Horace Afoot (23 page)

“What happened?”

“Everything was fine. I liked the job. Anyway. Last year—I get a pink slip. Cutbacks. Blah blah blah.” Her eyes glaze over.

For several minutes there is silence. The television drones; another man appears and sits at the bar and begins telling the bartender a loud joke. Sylvia’s story is not particularly moving. Maybe it’s the way she told it. People talk about themselves as though their life story were some uncomfortable obstruction, best purged early in an acquaintance. The process is called “intimacy,” and, for reasons I don’t understand, people seem to attach an element of moral necessity to “telling all.” I prefer the quiet, blank absorption of the present.
Non semper imbres nubibus hispidos: the clouds do not forever pour murky rain
.

Our eyes meet for a moment, and I look away. The man at the bar roars with laughter at his own joke. The bartender grins and shakes his
head, then leans forward and says something that causes the man to slide off his barstool and do a sort of laughing pirouette. Sylvia shakes her head, smiling into the heel of her hand. It’s a good thing she can’t remember everything. I’d like to tell her so. Her doctor too. What possible good could a complete return of memory be to her? Who would wish to know?

Sylvia drains her glass. “Do I have time for another?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because you’re my escort.”

“I am?”

“You think I’d stay in this shithole alone?”

“Do you go to other bars alone?”

“Bars suck,” she says and holds up her glass to the bartender.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Shut up and drive,” Sylvia says, slams the door. I adjust the seat and the rearview mirror. “Think you can manage?”

“What kind of car is this?”

“It’s not a car. It’s a Bronco.”

“A Bronco?”

“Four-wheel drive.”

“It feels like being in a truck.”

“This here’s a sport utility vehicle,” she says in mock cowboy talk, patting the dashboard. “Never lets me down. All this here snow? Never even notice the stuff.”

“It’s too big.”

“Quit complaining, Horace. Just start it up and let’s get outa here.”

“What’s this?”

“That’s to shift into four-wheel drive.”

“Do I need to do that?”

“Not unless you plan on driving in the snow.”

“What’s this?”

“That there’s a CD changer, pardner. Want to listen to some music?” She touches a button and the speakers in the rear erupt.

“Turn it off!”

“You don’t like it?”

“No!”

She touches the button and there is silence. “That was my favorite band. Nirvana.”

“Sounded more like Hell.”

“You never heard of them?”

“No.”

“The singer killed himself. Blew his head off. Now his wife’s a big movie star. You must have heard about that.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“They’re great. I saw them in concert once.”

“I don’t think I want to drive this thing, Sylvia. Let’s see if we can find a cab.”

“A cab? In this town? There aren’t any cab drivers here. The last one starved to death a few years ago.” She reaches over and twists the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life. “There ain’t any buffalo either. C’mon. I’ll give you a lesson. Put your foot on the brake.”

I depress the pedal and she yanks the gearshift into reverse. “Now. Back out slowly. No gas. Just ease off the brake.”

I do as she says, and the truck begins rolling backward. It is dusk, and there is a pink midwinter slant to the last bit of daylight. I look into the rearview mirror, and when we’ve pulled clear of the parking space Sylvia tells me to cut the wheel and reaches over to help. I brush her hand away. “I can do it.” I step on the brake. We are thrown back in our seats.

“Fucking hell, Horace! Go easy.” Sylvia snaps on her seatbelt and tells me to do the same.

“I didn’t realize they were so sensitive.”

“Just go easy on ’em. Everything’s power. And you forgot to turn on the headlights.”

She points to a lever and I pull it out. Everything inside lights up. “Drive around the lot until you get the feel of it,” she says.

I steer the enormous vehicle toward the emptiest part of the lot.
157 is coming on quickly, yet the lot is illuminated by tall lamps, the headlights of cars, and the neon emissions of Riteway.

Sylvia hiccups. “Shit,” she says. “I hate when this
up
happens.”

I’m too busy concentrating to pay attention. The moving vehicle has a momentum all its own, reacts at the slightest touch of the steering wheel.

“Easy,” Sylvia instructs. “You’re
up
doing fine.”

“I haven’t even touched the gas yet. The thing just goes by itself.”

“It’ll
up
do that.”

I make a few turns around the lot, stopping and starting again while Sylvia slouches in the seat next to me holding on to a strap above the passenger window and trying to stop her hiccups by holding her breath.

“Are you all right?”

She nods her head.

“Can you give me directions?”

“Left out of the lot. Take the
up
bypass north.”

“The bypass?”

“North
up
.”

“Where the hell do you live?”

“Outside of town.”

“How far?”

“About
up
fifteen miles.”

I put on the brakes. We are thrown forward.

“Shit, Horace. You’re
up
going to make me
up
puke.”

I put the gear lever into park.

“How am I supposed to get back?”

Sylvia rests her head in the crook of her arm. “You can
up
take the
up
car.”

“I don’t want to drive at all!”

“You can
up
stay at my place and I’ll take you
up
home later.”

I drop my hands from the wheel. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

Sylvia lifts her head from the crook of her arm. “Relax, Horace. I’ll
up
drive.”

“You can’t even keep your head up.”

“What’s the big deal?” She drops her arm into her lap and shifts so
that she is sitting straight-backed in the seat. “Now drive. Will you? Before I puke.”

The bypass north is crowded, and I stay in the right lane hugging the shoulder while cars whip past. Being at the wheel of this growling box has set every fiber of every nerve on edge. Magnitudes of horsepower. The pedal under my foot responds smoothly. I fix my eyes on the road, unable to ignore the caroming around of all the other vehicles, each one inhabited by a placid-faced driver, blissful and complacent in the conjunction of power and private convenience.

