Air Force One, Part Two (3)
"Yeah? Well so am I, man." It's easy to talk tough but he enters the kitchen cautiously, explaining to himself that, after all, he's never been in it before. There's no sense stomping around like you own the place when all you're going to do is knock into things and fall on your face. In point of fact, Bob has never been in any kitchen before, of any description, anywhere. He regards them as a kind of sanctum sanctorum not to be violated by the likes of him. But he catches the scent of a cook fire, and it smells more or less like the mundane fires he uses for the same purpose almost every night on the road. Finally, hunger drives him forward over the threshold of the holy place. It's big. It has tile floors, which, though they are roughly done by the standards of a prior age, seem to Bob like the very essence of wealth and sophistication made solid. He takes two cautious steps onto their surface. Nothing unfortunate happens. In the middle of the tiled floor is a sizable island of countertop with shelves set below, and over which hangs a metal wonderland of every kind of pot and pan. They are made of copper, cast iron, aluminum, and perhaps other metals that he has never seen, all indiscriminately mixed. Each one is stained and blackened by long use: an endless succession of meals made for men like him. On one side of the island is a large double sink, built into part of the cabinets that stand under the room's double window. The great cook stove is across from the island, its back against the wall whose other side holds the dining room's big fireplace. And there is, indeed, a fire burning in the stove whose only possible purpose must be to cook food. At that moment, the back door at the kitchen's far corner bangs open and Mick comes in sideways, carrying a bushel bucket full of cured meat. The breeze, entering with him, blows the powerful smell of it immediately to Bob. "There's no breakfast today!" the old innkeeper barks at him before he has managed to fully open his mouth to speak. "Didn't you talk to anybody? And no lunch either. And don't be hanging around the kitchen whining about it!" Bob stands inadvertently rooted to his spot as the old man kicks the door shut and slams down the heavy basket on the island countertop. "Hello?" Mick says a little too loudly, stopping an arm’s length from him. Bob smells alcohol on the old man's breath, stronger than beer, and his nose wrinkles involuntarily. The innkeeper scowls. "Do I have to say it in trucker?" "I was just, uh —" "You're hungry. OK." He grabs a chunk of smoked meat the size of his splayed hand and thrusts it at Bob who just manages to react in time to grab it before it strikes him in the chest. "Eat that," the innkeeper commands. "And get lost! Just be sure and be back here for dinner." Bob looks at the chunk of meat in his hand. After a day and a morning without food, its smell makes his mouth water in a heartbeat. "Wait a minute," Mick commands, although Bob hasn't managed to move yet. "You can do something for me." He fishes in his pocket, and thrusts his hand in a fist toward Bob, emptying the contents on his fist into Bob's open palm. A little surprised to feel the clink of metal, he looks down. There are two coins in his hand, both gold, and an ounce each. If he were paid purely in money for a haul, which he almost never is, and if he could find a customer who wanted a load taken from Michigan to California — which would be next to impossible — and then if he got paid to turn right around and do it again from the west coast all the way back to this spot — two ounces of gold would more than pay for the trip. In fact, an ounce and a half would do the trick, plus giving him a nice bonus. Bob has never seen so much money in one spot before, let alone in his palm. He looks at the old man and opens his mouth to speak, without the benefit of any clear idea concerning what he wants to say. The old man waits politely for maybe a whole second, and then gives up on him and speaks first. "There's the one farm I always use. They're good people. Little odd, maybe. I want you to go up there — I'll draw you a map, it's about, I don't know, ten, twelve miles — and get some stuff. Twelve dozen eggs," the innkeeper pauses and looks intently at his victim. "Well, I'll write it down for you. But I'll want the eggs, and then ten gallons of milk and five pounds of butter. It's a big order, but I know they can fill it. That ought to leave, oh, fifteen bucks silver out of that first ounce. You give that to them as a tip, and don’t make any mistake about it. That’ll make ‘em happy." He points at Bob's still-open palm. "The second ounce you keep, for doing the job. OK?" "Are you OK with this?" he asks after another generous half-second pause, speaking as though to someone at the bottom of a well . "I'm not kidding. This is not a joke. I need this stuff, and I need it here by noon or so. So can you do that?" "Uh, yeah," Bob nods. "Yeah! OK." "By noon, right? So you better get going. And, um — it's Bob, right?" Bob nods, a little surprised that the old man actually knows his name. Does he call by name all of his kitchen implements? "You got a good radio, Bob?" "Yeah," Bob answers carefully. "Pretty