Bent Highway: Chapter Twenty

Hardware

The morning sun drilled a perfect hole in the cerulean sky. I’d got up, made a couple of eggs, perfectly over easy with just the right amount of softness to the yolk, toast slathered in peanut butter, and an actual decent cup of coffee. I surprised myself with how good it was. I pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store thinking, you know this isn’t that bad a life. I got a job, they shoot me a cheque every other week, pay the bills, drink a six-pack on the weekend. It ain’t living large on the south coast of France, but it could be a helluva lot worse.

“Hey, Larry, how’s tricks?”

“Fuckin’ A. Bowled another 300 game last night.” He had the last bit of breakfast stuffed into his cheek.

“You’re an animal on the lanes.” I grabbed my red apron, and something like a piss shiver went through me. How’s tricks? Did I really say that?

I shook my head and finished tying the string at the back. I whistled a tune that I couldn’t quite place and walked over to the nail bins. Damn customers had been messing them up again, so I needed to separate the three-inchers from the two and a halfs. Bringing order to the world, that was my job.

The front door dingled and in walked the first of the days customers. A woman wearing jeans and black leather jacket that had seen better days, and one of the tallest men I’d seen. Well, never seen actually - nobody like that lived around here, I’d have noticed.

I left my buckets of nails and waltzed over, still whistling. 

“Morning, what can I help you with? A sale on the dual-flushers today - I can have our man, Larry hook you up.”

“Remember.”

I think it was the woman speaking, but the strangest damn thing is her mouth didn’t move. I looked over at the big fellow who was giving me an odd look. Kind of scared me to be honest.

“M.”

I cranked my head over to her again, she was definitely saying the words. That shivery feeling went through me again, and I felt like I might lose my over easy eggs right by the cash register.

“I, um, can help you find something if you need— oh damn.” Small circles of light flashed in the corner of my eyes, I lurched and painted the floor with my perfect breakfast. I fell down to one knee, almost doing a face plant in the puke. “I, can’t, see… what you need. What I need..”

“Come back.”

This time I think I saw her lips move. Damn, a nice pair of lips too, what would they feel like pressed up against my skin?

The door jangled hard, someone coming in a rush. The couple in front of me faded out, then in again, then out. It was like a flickering TV channel. Shit - was there something in those eggs this morning? I’d heard of that happening, gangs sprinkling LSD into stuff at the grocery store, just to mess people up.

“Oh, I’m sorry did I come at a bad time?”

The guy who had burst into the place was wearing a red plaid shirt and jeans with holes at the knees.

“I am looking for a box of drywall screws and bits for my drill.”

“Sorry, yeah, sure I can get you that.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it.” He pointed at the yellow puddle beside me.

“What? Oh no problem, just a bit of bad food this morning. Hey, Larry can you come over and give me a hand?” I yelled back to the plumbing department.

“Get stuffed!” Larry yelled back.

I turned to face the customer and just about fell over again. He was gone, and in his place was the tall guy again.

“Straddle the line.”

He had the deep voice to go with the giant body. I looked around trying to figure out where that other fellow had went. He had been slurping something out of a cup loudly, so I listened for that sound.

“M.”

“Why are you saying that? Are you clearing your throat, ahem back at yeah.” Now I was feeling pissed off. “Where the hell are you from anyway, and what happened to the girl with the white face?”

The weird TV thing happened again, and the giant’s eyes went wide as he blipped out and that fuzzy headed guy popped back in. He was yelling something but no words I knew.

“Arrrhgjgjh. Fuck!”

Well, I knew the last word.

His hair was all messy, some of it standing straight up in the air like he’s put his finger in a light socket. Something flashed in the back of my mind, it was a picture of the girl. Maybe she was from town, lived in a trailer or something. Hmmm.

“No!”

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Noesthi arghis juxto.”

Something flashed in the store and Larry yelled from the back again.

“Get stuffed!”

“What did you say you wanted Mister?”

He smoothed down his hair again, cleared his throat.

