The Enigmatologist (30 page)

The
old gas station on the edge of town, its perfect view of nothing, was a relic
from an era before nationwide infrastructure, when two-lane highways were the
thoroughfares for cross-country shipping or family trips. Propped on posts next
to the highway, an arrow pointed to the station. A red awning with neon lights
augmenting it sheltered the two gas pumps, their gauges rolling like slot
machines. Tires were stacked next to the front door. Metal signs for cola,
beer, and motor oil hung in the window. The signs were dented and rusted,
corroding them with the nostalgic quality that John loved.

John dropped his last few dollars on the counter, not
looking at the cashier, but out the window behind him. The sheriff was talking
on a pay phone. Beyond him, lifeless desert. John stepped outside with two
beers and a bag of sunflower seeds. He heard the sheriff yelling at somebody.
The sheriff slammed the receiver, started cursing.

“Goddamn Jimmy!” he shouted. “Stupid
sonuvabitch
!
He found the car in the desert, all shot up. Thinks I got killed. Now he’s got
the NMBI out looking for me. What the hell am I going to tell everyone?”

“Tell them the truth, that we were
abducted by aliens.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff said, “and instead of doing anal
probes, they made us drink beer and eat hamburgers. They’ll think I’m off my
goddamn rocker.”

“What? You think they’d believe we were anally probed?”

John handed the sheriff a beer, the opened bag of
sunflower seeds. A red picnic table squatted in the sun next to the ice machine
and, sipping his beer, the sheriff sat there. John straddled the bench seat and
picked at peeling red paint.

“You know, they ransacked your room,” the sheriff said,
propping his elbows on the table.

“I figured as much,” John said, popping a few sunflower
seeds in his mouth.

“I guess they found Mrs. Morris’s address.” He sipped his
beer. “She came home last night, found her place broken into. All her Elvis
shit got destroyed. Made it look like teenagers. Jimmy was first on the scene,
said there were broken plates and dildos everywhere. She’s claiming the Elvis
painting, you know, the one with his cock out…”

“What? She’s got another one?”

“She’s claiming it was stolen.”

“Hollister’s probably got it hanging in his office.” John
envisioned it hanging behind Colonel Hollister’s desk, his men suppressing
their giggles when he’d order them to stand at attention.

“Goddamn Air Force. Worst part is, I can’t prove nothing
either.”

“I think the world might be better off with one less
painting of naked Elvis.”

“Jimmy impounded your car. Your belongings are in the
evidence locker.”

“Everything?” John asked, pushing his sunflower seeds into
a pyramid.

“Yup, including an envelope full of cash.”

“That’ll make Roof happy.” John sipped his beer, looked at
the road, trying to see its end. “Who’s coming to get us?”

“Shirley. Should be here any minute.”

The sheriff finished his beer and walked to the back of
the gas station. Old train tracks resting a hundred years were overrun with
dried grass, almost buried.

“Hey, John, bet I can throw a bottle farther than you
can.”

“You’re on.”

John hopped off the bench and trotted to where the sheriff
stood. The sheriff dug the toe of his boot into the dirt. He took his bottle by
the neck and tossed it at the tracks. John threw his, not waiting to see where
the sheriff’s landed. The bottles burst a few feet from each other, spreading
shattered glass across the tracks. They laughed and argued over whose went
farther.

A lone car on the road. The sheriff nudged John and
started walking to the front of the gas station. A maroon station wagon with
fake wood paneling pulled into the gravel parking lot, a ghost town stagecoach,
a gray dust cloud in its wake.

“Lee, where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried
sick,” Shirley said when they opened the car doors. She was older, the
sheriff’s age. A floral print sprouted across her suit jacket. Freshly cut gray
hair dangled around her ears. John slid into the backseat, next to boxes full
of files that Shirley had taken home from the police station. John moved a box
over, realizing that it was Shirley who kept the station from toppling.

“Yeah, I know” the sheriff said, grinning. “I’ll explain
everything at the station.”

Shirley drove them back to the motel, scolding them like
they were teenagers caught smoking behind the gym. The sheriff smiled at John,
as if to say, ‘Isn’t she something?’

The motel parking lot was empty. From the outside,
everything looked normal. The sheriff’s car was untouched. An open sign hung in
the lobby window. The door to John’s room was closed, like he was out for the
day exploring the town’s historical landmarks.

“Lee,” Shirley said, “you better get straight back to the
station if you know what’s good for you. And you, Mr. Abernathy, it was nice
meeting you, but next time you come to town, leave the trouble in Denver.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John said, not wanting to tell her that the
trouble was already here, and would probably remain after he left.

“So, that’s Shirley?” John asked as she drove out of the
parking lot.

“Yup. That’s the Missus. Twenty-four years this June. What
you saw is tame compared to what I’m
gonna
get when I
get home. Whew, be glad you’re not married.”

“Yeah, it must suck having someone who cares enough to
worry,” John said, thinking about Rosa and doubting he would ever experience
that particular joy.

“You know it, buddy.” Sheriff Masters slapped John’s arm
and watched Shirley drive away, smiling slightly, content.

“Don’t worry about your stuff, now,” the sheriff said.
“I’ll bring it over tonight. You want to get a beer later?”

“Sounds good, but I’m leaving soon.”

“So, your job’s done then, huh?” The sheriff put one of
his keys under his thumbnail, cleaned out some dirt.