good." "All right," the old man runs a hand through his hair, which does nothing to help his appearance. "Use your radio to contact anybody you can reach — what's your range?" It's only when the innkeeper asks a question or wants Bob to remember something that he bothers to actually look at his victim. And when he asks a question he frowns, as though he was expecting to have been answered already. If there's any way to get Bob feeling tongue-tied, this would be it. "Um — it's uh, like," he practically stammers, "forty or fifty miles if I have the engine running. Maybe, um, five or ten on the battery." "OK," the innkeeper nods, staring again into some indeterminate distance, "OK, it'll have to do. Get on the road first so you can put some juice into it, and then call whoever you can reach and ask them to pass the word. Tell them dinner's free tonight at the Wolverine and it is one dinner they do not want to miss. Free lodging, too. I don't give a damn. "OK?" he focuses on Bob's eyes again as though to propel him by force of will. "You got it?" "Yes sir," Bob nods quickly. "OK, go on and get started up and I'll draw you that map and write the list. Go on!" Bob turns on his heel, no longer worried about the tile floor, and makes his escape. For most of the afternoon Jack was vaguely aware of trucks coming into the lot, but he wasn't able to spare the mental energy to really take notice. At first the man who'd sold him the tires was willing to lend a hand getting them onto his rig and Jack was eager to take advantage of his offer. After a couple hours, however, that source of assistance disappeared when the man took off. Then, knowing that the late October day didn't afford him as many hours of daylight as he might like, Jack was all the more intent on finishing the job. He had no desire to leave his rig half jacked up over night, nor to bed down knowing that his truck wasn't ready to roll at a moment's notice. So he spent his day, placing jacks, pounding on tire irons, wrestling hundred-and-fifty pound disks of rubber and steel up plywood ramps, replacing every one of his rig’s tires that could be improved upon by one in the new set. In the end, it was all but two, and those were questionable — probably surviving more because of the approach of evening than the quality of their treads. Jack has never even heard of anyone changing sixteen tires at once, with or without a little help, and by the end of the work he's as exhausted as he believes it is possible for him to be without just falling down. But it is good to know that his disastrous tread situation is finally behind him. And it’s good to think of the old tires that he has retained as a vast reserve of emergency spares — hung up around the inside of his van like the rinds of some strange giant vegetables, their dry skins wrinkled and cracked, saved in a mobile pantry against lean years on the road. Only now, walking across the wide parking lot, gradually becoming aware again of his surroundings again, does Jack begin to realize that it is substantially more crowded with trucks than before. And only as one of the Wolverine's double front doors swings shut behind him and he stops at the end of the entry way does he realize what that crowded parking lot means. In the twelve hours since he last noticed, the population in temporary residence at the Wolverine Truck Stop and Motor Lodge has approximately doubled. He stands on the threshold of the dining room, arrested by a wave of aroma and uproar such as he has never before witnessed even in the Inn's better years and his first marvelous visits. He stands in the archway — shirt, forearms, hands and face spotted and striped with axle grease accented by occasional modest highlights of blood — feeling that he has been transported into a kind of parallel universe: a truckers' Valhalla housed in the Inn of his dreams. A chill strikes him, subtly penetrating the thick scented air. What if this is exactly what happened to the residents of the deserted town? Have they, too, on the other side of one inexplicable moment, found themselves in a better world? Maybe the pain, stress, and fear of living in this world just builds up in certain people or places until something finally — snaps. A gate opens, perhaps just for a moment, and the people who are in the right place at the right moment find themselves transported into a world that everyone, at the most fundamental level of their being, has always known must exist. A world that they have all wanted more than anything, but have hesitated from fear of disappointment, to believe in. If the old trucker, remembering some important item left behind or regretting the overly generous terms of the tire deal, were to return to the Inn now — he would find it empty, a score of good trucks deserted in its lot, and in this great dining-hall only silence. Meals, half-eaten, still cooling in their plates and the untended fire not yet burned down to embers. Or was he actually the one who opened the gateway? Was it the tires he sold Jack which, in the mere act of affixing them to his truck, have transported him to this place? The mysterious trucker is returning even now to the deserted lot, but only to once again retrieve the tires now that they’ve