Drawing Infinity

I had a habit of examining church marquees and collecting them, like you collect stamps or baseball cards. It was my hobby, and everyone comes to a point where they need a hobby. A hobby was, for me, a buffer against the ever expanding nothingness I was noticing in the world around me. Depression pales in comparison to the realization that despite immersing yourself in a life of faith, of hope, of love and community and togetherness, you still feel lonely when you’ve been on the road for six hours to promote some book that you wrote. Some book full of lies that you once believed. Some book that you now despise.
I was a Christian, Goddamn it. I was supposed to have the solution to these problems ready made, stored away in my book of orthodox dogma for the modern male. I wasn’t supposed to be feeling things like loneliness. I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to have even the vaguest notions that life was meaningless, that there was no Jehovah Agape up there in the sky, looking down on my pitiful frame and thinking, “Yeah, that’s my kid.” I was supposed to be the one taking my friends aside, telling them why their emotions were ill-conceived, childish, and probably sinful.
Psychologists would say my feelings sprang up from a childhood devoid of a solidified father figure. I know, I’ve looked it up. Charismatic preachers would say it was demonic oppression. I know, I’ve been told this directly. Neither of these ideas is particularly helpful on some dark stretch of I-80 on a winter midnight in Illinois. So, as any sane person does in that state, I considered a hobby. Stamp collecting seemed like something antique, something from the fifties. Kind of lame. Same with baseball cards and archery and anything else Tom, Dick, and Jane talked about in the schoolyard.
The hobby I chose had its genesis years ago, when I was still in Bible college, still fighting the good fight and scaring the hell right out of the unbelievers. I was a person who wore business suits to class and yelled scriptures into a megaphone on street corners near liberal universities. Back then, I looked a lot more like my doppelganger than I did on the night I fell into a puddle in Flint. I had the clothes, I had the hair, I had the winning smile and the heart for lost souls. I was driving by a small baptist church, and the little glowing sign out front read, “We’re the church the Devil warned you about”. I wasn’t quite sure what that was supposed to mean, really. Was I to believe that the devil goes out and warns non-christians not to attend a specific church because it would instantly make you a better, more denomination specific person? Was I supposed to laugh at this? I didn’t really find it funny, but at the time I convinced myself it was clever in it’s own Christian way. I memorized it, slipped it into conversations over coffee in the cafeteria and discussions in my Modern Cults class. To my dismay, my discovery was nothing new.

Writing continues. I'm having fun, which I guess is the real goal right now.

It has been a very long time since I have written any new short fiction, but I was inspired by feverish dreams I had in the car on my recent road trip to Florida and this story is what came out. Please let me know what you think.

-Dave

Low Clouds Over the Smoky Mountains

“Indie chicks with southern accents annoy me,” I say to Cheryl. I’m trying to start some sort of conversation here. Honestly, I don’t know why, because any conversation I have with her will inevitably lead to me getting frustrated and lapsing into silence again. Thankfully, she ignores it, mostly because she’s too focused on looking out the window, reading billboards that she finds hilarious. Every oddly named antique shop, every fireworks emporium, every god-forsaken fruit stand. She reads them each aloud, and then claps her hands and giggles. I used to find this charming. Now it just annoys me.
The radio offers no relief. Music is surprisingly lacking this afternoon. It’s just news report after news report. Riots in Manhattan. Some kind of SARS outbreak at an airport in Boston. Homicides in upstate New York. I just want to hear some rock and roll. I spin the tuner until I find a station that comes in static free, but even that won’t drown out my girlfriend.
“Cafe Risque!” She squeals. “Trucker discounts! And Showers!” She rocks back in the passenger seat violently and giggles. I roll my eyes. When we get back to Flint, this is over for good. I’ve been talking to a girl with a nice ass from Detroit on Myspace. She wants to get together next weekend. She doesn’t laugh at every little thing that drifts into her mind. I believe that I am going to have sex with her.
There had been an indie chick working the register at the last stop we made, a BP gas station that didn’t have Slim Jims, so I was already irritated. She had blue in her hair and tight wrinkled jeans that made her look lopsided to me somehow. She thanked me when she handed me my change. Her accent was pretty thick for northern Florida. It made me cringe. She reminded me of Cheryl.