“I am very sorry, I think I must have a bit of a bug too. I was looking for some drywall screws and some bits.”

“Right, sure. I can get those for you. Aisle five.”

I stepped over my vomit and walked over to the tool section. Fuzzy haired man followed, somehow he’d found his drink again, and I heard him slurping behind me.

I started whistling again.

“That’s a pleasant tune. What is it?”

“I dunno, been in my head all morning. An old one.”

“It’s good to enjoy your work isn’t it?”

Then it hit me. “Elvis.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the tune, it’s Elvis.”

“Can’t go wrong with the King.”

I reached a couple of boxes of screws off the shelf and went to hand them to him, but he didn’t have a free hand. He had a his drink from the 7-11 in one hand and long bladed knife in the other.

“You doing some hunting?” I asked.

“You could say that.”

Nothing Bent, but something else for Free

So when we last left our hero... that is how I feel like I should start this post. What is a reader (and a writer) to do when the protagonist meets an infinite number of variations of themselves, and then one of them turns into Mr. Bad-Ass himself, Harold the fuzz-head? Cue the cliffhanger music.

Well... you see... there's this philosophy class I've been taking (if you follow me on twitter, most likely you know this) and there's this major freaking paper that I am working on, and studying for the exam... and well, something had to give.

Sorry for all the um, ahs, and ellipses -  but no Bent Highway Chapter this week. And the collective crowd of virtual readers say, "awwww." Or I hope they say that. So dear readers, (over 2000 of you in November, or a couple of you are visiting the site way too often), I feel like I owe you something. In Bent Highway's place this week, a never before published story, right here, right now. I present Jacob's Butter. One man's struggle with... well, just read the damn thing. I think you might like it.

But please come back, as I am not planning to leave M at the mercy of Harold for very long.

Jacob's Butter

The first time the butter talked to him, Jacob thought the noise came from his ancient fridge. But, as he chomped down on his toast, he heard it again clear and plain.

"Fat."

Jacob sat up straight in his chair and spun around, looked behind, and under the table.

"What the?"

"Fat," the butter repeated.

Jacob picked up the dish and peered at the swirl his knife had made in the butter. He rotated it back and forth, and then laughing at himself, he put it back on the table.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked out loud. The butter did not respond. Jacob continued eating his toast, one eye on the butter. He said, "Pssst " a couple of times. The butter was silent.

Satisfied that it must have been his imagination or some strange food hangover from last night (he'd ate the entire cheesecake before bed), Jacob finished his breakfast and went to work.

The next morning, while cutting into a thick slab of Swiss cheese, one of the holes widened and said,

"Careful."

He jerked up in his chair and slammed his knife into the cheese. Jacob held the knife there, gripping it like a dagger, his knuckles were white.

"Ow," said the cheese.

Jacob’s hand flew off the knife.

"He’s kidding, that doesn’t really hurt," added the butter.

"You can, you, I, wha --" his chest tightened and he couldn’t catch his breath.

"You see there’s your problem. You’re on the edge of a heart attack, babe. Ease up. I mean holy cow, you knocked off that whole cheesecake the other night. You know what that does to your arteries?"

Jacob watched the swirls in the butter move up and down. That’s it, he was having a heart attack; and instead of hearing God, he heard dairy products.

"Relax, Jacob, you’re not dying. We just need to talk, babe. You’ve been hitting us pretty hard lately."

A bagel rolled out of a bag and split open. "You got’s any idea how high I raise your glycemic index?"

"Where are you from?" Jacob stuttered.

"Me, I’m from Brooklyn," the bagel said. "Those guys are from Jersey, the cow, not the place."

The butter and the cheese laughed.

"He slays me," said the butter. "Listen up here, Jacob. You’re not going nuts and you’re not dying… yet."

Jacob leaned in close.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know what we mean. That spare tire you're carrying is not sponsored by Goodyear."

"More like Sara Lee." The bagel guffawed.

Jacob found it chilling to watch a bagel laugh so openly.

"Listen to me Jacob, it's not too late for you. We're here to tell you how to turn it around."