done their work. Once again he will set out on the road with his story of emptied towns and inns, looking for the next deserving recipient. For thus, unknowingly, many have entertained angels. As the swinging door into the kitchen on the other side of the dining room starts to open, Jack is more than half ready to believe his fantasy. But here is the test. If he has indeed entered some better world in which there has been an end of strife, then he knows that he will see a certain young woman walk through that door. And as the door opens fully, he sees — her father. The old man staggers through the opening, burdened by a shallow wooden crate of odd-looking bottles. A cheer goes up in the crowded room. Jack smiles, and steps across the threshold. Mostly, people are still busy eating. Each table is crowded with plates, and each plate is, or originally was, piled with meats, roasted vegetables, and the occasional apple. In the center of each table are baskets of bread, roasted ears of corn, even baskets of the ribs that are normally served as a main course. Every table and every plate is in a state of disarray that you might expect from hours of continuous feasting, although Jack is confident that the meal couldn't possibly have started more than fifteen minutes ago. Some men are eating in a businesslike way, cutting one piece of meat while chewing another and they'll worry about the vegetables and bread later. Some are hunched over their meals from long habit, unconsciously fearful lest their food be taken from them. And can’t a feast in the Elven King's hall magically vanish as easily as it appeared? Maybe they don't have a lot of experience with such things, but they're not taking any chances. One man is asleep; his body having decided that its reserves of energy would now be best spent digesting the food he has already rather than supporting consciousness. Even in the unexpectedly crowded conditions there are still plenty of seats available and most of the patrons are quite awake and almost as glad of company as they are of the food. When Jack hesitates at table with several occupants and a few empty chairs he is immediately invited to sit. Pulled down into a chair, actually, by one boisterously amiable customer while another pours red liquid from one of the tall bottles into a spare glass. Jack watches the process with some concern, glancing around the table to see whether there is a spare beer somewhere. "Hey!" the trucker who invited him exclaims, "the kid doesn't know what you're giving him there, man. We got us a virgin!” At which the second trucker laughs and upends the long green bottle to fill the water glass faster. The third manages to grin while eating a sparerib. With the three gentlemen as his tutors, Jack begins his education concerning the history, craft, appreciation, and consumption of wine. To men unaccustomed to large gatherings, the sound of two dozen voices in one hall is like a physical force. It thickens the air like smoke, slowing every thought and motion. You can feel its pressure in your chest and feel its vibration in the top of your table. For men accustomed to the sound of a truck's engine it's certainly not too loud. But unlike the engine noise, this texture of sound is alive. It can be frightening at first, but you get used to it. After some time you may come to enjoy it. The life in that sound is humanity, and that's something that there isn't enough of. You can get so that when you're out on the road again, listening to nothing but your engine's drone or the wind in the grass when you stop for the night, you'll think about this noise. When you spend a week on the road without seeing another living man or moving vehicle — you'll dream about it. From time to time, another scattered cheer goes up as Mick introduces a new course, or some new wonder rescued from long storage in the Wolverine’s basement. Jack looks up one time and sees him carrying in steaming orange-brown pumpkin pies, four at a time, on a huge oval tray made of sheet-metal, its edges so badly finished that they look like they'd cut your hands in an instant. Somebody pours wine again, and Jack lifts his glass obediently: more than normally interested in his ability to do so. Firelight glows in the sinuous stream of liquid, dancing with it as though the two were old friends long separated. The light flickers around in the liquid, jumps with it down into the glass and sparkles there. In the revelry of their first meeting long ago, some of the color of the glowing embers was caught permanently in the glowing drink. This is why the wine is red. There are candles on all the tables, two or three each on the larger ones, that burn with more smoke and more smell than the way he remembers candles as a kid. Little streams of smoke rise over some of them, which shortly break and curl, diffusing into the general smokiness of the air. The light gets into that, too, making the air visible as well as audible. Another source of occasional uproar is a nearby table whose five men have pushed aside the remains of their meals in favor of a game of cards. At one point, with silver dimes, quarters, and even a few dollars forming a gleaming pile in the middle of the table one man slaps his