This vacation was supposed to be a way to mend the relationship. Five days of ocean spray, sandy beaches, tropical weather, and theme parks. We went to Sea World two days ago. Cheryl spent what seemed like an hour feeding and petting the shiny gray dolphins in their big tank that was surrounded by fake rocks splattered with bird shit. I stood behind her and watched them swim up begging for fish to be thrown into their mouths. They didn’t look happy and playful to me. They looked sad and desperate flopping and splashing there. The paint on the walls was peeling and flaking into the water. There were scars on their noses and they kept chattering, open mouthed, whining for more fish. It made me sick. They reminded me of her.
Of course, she loved every minute of it.
“What’s with that car?” Cheryl asks. She’s pointing at a silver Sunfire heading south on the opposite side of 75, across the patchy Georgia grass that serves as a median. The car is swerving as it approaches. Other cars on the southbound side are braking, getting out of its way. Suddenly, it swings around and bounces across the median, throwing clumps of dirt and grass up behind it. Cheryl screams, overreacting, making me panic for a second. God, I hate her.
I brake hard and switch lanes. Luggage falls and tumbles around in the back seat, hits my chair. I curse. The Sunfire accelerates, it’s tires screeching. I get one glimpse of a large man in the passenger seat, leaning his forehead against the glass. Dark eyes. Scared eyes. Something looks fundamentally wrong about the guy. It freaks me out a little. Cheryl is still screaming or something, and I tell her to shut up. She does, for once. Thank God.
The Sunfire speeds ahead. It must be doing almost ninety now. I see that it has a New York license plate. It’s in the distance now, disappearing around a curve in the highway, glinting in the sunlight between some pines, and then it’s out of sight.
Cheryl talks about the car for a good ten minutes straight, an unbroken, unfiltered chatter. I’m gripping the steering wheel, willing her to start watching for funny billboards again, read a book, listen to her iPod. Anything that will get her to stop talking because the sound of her voice is unnerving me.
A half an hour slowly slides by and she gradually quiets. I’m enjoying the radio, some Third Eye Blind song, when she says, “Can we stop, hon? I have to pee.” I try to sigh real loud, roll my eyes, somehow convey to her just how much of a pain she is becoming, but she ignores it all and just sort of pouts. How did I ever find that endearing? What was I thinking?
“Fine,” I say. “Might as well fill up. We’re only at half a tank, but whatever.” I draw this out into an exasperated moan. Nothing. It doesn’t even register with her. Why do I even try anymore?
The next exit is in some hick town with one gas station that has a Subway attached. Junk lines a fence behind the pumps, boxes and coils of wires and tubing. I pull in and brake too hard by pump number five. Cheryl groans and hisses at me. “Don’t do it like that. You know I have to pee.” She’s whining again. Damn it.
“Listen,” I say, yanking the keys out of the ignition, “take the keys. I’m definitely locking the car in this place. I’m gonna go pay.” I drop the keys in her lap without waiting for her to take them. She has to be getting the hint by now that her love isn’t being reciprocated. That’s nothing I can tell her outright. She wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t understand that it was over, as quickly and efficiently as a business transaction is over when the money has been exchanged. She would only blubber and weep and tell me about all the good times we had, the nights we went out, the nights we had sex. I see the whole thing happening inevitably, there’s no way around it. My mind follows the paths of the argument I will have to tread to end this tired excuse for a relationship. It gives me a headache already.
Cheryl takes the keys and slams the car door. She stomps off in the direction of the bathrooms. I watch her head to the outbuilding where the women’s bathroom door hangs chipped and pathetic from loose hinges, then I get out and stand beside the car. An old black man in overalls stares at me from the sidewalk with red eyes.
“For Christ’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, and press the automatic lock button. It responds with a reassuring thunk. For a few moments, I stretch the kinks out of my back. I crack my neck. I tug the creases out of my shorts. Hours of sitting in the car have made me sore and damp. Cheryl is still in the bathroom, which is typical, so I decide to go in and pay for some gas, maybe see if they have some Slim Jims.
The silver Sunfire is parked crookedly in front of the store.
It’s the same one from before. I notice the same New York license plate. Slowly, I walk around it and towards the gas station door. The man I noticed before is still in the passenger seat. I can barely see him in the sunlight that is reflecting off of his window, but then my shadow drifts across the glass and I see him clearly for a moment. He’s fat. He has a beard. Dark circles hang under his wide eyes. He stares up at me and he doesn’t look well. Maybe he’s on drugs, or maybe he’s just car sick or something. He puts one hand on the window and I walk by, trying my best to ignore him. He looks tired and a little paranoid. There’s something else, too, but I can’t put my finger on it. Sick freak.