"Could I really die?"

"Damn straight," said the butter. "Here's what you gotta do…"

Jacob knew being lectured by a yellow slab of fat was whacked. But the butter was making sense. The butter told Jacob what to watch out for, where to cut down and what to completely change. Then he talked about exercise, getting enough sleep, and how a vitamin or two wouldn’t kill him. Jacob listened. It told him that he had to start taking care of himself if he wanted to be around for his wife and kids. A swirl opened and closed quickly, which Jacob took as a wink.

"I don’t have a wife or kids," he said.

"You could if you shed a few pounds," said the cheese. Jacob noticed it spoke with a European accent.

The butter gave him a thumbs up with a little driblet.

Jacob got up from the table. He felt faint -- he no longer felt hungry. The food said goodbye to him when he left for work.

*    *    *

At work, Jacob didn’t tell anyone what had happened. He didn't feel hungry all morning. He decided to skip lunch. At coffee, he eyed the brownies suspiciously.

"C’mon Jacob, they don’t bite, " said Michelle, a plump brunette that worked one cubicle over.

He jerked back when she shoved the plate in front of his face. Jacob saw the worried look on his co-workers. He gave a strained laugh and told them he was just trying to cut down.

"One brownie’s not going to kill you."

"Just not in the mood for sweets today." Jacob's forehead grew hot as he spoke.

He left the coffeeroom and went back to his desk. He ignored the rumbles coming from his stomach and tried to concentrate on the rows of figures on his computer screen.

When he got home he was starving. He threw his coat off and headed for the kitchen. Jacob stopped when he heard voices.

"Hey Jacob, c’mon, you left us out here all day."

"I’m melting, I’m melting."

Then a bunch of laughter.

Jacob avoided the kitchen and went to go watch TV. A few hours later, he tiptoed into the silent kitchen. He opened the fridge and guarding the light with his body, he picked up a coil of garlic sausage.

"Jeez, can’t a fella get some sleep," the sausage shouted.

Jacob jumped and flung the sausage against the wall. It hit with a splat and woke up the rest of the food.

"Jacob, where you been?" asked the butter.

Jacob ran out of the kitchen and went to bed.

Over the next few days, he couldn’t bring himself to eat anything, not even at work. Thankfully, the water cooler and the coffeepot kept quiet. His coffee did burble at him once, making him stir it so frantically that half of the liquid spilled onto his shoe. He thought he heard a Danish snicker at him.

By the end of the week, Jacob was exhausted. He phoned in sick and went back to bed. He really did feel like he was dying now, and he might have, had he not listened to his bedroom mirror. He was laying in bed moaning when a soft clear voice drifted across to him.

"You're already looking much better. Come see," the voice called to him.

Jacob stood in front of the mirror. The Goodyear did look a little smaller.

"But you must eat something. This is not a good way," said the mirror. Jacob thought there was a hint of Chinese in the voice.

"I can't eat things that talk to me," he said.

"The solution is quite simple."

*    *    *

An hour later, Jacob finished a meal of poached salmon, green beans, (no butter), tossed salad with lemon juice and a big glass of sparkling mineral water. The waiter tapped him on the shoulder and gestured at Jacob with his fingers.

"What?" asked Jacob in a loud voice. He watched the waiter’s lips move. "Oh, just a sec."

"Will there be anything else, sir? Perhaps from the dessert cart?"

Jacob pocketed his earplugs. "No, I'm good."

END

Jacob's Butter is from the soon to be released collection of my short fiction, Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry and Other Tales of General Weirdness.

And yes, that is the real title.

The Risky Review

All authors want to be reviewed - if only by their friends, family, other writers, or their cat. My cat thinks I'm great - yet her views are more based on food in the dish and a lap to fold into. Scratches behind her ears get extra stars.

But when you throw your work into the publishing ring (self-pub or otherwise), you will start to get reviews from people you don't know. Sure, whenever you ask your friends and family to review your work, you tell them, "now, be honest." - well... shocker... rarely are they. In their defense, maybe you don't really want them to be honest. And trust me, they can smell that like dogs sense fear.

