In the woods. At the cabin. In life.
He reached around at his back pockets and couldn’t find his wallet but figured it didn’t
matter since he had a tab at Little Bill’s Wild Liquor House. The town was small enough
that he knew most of the cops on a first name basis, too, so he eased in to his red pickup’s
cracked vinyl seats and remembered that was one of the reason’s his wife loved this place
so much. A small, quiet town with a good school where she could teach and raise a
family. A family that just wouldn’t come.
His turned the key hard, fast and angry. The engine sputtered to life.
Trees reached up to the sky that surrounded the small, winding two lane road that
rolled with the hills. The am radio station buzzed a baseball game low and barely audible
underneath the rushing air coming from the rolled down window, blowing back his hair,
burning his bloodshot eyes.
And on top of one of the hills he saw something. He rubbed his eyes, squinted and
slowed down as he tried to make it out. His brakes groaned as he rolled to a stop. There
sat a station wagon stuck in a ditch. He recognized it from Handy’s Grocery’s, the one
they used for deliveries. He looked around at the woods expecting some teenage kid to
come running out of the woods zipping up, embarrassed. But nothing. He put the truck in
park and stepped out, still looking at both sides of the woods. He walked over to the open
car door and peered in. He looked in the back, which was empty, turned off the car, stood
up quietly and listened to the woods for a sign. Nothing. No birds, no insects, not even
the trees rustled with the gentle spring breeze. He looked up and down the road puzzled.
He gently clicked the car door shut and noticed he had stepped in something that
resembled red tinted Vaseline, only it had a stronger, rotten scent. He rubbed his boot on
the grass and continued down the road. He thought of a thousand reasons why the car
would be there and just shrugged the incident off knowing that it’d probably be gone by
the time he came back up the road.
From the peak of the last big hill he could see the small town nestled in the valley
below. But something was odd. Something about the stillness of the landscape. One
would expect to see the reflections of cars stopped at the red lights, cars passing at the
greens as he had seen many times. But his head was still pulsing and he thought he
could’ve been mistaken. He squinted and thought about the day of the week. He thought
it was Thursday, but wasn’t sure. The last week was a blur and he didn’t particularly feel
like revisiting the day he found her with him and what day that was, so Thursday it
must’ve been. He figured he must be too hung over to see straight or focus so he ignored
the motionless landscape and continued on.
As he came closer he finally saw movement. Grey smoke bellowed from the
center of downtown, but it was light and thin. A fire almost burnt out. And there wasn’t
any cars on the streets, well at least driving on the streets. On the edge of town vacant
cars decorated the grass on either side of the road, doors popped open, some had engines
hacking and coughing for life, others had their radios singing low and interrupted by
static. He slowed and rolled by, examining them from the safety of his cab.