Inside the store, I look for Slim Jims. They have them here, thank God. I grab four because there’s a sale, then I get in line at the counter. There’s a girl in front of me with a nice body, a blonde. She’s skinny, maybe some sort of indie chick because of the gauges in her ears and her red hoodie. Probably she listens to bands like Death Cab For Cutie and writes poetry in a leather journal. That type of person annoys me, but at least she’s hot. She turns slightly and looks out the window, and I see her face.
She’s the driver of the Sunfire. She has the same dark circles under her eyes, the same dull expression of paranoia on her face. She seems nervous, jittery. She keeps glancing back at the Sunfire and biting her lip like she’s worried. One of her hands clutches a bottle of aspirin and a wad of dollar bills. Her other hand is pressed against her side. There is a stain beneath her palm. It looks like blood, maybe, because it’s dark on her hoodie. Everything in me goes cold.
I notice all of this in the minute or so I’m standing behind her in line, and then she’s up at the counter. The plump lady running the cash register eyes the girl warily, then says, “I help you?” The girl’s voice is hoarse as she responds. She sounds sick.
“Just these.” She drops the bills and the aspirin on the counter. The bottle bounces with a rattle. The cashier hesitates, and then takes the money.
“You alright, darlin’?”
“Just... Just these. Just these.” The girl repeats in a faint voice. Maybe figuring that getting involved is too much trouble, or perhaps just not caring, the lady completes the transaction and hands the girl the bottle and her change. She takes it limply, and turns around, almost stumbling into me.
“Sorry,” she says in a wavering whisper. I step back and let her pass. A look of confusion passes between the cashier and I. Bells above the door jingle as the girl exits.
“What was that all about?” The lady asks me as I lay the Slim Jims on the counter. I shrug and smirk, trying to end the conversation. I don’t much feel like talking. For some reason, seeing the girl made me nauseous.
“You think she was on some kind of-”
“Fifteen on pump five and these,” I interrupt her. Unlike Cheryl, this lady gets the hint. She takes my money with a grunt and I take the Slim Jims. The bells above the door jingle when I walk out.
Outside, the sun is bright and Cheryl is just coming out of the bathroom. It seems like she’s been in there forever, like always. Typical Cheryl. My mind positively salivates at the thought of ending it. Images of the girl from Detroit come to me in vivid, debaucherous detail.
To my right sits the Sunfire. I can’t see the man inside. I don’t want to see him or his paranoid eyes again. A sound of something falling makes me turn, and I see the girl stumbling around the corner of the building. I glance back at Cheryl, who is looking at some kind of bird that’s eating garbage off of the pavement. Of course she is.
Without really thinking about it, I follow the sick girl around the corner of the Subway. I don’t intend to help her, I don’t think. The thought of seeing her again at all turns my stomach, but for whatever reason, my feet carry me in her direction until I’m leaning against the brick wall, trying not to appear as if I’m spying. I don’t want the girl to see me watching her, and I really don’t want Cheryl to see me and ask me what I was doing because I don’t want to have to explain everything to her. That would turn into a whole other argument to get through and we still have about twelve hours to go before I can safely dump her, ending three years of irritations and dull sex.
There are woods behind the building, about twenty yards away across a clearing of dead grass. The girl is already under the trees. I watch her red hoodie for a few moments as it disappears in the shadows. It gives me the creeps. She has to be strung out on something to just leave her car and walk off into the woods. I’m about to turn around when something in the grass catches my eye. It’s her bottle of aspirin. She hasn’t opened it, I can see the seal from here.
“Hey, there. Hey, you alright? Oh my God.” That’s Cheryl’s voice. There’s the sound of a car door opening. I turn around and what I see stops me from moving further. My feet are stuck in place.
This is what I see: the passenger door of the Sunfire is open. The fat bearded man is stumbling out, crouched, maybe doubled over in pain. Cheryl is helping him, her hand in the crook of his elbow. Why can’t she just mind her own business? She always wants to get involved, help out, be a part of the latest crisis. Typical Cheryl. I wish I could end it right now. What is wrong with the fat man is that he has no left ear. I think for a second that I’m seeing things, but I’m not. He has no ear. Where his ear should be is a ragged hole. Dried, darkened blood coats the side of his face. His mouth hangs slack and ropey strings of spit droop from his chin.
“Oh God. Oh God.” Cheryl again. Her voice is trembling now like it always does before she launches into a good cry. “Here, sit down on the curb there.” She’s guiding the man to the curb by his arm and he’s clicking his teeth together, biting the air. He moans loud and low in between the horrible clacking sound that he is making. Cheryl glances up and sees me standing here watching. She stops moving and stares back at me. I think that she finally gets it. She knows in that single moment that it’s over between us. I don’t know how she knows, or why I know that she knows, but it’s the truth. I’m not coming to the rescue. I’m not getting involved. I am simply not there. She finally gets that.