"He says he really wants me to be honest but why is he clutching the tablecloth like that and what about that sweat on his brow, and... etc. Yeah, I think your book is great. No, really I do. Put down the butter knife."

I digress.

This weekend I knew about a review coming out for Correction Line. I had exchanged emails with a blogger (and professional editor) about kicking off her new book review section with my novel. She promised me that the review would be honest, and told me there was no guarantee of a good review. Sure, this felt like a bit of a risk - not knowing the reviewer from Adam - but I do truly want honest reviews of my work (clutched tablecloths and butter knives aside). So I said, yes. And then I waited.

Saturday morning, while still in bed, I grabbed my iphone and checked the site. Yep, there it was. Now, when you've got that blurry-eyed morning thing going on, it's not the time for careful reading. I scanned the opening paragraph and saw this sentence,

"I don't like most books."

Oh-oh. This could be bad.

I decided to shut off the iphone, and grab a cup of some French Roast extra strong, extra black, extra intense, and steel myself for the rest of the read.

Thoughts rambled through my head as caffeine made its way into my capillaries.

Damn, what was I thinking asking for honesty? If she really trashed the novel, then what? How do I do damage control? Where's my cat?

Well, here's the thing - it turned out to be a great review. She talked about the quality of the writing, the overall mood and themes of the book, the importance of landscape, the lonliness of the characters - in short, she really really got the book. I also loved that she pointed out what didn't work for her, and the challenges of the book, and why some readers might not like it. In other words, a very honest review.

As a writer, I couldn't ask for more.

Read the full review here.

Bent Highway: Chapter Nineteen

Living Room

Door chimes morphed into Kraftwerk-esque electronica, underpinned by a pulsing bass and a stick hitting the edge of a snare. Figures walked out of the glowing walls, in perfect time with the music. Two, maybe three dozen, all males, all different ages. A few of them looked similar to my grunge wearing guide. No, they didn’t look similar - they were exact replicas. I scanned the room - a group of kids with short haircuts, more teens next to them, and then a group of twenty-year olds.

“Who are they?”

“I think you know.” He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his plaid shirt, and then did them up again. I used to do that in my teen years, like a nervous tic with clothes.

The figures got closer, making a large half-circle around me. The music shifted, a chorus of “ooos”, and a R and B riff slid into the room. Necks moved in unison, feet tapped in rhythm. There were lots of Adidas in various shades, the twenty-year olds wore heavy black Doc Martens - steel-toed, I could be sure of that.

“What is this place?” My head had started to swim in recognition. A t-shirt from Blue Oyster Cult, a pair of painter’s pants, an International Harvester hat, long hair sprouting out the sides like a spider-plant gone wrong - it was a living scrapbook.

“Why?” It’s all that came to me, so I asked it again. “Why?”

“Damned if I know. Pretty cool fucking music though, ‘eh?”

Another shift, hard guitars slamming power chords, another bass dotting the background with bullets of sound, feedback and screaming vocals over it all.

Now everybody was dancing this weird swinging arm sort of way. I let it sink in that I’d finally gone insane.

“C’mon. We need to keep going.”

“What? Where?”

The teenage grunge me tugged at my sleeve, and the dancers parted to create a direct path to a door outlined in blood red. The group hummed together the same sound.

“Mmmmmmm.”

I followed into the doorway, which slid open as we reached it.

“Hang on,” he, I, said.

“To what?”

“Your mind.”

This time the sound didn’t come from music but from row after row of small figures crawling across the floor. They weren’t crying, or doing those baby coos that babies do, they were all murmuring. I looked back to the room we had just left, the door had already slid across.

“Those were all me. At different ages.”

The teenager nodded.

“And these are me. As a baby.” The murmurs went up a third of a note, perfect infant harmony. “But why so many?”

“These are the inbetweeners.”

“The what?”

