Prodigal Blues

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I would like to thank Geoff Cooper, Alex Aminoff, and Lucy Snyder for their invaluable assistance, expertise, and support during the writing of this novel.

For Ed Gorman, one of the finest human beings and writers it has ever been my privilege to know; and also, with respect and admiration, for Stephen King, who may not have invented the road-trip horror story, but most of that particular dark highway was paved by him; thanks for letting me travel in your tire tracks.

"…at some stage a machine which was previously assembled in an allover manner may find its connections divided into partial assemblies with a higher or lower degree of independence."

—Norbert Weiner,
The Human Use of Human Beings

"Everything passes away—suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence.
 
The sword shall pass away too, but the stars will still remain when the shadow of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the earth.
 
There is no man who does not know that.
 
Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars?
 
Why?"

—Mikhail Bulgakov,
The White Guard

"When I face myself I'm surprised to see

That the man I knew don't look nothing like me…"

—John Nitzinger, "Motherlode"

I
was in a bar called
The Blue Danube
on the OSU campus that was filled with too many, too-loud, too-pretty trust-fund college snots, all of them pulling hernias as they sucked on their clove cigarettes and tried to impress each other with how terribly individual and iconoclastic they were; one prick in particular, his mesmerized harem of prickettes in tow, was holding court near the end of the bar where I was seated.
 
He was wearing a black T-shirt with the words
I SWEAR I DIDN'T KNOW SHE WAS 3!
printed in big white letters across the chest.
 
To emphasize the depth of this wit, a pair of baby booties dangled from the exclamation point.
 
One of the harem whispered, "
He's so controversial!
"
to the prickette beside her, then both went back to staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed; viewed from the right angle, when the light hit their eyes, I could actually see the backs of their skulls.

Until the guy noticed me, he'd been spouting opinions about everything from Skinner to Faulkner to Kierkergaard and Hayo Miyazaki's
Spirited Away
.
 
Then he happened to glance over his shoulder, recognize me, and grin.

"Hey, I've seen you around campus, haven't I?"

"Probably."

He stared at me for a moment, then tilted his head to the side the same way a dog will when it happens upon a virgin fire hydrant.
 
"You're one of the maintenance dudes, right?"

"That's right."
 
Actually, I'm the supervisor of the entire maintenance department, but I didn't think he'd find that little tidbit of much interest.

He looked at his harem, gave a quick wink, then turned back to me and said:
 
"I got a great joke for you, the other guys on your crew are gonna
love
this:

"A pederast is walking through the woods one night with a six-year-old.
 
The kid looks around, then whispers:
 
'These woods sure are dark.
 
I'm scared.'

"The pederast looks at the kid and says:
 
'
You're
scared?
 
I gotta walk out of here
alone
!'"

The assault charges were thrown out after the judge (an ultra-Conservative—first time in my life I'd ever been glad of that) listened to the guy repeat the joke through what was left of his mouth, but I still have to pay the emergency room bill, plus all follow-up medical expenses (within reason) for the next six months.

Money well-spent.

When she came to post my bail that night, Tanya, my wife, wouldn't even look at me.
 
It wasn't until we were driving back to the house that she gave any indication I even existed:
 
her right hand flew out like a stone from a slingshot and hit between my nose and mouth.

"
That's
for the embarrassment you caused me tonight, forget about the money—which, in case you haven't glanced at our bank balance recently, we can ill-afford."

"Ouch?" I said, rubbing my face.

"Look, Mark, I'm sorry I did that, okay?
 
But... dammit, you haven't been yourself for a while now.
 
You
don't just pummel someone like that—I'd expect it from any of those goons you work with, but not you.
 
This is twice you've hit someone since you got back.
 
What's made you react this way?
 
You're not a violent man."

I muttered something under my breath—an old tactic I use whenever I don't want to talk about something—but she was having none of it.

"Oh, you will
not
pull that with
me
, buster, understand?
 
I'm your wife and I deserve better than to be treated like this.
 
You haven't been the same since you came back from Kansas.
 
You're not eating, you've been going to bars
way
too much—you've drank more in the last ten days than you have in all the ten
years
we've been married—your sense of humor's been in the toilet, you don't sleep worth a damn and when you do, you have nightmares…

"I've been good about it so far, haven't I?
 
I haven't pushed you about things and I haven't bugged you.
 
You told me not to worry about the broken nose you walked in with; you told me never mind the cuts on your face and the bruises on your arms and wrists; you said forget about the blood on your shirt, you'd explain everything to me, you just didn't feel like talking about it then.
 
I've respected that—I haven't
liked
it, not one damned bit, but I've respected your wishes.
 
Well, guess what?
 
It isn't
then
anymore!
 
I just pulled your ass out of the slammer and Tanya's 'respect-his-wishes' gauge just hit 'E'!
 
My patience has been stretched to its limit, I am all out of understanding, and I'm done being quiet about this.
 
Something terrible happened to you during that trip; I want to know what and I want to know now."

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

She sighed.
 
"Pretend you're cleaning one of the buildings, then:
 
start with the biggest part of the mess and work down to the details."

"That's a good analogy, I'm impressed."

"I went to college and actually
did
something with my degree.
 
That's how come I get to be a Property-Pricing Analyst and have fantastic insurance for your sorry ass.
 
College people make impressive analogies.
 
Now
, are you going to ruin
my
dental work as well or can we talk like a civilized married couple?"

"That part about the degree was kind of a cheap shot."

"I figure I'm entitled tonight—stop trying to change the subject.
 
And quit pouting.
 
I found it cute when we were dating but right now it just annoys the shit out of me."

Don't think from this that Tanya and I don't get along because we do.
 
She knows me better than anyone ever has or ever will and still loves me.
 
Go figure.
 
I knew I'd been a pain in the ass lately so I had at least one good punch coming.
 
This was the first time Tanya had ever done anything like that.
 
She's the most level-headed, pragmatic person I know, and if she was mad enough to hit me, then it was more than just anger and irritation; she was
hurting
.
 
This was a woman who worked a forty-five, sometimes fifty-hour week at a tedious job where no one appreciated what she did, and for her week's efforts came home to find that her pearl-of-a-human-being hubby—who for the last ten days or so had worn a jackass suit that fit so well you'd swear it was tailor-made, who hadn't so much as
kissed
her in a week, and who, instead of parlaying his English degree into a teaching position, decided he'd rather mop up after students than instruct them because somewhere along the line whatever spirit he had for things packed its bags and took the long and winding road—
this
glittering prize she permitted to be her husband had gotten himself thrown in jail.

I had hurt my wife's feelings, and in my eyes that's just as low as if I'd hit her or worse.

I reached over and placed my hand on her leg, then gave it a little squeeze.
 
"I'm sorry, hon."

"Uh-huh...?"

"I love you."

"You'd better."
 
Her voice still sounded hurt but she managed a little grin.

We stopped for a red light.
 
Still too ashamed of myself to meet her gaze, I glanced out at a telephone pole that was covered in fliers advertising everything from dating services to Goth bands to tattoo parlors and pizza delivery specials; most of these were ragged and torn and discolored, but one flier, deliberately placed on top of all the others so it faced the street, was new, and had been stapled in about a dozen places to make sure that the wind wouldn't tear any of it away.

I squeezed her leg a little harder.

She turned toward me.
 
"What?"

"Look at that."