cards down and laughs thunderously, reaching down to rake in the money with both hands. The player opposite him looks aside with some deprecating remark while one of the other three makes loud comments on luck, which no one listens to. The man across from Jack says something funny, so he laughs or possibly just mimes laughter. Since he can’t hear himself, he's not sure. The man's face is large and sparsely bearded. His lips are cracked with sunburn and his teeth, when he laughs with his head tilted back, are yellow like old ivory. At one table a man is delivering a long account of his more lurid exploits on the road, going into especially great detail about one town that is apparently composed entirely of women who have gone much too long without seeing a man. His audience is simultaneously amused, critical, and appreciative: offering their own helpful suggestions concerning likely twists of the plot, together with exclamations of encouragement and derision. This is an art form which they appreciate, and which has definite rules. Both the performer and the audience must be somewhere in the proper range of inebriation — neither too much nor too little — and the claims concerning feminine conquests must be, perhaps not on the actual edge of believability, but at least somewhere within sight of it. Mick shows up with a bowl in his hand: a wooden bowl containing — jewels? But familiar ones, somehow. Each one is an inch across and half as thick. There’s every color in the world and some colors not in it, and some — striped? Candy! his childhood informs him. They're hard candies, stockpiled no doubt in the deepest vaults of the Wolverine for untold centuries, finally loosed by the rift that this night has torn between the worlds. Mick is standing in front of the sparsely bearded man like a priest administering the sacrament of some forgotten antiquity. The man is nervous but, knowing he has no choice, slowly opens his mouth just wide enough to admit the eldritch gem. Held delicately between the innkeeper's thumb and forefinger, the bauble is shaped like a fat flying saucer, and is the exact color of windshield washer solvent. The color of the sky in a slightly different world. The man accepts it, and then his eyes widen so comically that the other denizens of the table cackle like fools. Jack laughs along with them, eyes tight shut and crying, laughing so hard that it hurts. Until he feels a hard gem pressed unexpectedly into his own mouth. He avoids choking on it or coughing it out only by some Precambrian instinct. And then his eyes are opening wide. The same deep layer of instinct is telling him that he has gotten one of the dried-piss-yellow ones. For the first time in fifteen years, he is tasting butterscotch. ... And there are still more customers coming in! From time to time they hear, even over the dining room's sonic chaos, engines and breaks outside. Then a man will walk in just as Jack did, and likewise stand on the threshold and stare. Yes, it's really here, he thinks to the men. It's really here, and now so are you. He looks at his hands and sees barbecue sauce on them, mixed with axle grease. It's something new, kid. The barbecue sauce of the road: hickory smoked and asphalt grilled and done to a turn on a Kenworth axle spit. Just like you, kid. He's having slow thoughts about washing, and then a black dog's face intrudes on his consciousness, thrusting over the edge of the table, Its moist nose sniffing audibly in constant quick patterns of tiny inhalations each followed by a rush of exhaled air. Its black eyes glisten with perfect, innocent greed, focusing hopefully on him. "Hey girl," he says. "Are you Blackie?" He seems to be holding a spare rib in his left hand, so he passes it to her. She takes it with surprising delicacy then trots off in a quick retreat, carrying her prize to more secure surroundings. "Who let them damn dogs in here!" one man's voice carries above the din, and Jack looks up to see that the other three animals are in the room also, each begging at a different table. "What are you worried about, Wallis?" Mick yells back from the kitchen door. "They're better looking than you are, anyway!" ... He's up, and walking between crowded tables, making sure to avoid the legs of chairs and people’s heads. Remembering that he wants to get to the bathroom, he is pleased to find that he can also recall where it is. But — only in the sense that he can visualize the room and the part of a hallway immediately around it. This image unfortunately helps very little with the immediate problem of finding his way there, through a trackless forest of smoke and noise, tables, chairs, and men. He is stopped, and looking at Mick the Innkeeper. He stares for quite some time, watching it as though it were already just a memory, before any thought crosses his mind that some sort of response to this apparition might be appropriate. Uncertain of what response to initiate, he blinks. But the apparition remains before him, and it wants to speak. "You take care of them, OK?" the ghost says. "Both of them." He nods, filing this in some region of memory where he will be able to find it later. Then he’ll take it out and look at it closely.
Copyright © 2000 Michael Goulish |