CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DANE
I check my cell.
It’s December twentieth.
I’ve been holed up in this motel room for two days now. The walls are starting to close in. Soon I’ll be clawing at them.
I call the Greyhound office again, but the buses won’t be running for another couple of days yet, or so they expect. “Why don’t you grab yourself a good feed down at the diner?” the man suggests. I want to tell him I’ve worked my way through almost the entire, cursed menu. I’m practically sweating grease and oil. I smell like a damn double cheeseburger.
I do, however, take his advice, heading out not to the diner, but to the only bar I remember passing on my way into town. It’s a solid walk, but I’ve got nothing better to do. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it earlier, actually. Bars are where I do my best work.
But the ‘Recovery Room’ isn’t the Roosevelt. There’s a bar inside alright, a billiard table, a slot machine (singular), but that’s about it. The five-guy sausage party almost has me turning on heel, but I pull in a breath and take a seat at bar, ordering whiskey, dry. You can’t fuck that up.
The bartender places the whiskey down in a glass that’s none too clean, but considering the room I’ve come from, I doubt it matters.
I kick the whiskey back, welcoming the burn down the back of my throat it provides.
“You stuck here too?”
I face the guy sitting to my right. I wasn’t paying attention at first, but on closer observation he’s definitely not a local, not with Ray Bans and a gold chain direct from Miami Beach. “Something like that, I reply.”
He extends his hand. “Bill Greyson.”
I take it. “Dane Carr.”
He notices my jacket. “You were in the air show, right?”
I tap the bar for another whiskey. “That’s right.” I note the G&T he’s drinking.
“Must be a hell of a thing flying one of those machines.”
“It is. How about you? How did you end up in the fine town of Merit, Michigan?”
“Passing through. It’s a long story. You’re better off watching paint peel than listening to me try and explain it.”
I smile, looking around. “I guess we had the same idea, showing up here.”
‘Bill’ scans the room, shifting closer and lowering his voice. “Between you and me, I can’t wait to get back on the road and away from these fucking snowbillies.” He pulls back. “Where you from?”
“All over,” I shrug, my next whiskey arriving.
“Ah,” Bill nods, “a man with a story.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I can relate.”
I sense a story of his own coming, the too-long-to-tell-it story he mentioned.
“You see,” says Bill, adding a flourish with his hand and almost knocking over his G&T in the process, “I got evicted from my place, bought a big ol’ RV and just hit the road.”
“Wow,” I reply, trying to summon enthusiasm.
“Oh, yeah. It’s great, man, living on the road. I’m free!” he laughs. “And you’re a travelling man yourself?”
I stare down into my whiskey. “I guess so, but…” I pause for a moment, thinking. “When the ice storm came through, this girl in town put me up.”
“A girl?” queries Bill. “I got shacked up with this fucking war vet. Couldn’t go a damn minute without telling me about his leg and the nips and the ‘god damn government.’ Drove me crazy. I’ve never been so happy to see the inside of a motel room again.”
I’m barely paying attention, verbalizing my thoughts as if in a trance. “I suppose you’d say I’m not really travelling; more like running.”
“From what?”
I shake my head, sliding my whiskey from hand to hand on the bar. “From a mistake, a mistake I made a long time ago.”
Bill places his hand on my shoulder. “We all make mistakes, buddy.”
“No,” I tell him. “This wasn’t like that. “I knew this girl. I got her pregnant.”
“Shit, man. Once, I—”
I cut him off. “She wanted to have the baby. I didn’t, couldn’t imagine myself with a kid, you know? I was a fucking bad-ass, a player.” I have no idea why I’m telling this guy these things, why I’m talking about it at all. It’s been years, but now I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
I look at him. “I thought about the kid, couldn’t get it out of my head, but by the time I changed my mind she’d already had it ‘taken care of.’ She didn’t even ask me. I mean, it was my fucking kid too, right? I should have had some say.”
Bill seems a bit put off, removing his hand like I’ve suddenly developed leprosy. “Hard break, brother, but onwards and upwards, hey? There’s plenty of pussy in the sea.”
I shake my head, staring at the bar. “I couldn’t face her after that, her parents, the small-town vitriol because everyone in town knows everyone else’s god-damn business. So, I enlisted, if for nothing but to escape it all, to get as far away as fucking possible from that place.” I swallow down the whiskey in one shot. “I’ve been running ever since.”
Bill doesn’t reply. He shifts away ever so slightly and laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. I hope the next town turns out better for you, man.”
He stands, taking out his wallet and slapping down a twenty nervously. “See you around.”
“Yeah,” I reply, but he’s already headed for the front doors, no doubt having decided that was enough awkward conversation for one day.
I can’t blame him.
I close my eyes, try to force away the pain I feel even now thinking back to those times. I open them and notice the bartender watching me from the other end of the bar, the other locals eyeballing me just as hard. They’ve been listening to every word. I don’t snap at them, smash a glass or pick up a pool cue. I simply stand, pay, and leave.
I come through the doors into the blinding light of day and with it more thoughts about the girl I left behind, about the child I never had but for a brief moment wanted. It hurts. It still fucking hurts no matter how far I go, how far I fly. The heavens themselves can’t help me.
I walk lost through town, hands deep in my jacket pockets.
People have started to come out again, the town moving on as the ice melts.
The imposing brick structure that is the First Bank of Merit stops me in my tracks. I stand before it watching people coming out and going in, business as usual.
Am I really happy like this? I wonder. I used to think so.
More people come and go.
What’s going to happen after the next town, and the one after that, and the one after that one?
A man emerges in a white collared shirt. I notice something affixed to it. He’s making his way down the stairs when another man calls to him from the bank doors. “Sheriff!”
The Sheriff turns.
“One more thing,” calls the man.
The Sherriff makes his way back up the stairs, the two men conversing. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying.
I don’t know why, but I reach into my pocket and take out the check from my last gig with the Red Devils. I stare down at the figures, at the official-looking typeface.
Before I know it, I’m walking up the stairs, nodding at the Sheriff as he passes me on his way down.
I walk inside and join the line, still staring at the check. I’ve got savings, money stashed away.
No. It’s a crazy idea.
It starts to snowball nonetheless, an even crazier thought on top of the first.
It can’t hurt to ask, though, right?
“Next!” the teller calls.
I step up to the counter and place the check down.
Just fucking do it, I tell myself.
“How can I help you today?” the girl beams, hands tidily placed on the counter.
I give her my best smile. “I’d like to see the manager, please.”
She looks around nervously. “Ah, I’m sorry, but Mr. Pemberton is unavailable.”
The suited man I saw talking to the Sheriff appears behind her shoulder. “I’m the manager. Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I smile. “I’ve got a question about a property under foreclosure.”