“It seems like going into a room where you meet yourself at every age, well, you wanna take that slow. That’s how it was for me, anyway. And shit, I didn’t even know all those old guys. But now we’re in the place where they show all the other ages. I guess they like to start with these little yard apes.”

“Who is they?”

“Damned if I know. Oh, wait, watch that back wall.”

A section of wall lifted behind the room full of crawling babies. Another group of figures, many dressed like the ones in the previous room, were crowded in close to each other. There had to be several hundred. A pain started at the back of my skull. 

“And again.” Teenage me pointed a finger over the heads of the crowd. When the other wall lifted, I thought it revealed an odd wallpaper, multi-coloured tiny men, boys and children in a pattern, with windows of white showing through. It wasn’t wall paper.

“How?” I swallowed hard, my head throbbed. “How many rooms?”

The teenager shrugged.

“I didn’t have this many. Still kinda fucks you up, doesn’t it?”

Something flashed in my mind.

“Wait. Who took you here? Someone older than you – I mean me.” My brain threatened to jump out my ears. “Or someone younger?”

“Neither. It was Harold. I don’t remember much of it, or how it happened. He just walked me into a room. Things are bit messed up in my head.”

I looked across the room, trying to see over the heads, the white had all but disappeared.

“They are all me?” I asked.

“Every one of them.” I replied. "At different times. Every single time, actually."

I fell down in one knee and stared into a baby me. The kid’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth.

“Trippy, dude,” he said. It came out in that baby accent, and was more like, “Twippy, dood.”

“I don’t know what this means.” I said to the baby me, who stuck out his tongue at me and blew a raspberry. “I need to get out of here. I have to find Walt, and Chalk Girl.”

“Oh, I’d forget about those two.” The teenager’s voice had dropped about an octave. It must have been from when my voice was changing during puberty.

“Why should I forget about them?”

“Oh look, I think another door opened.”

Impossibly, the room in front of me became more crowded. I had a distant memory of being in Jamaica in a gutted out mini-van that they used as public transport. When I’d got on, the vehicle was already jammed full. I was squished in next to a three-hundred pound bald man who smelled like jerk chicken and sewage. The van spun through the city, a man hung out the open door and beckoned new riders. Each time we stopped, I thought there was no way they’d get another body into the van. And somehow they did.

“Why should I forget about them?” I asked again.

“Because now that I finally have you, they’re as good as dead. It's about time I got rid of that sanctimonious walking pituitary disorder.”

I didn’t talk like that.

The pain in my head was explosive - white spots formed in the corner of my vision. I braced myself against the floor and cranked my head back to the teenage me. Even through the blurred vision, I made out the thick black fro. 

Damned if he wasn’t slurping a lime Big Gulp. And wearing my plaid shirt.

“Nighty-night asshole.”

The light inside my head went off.

Bent Highway: Chapter Eighteen

Hole

“Hang on.”

“To what?” I yelled.

“Everything.”

A couple of seconds ago I had dived into Walt’s sedan - a wide black hellhole opened up behind us.

Walt gunned it and I finally knew what those fighter pilots meant when they were always going on about G-force. It was if some evil aunt had taken both cheeks and smooshed them hard enough to pop out my eyeballs. A roar of wind came from the pit.

“What the hell is it?” I yelled louder.

Chalk Girl was pressed hard against the back seat. She mouthed the word, “Rip.”

Walt pushed the sedan harder. We were in a crazy-ass roadrunner coyote chase with a crevice the size of Montana. The landscape outside was a blur. I glanced at the speedometer, the needle was buried at 140. An orange blur flashed in the ditch, and then launched itself over the shoulder. The Charger caromed off the asphalt, and flew toward us. I waited to die. At least I wouldn’t feel much.

“Here we go.”

Walt’s voice sounded way too calm for the situation, like he was ordering another whiskey sour in an Mexican lounge. 

He cranked the wheel, the tires screamed, we lurched and slid into a tight spin. The front tire hit the edge of the pit and the sedan flipped in. The wind noise disappeared and we fell silently. Outside was sheer black. I expected us to bang against the edges of the hole as we fell, battering the sedan and then our bodies - and again I waited to die.