“Help me!” She squeals in my direction, and at that moment the man lunges forward and sinks his teeth into her neck. That same expression of concern and annoyance at my inaction stays on her face for a few seconds, even after the blood gushes out. I’m rooted in place. I can’t move and my vision blurs. This isn’t happening. Cheryl’s eyes go wide. Gouts of blood spew onto the man’s face and I realize that he is chewing her neck. She goes down in a heap, bringing the fat man down beside her. He rolls awkwardly onto his back. Blood is everywhere.
“Cheryl,” I say under my breath. I see it ending just like I’ve wanted and all of a sudden, I don’t want it to anymore. This feeling is new and unexpected, and it punctures the bubble of shock that I am encasing myself in. Something in me, some old part of me, revolts to the idea of my girlfriend’s death. The girl from Detroit is a whore. She wouldn’t laugh at funny billboards, or read them aloud so that I could laugh too. She wouldn’t take forever in the bathroom to make sure that she looked good enough to sit in a car next to me for twelve more hours. She wouldn’t talk to birds eating garbage in the parking lot. She wouldn’t get involved. What she would be is another decent lay.
“Cheryl!” I say louder, and it seems the sound of my voice uproots my feet and I’m moving towards her. Not nearly fast enough. Everything is jumbled. It feels like a vice is tightening itself around my head. I can’t think straight. This isn’t what is happening because things like this don’t happen to me. Not to me.
I’m beside Cheryl, looking down at her, before I can start truly panicking. She’s twitching, oh God she’s twitching in her own blood, she’s trying to say something, my name, I think, I want to throw up, I want to run, I want to clean her off, a crowd is gathering, I feel them around me, hear their noise, like birds, like locusts, like beasts. Vultures. Hyenas. Lions. The girl from Detroit. I see keys in Cheryl’s hand, the key ring looped around the finger she hopes I’ll buy a ring for soon. Car keys. My keys. Someone screams. Her eyes are pleading with me, her hand outstretched, the keys dangling from her finger.
I kneel beside her. I take her hand. She registers that I am there and tears pour down her cheeks, mingling with the blood.
Blood gets on my hand.
I slide the keys off of her finger. I drop her hand. Blood is everywhere. I rise to my feet. Blood is everywhere. I back away. People are gathering, the fat man is on his feet again. He’s moaning, flailing his arms. People are screaming. Blood is everywhere. I’m running to my car. Blood is on my hand. I’m at the door. It’s locked. I try to unlock it. Blood is on the door. I drop the keys. There is so much noise behind me that I can’t think. There is blood on my hands. I pick up the keys, get one in the lock. The noise behind me is coming closer. My breath is a panicked wheeze in my ears. A man runs by the car. It’s the wrong key. I try another one. It slides in. It’s the right key. I’m in the car. Blood is on my hands. Blood is everywhere. The key is in the ignition, the car roars to life, the sound is terrifying. I floor it. The car runs up over the curb and I point it towards the highway.
There is still blood on my hands.
It’s getting dark by the time I reach Tennessee. I’m still heading north. Heading home. There’s a girl in Detroit who wants me to come visit her this weekend, but I don’t want to see her or have sex with her. The road ahead of me is shrouded in fog, and pine covered cliffs rise up on either side, dark and menacing. The radio doesn’t play songs anymore. Most of the people on the stations that still come in talk about depressing things and use words like “outbreak” and “terrorist” and “death toll”. I can’t find any good music, and what I need right now is good music because there’s still some of Cheryl’s blood on my hands. Any second, I expect the fat man with the beard to shamble out of the darkness and into the road, paranoid eyes gleaming like an animal’s in my headlights. I’m speeding, no longer caring to drive safely. I haven’t seen any other cars going south for about an hour now.
The radio won’t tell me what’s happening back home. It won’t tell me about Cheryl. A weatherman on one radio station tells me to watch out because there are low clouds over the Smoky Mountains tonight. I don’t listen to him. Somewhere, a couple hundred miles behind me, a girl I don’t love but who loved me nonetheless is lying dead. A few hundred miles ahead of me, there is a girl who doesn’t love me that is waiting for my call.
I can’t see very well because there is still blood on my hands and the clouds are low over the Smoky Mountains.