“Yeah,
gotta
get back. Take care
of my mom.”

“Your car’s all shot up?”

“I figure I’ll take the bus. It won’t take me long to get
back, probably a day and a half.” John grinned at the sheriff, hoping he caught
his joke about slow bus travel. Instead, the sheriff looked at the ground,
silent.

“Well,” the sheriff said. He moved a small pebble with the
toe of his boot. It rolled away and he looked up, smiling. “I better get back
to the station. Jimmy’s probably got everything turned all back-
asswards
by now.”

They shook hands, John thinking it was the last time he’d
see the sheriff. He wondered, after all they’d been through, what Sheriff
Masters thought of him. He didn’t try to read his mind, leaving him his
privacy. Instead, he just nodded, the sheriff nodding back. John hoped that
after he’d left and the sheriff returned to his station and the quiet routine
of his small town, that Sheriff Masters would still consider him a friend.

The sheriff got in his car, promised to stop by with
John’s things, again.

“Hey, check this out,” the sheriff said, grinning.

He turned on his siren and sped down the street like he
was heading to a bank robbery. John shook his head, chuckled.

When the sirens were a whisper, John pulled out his motel
room key and stood in front of the door for a moment. He held the key by the
thin part, tapped the fat end against his hand, feeling his palm withstand the
key’s weight. There was something inside the room, waiting for him, something
he had to deal with.

He put the key in the lock and opened the door. The room
had been cleaned. The bed was made, the carpet vacuumed. John smelled bleach
and ammonia and pine perfume.

And he smelled himself, the stink of the activity of the
past several days. He wondered if it would ever wash off. In the bathroom, John
took off his shirt and splashed sink water on his face and chest. Jimmy had
confiscated his luggage, his clothes, and John had to continue wearing his
filthy jeans and sweat-soaked, comic book t-shirt.

On the table was something that hadn’t been appropriated,
his pad of graph paper. The barely-begun crossword puzzle. Blue, horizontal and
vertical lines bisected on the pad. Words had been erased, written over, their
letters sitting in the cells the lines created, imprisoned by John’s
misdirected imagination.

He picked up a pen, clicked it a couple of times,
extending then retracting the ballpoint, like each click was a retort in some
internal debate. But the argument was already over. It was won before he left
with
Leadbelly
for the desert. John sighed. He
clicked the pen one last time and, with two pen strokes, freely crossed out the
puzzle.

He set his gun on the table. Relieved of the weight, John
collapsed on the bed, the frayed plastic stitching from the polyester comforter
poking him in the back, and quickly fell asleep.

* * * *

Later
in the afternoon someone knocked on the door, waking John.

He opened it, drowsy, a little disoriented. Sheriff
Masters stood in the late afternoon sun, his hands in his back pockets. Behind
him, Jimmy and the motel manager, Ernesto, waited.

“I hope you don’t mind, John,” the sheriff said. “I told
Ernie you were checking out. Asked him to come down here and handle it.”

“I don’t get it,” John said, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
“What’s going on?”

Ernesto held the receipt close to his face, reading it,
his forefinger guiding him. “Just sign here,” he said, a smile wrinkling his
tan face, handing John the receipt and pen. “Don’t worry about the mess in the
room, young fella.
Carmilta’s
my cousin. She told me
about your friend. We try to take care of our celebrity guests.”

“Well,” John winked at Ernesto, like it was their inside
joke, “my friend said
Carmilta
took very good care of
him.”

“Good. I’ll put it in her quarterly review.”

“I think that’s where
Leadbelly
put it, too.”

“I brought all your stuff,” the sheriff said. “It’s out in
the car.”

John looked over the sheriff’s shoulder at the squad car.

“The other car.” The sheriff held out his hand. A set of
car keys dangled from his fingers, augmented by a medallion with the Pontiac
logo.

“Jimmy felt bad about overreacting. So, he decided to loan
you his car for your trip home. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?” Sheriff Masters
glared at his nephew.

“Uh, yeah, bro. I’m real sorry,” Jimmy said, looking at
the ground like a little kid caught stealing change to buy Foreigner tickets.
He wore a yellow t-shirt with a faded decal of a surfer. The sleeves were cut
off. Wrap-around sunglass rested on his head backwards, like they were shading
him from hindsight.

The car, a large, black two-seater with a flaming eagle
painted on the hood. A custom license plate said ‘Bandit’. It looked like
something from John’s history elective, Matchbox Cars of the 1980’s 102.

“You’re kidding me?” John said. “Is this what I think it
is?”

“Dude,” Jimmy said, his smile bright as fog lights,
“that’s a vintage 1977 Trans-Am. Like what Burt Reynolds drove in
Smokey and
the Bandit
. Check it out, bro.”

Jimmy showed John one of his exposed arms. Near his
shoulder was a tattoo of Burt Reynolds’s face with the collar of a red shirt
and tan cowboy hat. A black Trans-Am was inked underneath.

Art school had prepared John for this level of obsession,
his classmates dedicating their lives to an artist, band, or song. This
fixation was embodied in a student exhibit comprised of trash from a famous
rapper’s hotel room. The highlight of the show was a piece made out of Chinese
take-out boxes and hemorrhoid cream. John couldn’t watch the rapper’s videos,
featuring bouncing cars, without laughing.

“So, I take it you like the movie?” John asked.

“Bro, this movie is my life. This car, dude, it’s like a
piece of American history.”