And waited.

We kept falling, the car righted itself, and it became impossible to judge the speed.

“You know what this is Walt?” It was quiet enough in the car to speak in whispers.

“I had heard this might be coming.”

“From who?”

“Others who have been following the one you know as Harold.”

“What is it? Where does it go?”

“Not sure. It’s outside of time.”

A high pitched whine sliced through the car. Chalk Girl and I slammed our hands against ears. Walt kept his grip on the wheel, even though there was nothing to steer. As fast as the light had disappeared outside, it came on again. The sedan fell like a black spider against the whitest of whites. The whining noise stopped and was replaced by an industrial hum.

“What do you mean?”

“Difficult to explain. Just outside.”

“Aren’t all rips that way?” The hum started to throb.

“Rips end up somewhere.” Walt looked back at Chalk Girl. “This one might not.”

The sedan cast a shadow against the unending white expanse. At least the shadow gave a sense that we were still moving.

“So what? We just stay in here... falling forever?”

“Forever is relative. But it doesn’t matter. I know that somehow we are going end up facing Harold.”

“How do you know that, Walt?” Chalk Girl asked from the back.

“He created this. He’s more in control than he’s ever been.”

“Again – are we supposed to just fall forever?” I had a flash of an astronaut being cut loose in empty space, drifting until the oxygen ran out.

“Chalk Girl and I will stay in the car. You’re going need to leave.”

“Um, what?” I glanced out at the shadow against the white.

“Don’t think of this as falling or like jumping out of an airplane. Gravity is not in charge here - there is no ground coming to meet us.”

“Or kill us.”

“Right.”

I looked outside again. “So I am supposed to just step into it?”

Walt reached over and pulled up the door lock.

“That’ll work.” Still bent over me, Walt pulled on the door handle, and it swung open.

I stared into the white.

“It’s best we separate.” Walt went back to his side of the sedan.

I stared at Chalk Girl. She shook her head.

“He has the least amount of control over you,” Walt said.

I put a leg outside the car, expecting to feel a rush of movement, but there was nothing but stillness. The industrial thrum continued to pulse like I imagined nuclear reactors did - not that I’d ever been inside one.

“So you’re saying that we will eventually land somewhere? You in the car, and me, well… just me.”

“Try to make your way to us.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Didn’t think so.”

I swung my other leg across and pushed off the car seat. I fell. Sort of.

The sedan moved down and away from me, I drifted toward what I thought of as the wall. My shadow got larger, and then I was touching it. The surface was glass-like smooth, yet warm and pliant – I pushed against it and drifted away from the wall, my shadow grew. I looked over my shoulder, trying to find the source of light, thinking it must be somewhere above me. As I looked up, my feet landed on a surface, as flexible as the wall, and then my feet slipped inside it, then my knees and soon I was waste deep in a lake of white. I thought I might just float there for a while, scanning above me for any small dot of black that might be Walt’s sedan. As I dipped to my chest, neck, and my bottom lip - I considered, again, that this would now be my death. I sank below the surface, immediately suprised that I could easily breath. In fact, my exhales created thick bubbles in the liquid. It was a bit like swimming in tapioca - another thing I’d never done.

I came through the liquid and my soft descent was over. I crashed to a flat surface, then banged my elbow and knee against the only piece of furniture in the gray room, a wooden highback chair. The line of a doorway appeared in the wall, and then a small man stepped through the open door. Not a man, but a boy. The recognition took a second.

“You didn’t die.”

“Of course not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” His voice cracked, just on the edge of puberty.

“But the trailer, it was sinking down. I thought that maybe…”

“Not sure if I remember that - and like I said, it wouldn’t be possible.”

The kid still had the Neil Young plaid shirt on and those blue Adidas. Damn, I loved those shoes. He stared at me the way teenagers do when they feel the tension but don’t give a shit.

“Well, I guess we should go.”

“Where?” I stared behind him to the open doorway.

“To meet the rest.”