Near the end of the bypass Sylvia directs me onto a quieter road. It grows darker, and all that is visible are the melting heaps of plowed snow along the roadside and the parallel beams of the headlights. I try to keep the car centered in the lane.

“Sit back, Horace,” Sylvia laughs at one point. “You’re all hunched up like an old lady. Makes me nervous.” I glance over. Her hiccups have gone. She is sitting primly, looking forward, both hands in her lap. “You really never drove before?”

“I told you that.”

“I didn’t believe you.”

I lean back in the seat and ease up on the accelerator. “I’ve never wanted to either.”

She looks over at me. I keep my eyes on the road ahead and try to return her look peripherally, driver-style. “Still, you gotta admit. Driving’s fun.”

“For pathological cretins, maybe. I wish they’d all disappear.”

“Pathological cretins?”

“And their cars.”

“Why?”

A car approaches in the other lane. I slow down, trying to avert my eyes from the headlights without taking my eyes from the road. My pulse quickens. The car whooshes past and the road ahead goes dark again. “Why?” she asks again.

“Because they’ve turned the world into a big, noisy, stinking brawl.”

She giggles and says with drunken sarcasm, “Aren’t we being sensitive?”

The darkness unrolls toward us, and we drive in silence for several more miles. The throbbing engine creates a mysterious lull that hangs between us, two people strapped in a seated position and hurtling through the night in radium-green stillness. The mound comes to mind, the diagrammed attitude of its human contents shut up in silent darkness and hurtling not through space but through time.

“Turn left at the third mailbox up ahead.”

I take my foot from the gas, touch the brakes. The machine responds nicely.

“Not here. Up there.”

I coast, bring it to a stop with the lightest pressure of my foot on the brake pedal. A driveway appears to the right of the mailbox, and I turn into it. The tires crunch onto gravel. The headlights illuminate a large white house set back from the road behind a wide, snow-covered lawn and a stand of tall trees. Lights come on on the porch and the first floor.

“Motion detector,” she says. “It turns on the lights automatically.”

I coast the truck to the end of the drive. “You live in this big place all alone?”

“I got a roommate. Laura. But she spends most of her time at her boyfriend’s.”

She shoves open her door and climbs out. I follow her as she weaves her unsteady way toward the house, stoops down, and reaches underneath the first porch step to extract a hidden key. “My secret,” she says.

Inside is a jumbled mess of furniture strewn with clothes, shoes, books, magazines. Everything looks as if it has been shoved aside with a sweep of the foot. A sofa and coffee table stand in the center of the room. A television set, wilted potted plants, a stereo.

“Excuse the mess,” she says, going into the next room. “Want a drink?”

I follow her into the kitchen, a large, spacious room with a solid-looking square table at one end. There is a faint smell of food left out.

“I don’t have any wine.” She yanks open the refrigerator. “I’ll make you a bourbon and Coke if you want.”

“I’ll have a glass of water.”

She takes a large bottle of Coke from the refrigerator and retrieves a
half-gallon bottle of cheap bourbon from a cabinet. “In case you’re wondering why I drink so much. I have trouble sleeping. And I’m afraid of sleeping pills. Dr. Henley wanted to prescribe some to me. But she said it wouldn’t be a good idea unless I agreed to go to AA. Fuck that. I told her I could do just fine without the pills.” An ice tray crashes to the floor. I pick up the scattered cubes and put them in the sink. She hands me a glass and drops some ice into it from the tray. I fill my glass at the sink while she tends to her drink, which she mixes in a large glass beer mug filled to the brim with ice. “God! I almost forgot!”

“What?”

“The kiwis! I left them in the car. They’re probably frozen by now.”

I offer to get them and return outside, knowing I should not have come. I crunch across the frozen gravel toward the Bronco, retrieve both my backpack and the paper bag containing Sylvia’s kiwis. All this is done in a daze, and before returning inside I pause in front of the house and breathe a few drafts of cold air to clear my head. It is much darker out here than on West Street with its pathetic streetlight at the corner and the kilowatt-hungry neighbors piled one against the next. The stars shine brightly. A few dark wisps of cloud move across the sky.

“I bet these will go great together.” Sylvia holds up the brown oval fruit. “Just peel the fur off.” She hands the kiwi to me and takes a knife from a drawer.

I peel and slice it for her, sampling a piece of the sweet-sour fruit. It tastes good and cuts the sour wine taste left over from the bar. I haven’t eaten all day, and now that the adrenaline from the drive has subsided I realize I’m hungry.

Sylvia takes two slices of the kiwi and drops them into her drink, stirs them in with her finger. “I gotta show this to Laura. She always comes up with weird drinks.” She wanders into the living room.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Sylvia asks, sipping off the top of her drink.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, a girlfriend? G-I-R-L friend.” She sips and grimaces. “This is sour!”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugs. “Just curious.” She sits down on the sofa, reaches underneath, and pulls out a mirror. She puts it on the coffee table, takes a small vial from her shirt pocket. She taps a small mound of powder onto the mirror, chops it up with a razor blade, and in a few deft swipes creates a few thin parallel lines. Then she holds a plastic straw to one nostril and snorts. She turns to me, her eyes bluer and more aqueous. She offers the straw, fingers long and slender, each tight little bone in her hand articulated.

“No.” I am fascinated by the seriousness she brings to the little ritual. She slides a finger across the surface of the mirror, rubs a little powder onto her gums as if brushing her teeth. At last she looks up, slips her finger from her mouth with a satisfied slurp. “You want to fuck me?” She hurls the question like a sharp object. It’s not embarrassment that prevents me from answering but the intuition that a simple yes or no is not the correct response.

“I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“You do,” she says and reaches for her mug.

“I hadn’t thought about it.”