A low keening sound comes from the beat up old juke box tucked away into the corner of the bar. It?s a voice that warbles and groans, singing a song of days gone by and romanticizes the hardships of the poor and impoverished folk residing in the rural counties out past the interstates, waystations, and civilization. Glenn can only guess that this is the meaning of the song. Its melody is only just there beneath the din of noise, the murmur of voices and the explosions of loud, violent laughter that fill the tiny bar off one of the farm roads that took up most of the town?s real estate. Men with skin turned to leather mill about drinking light beers and cheap whiskey, talking about the labors of the day, the accidents, the cost of good workers and the lowering value of their goods or crops. The mechanic is broke because he isn?t getting any business. He isn?t getting any business because the farmers aren?t making any money. It?s a vicious cycle.
He?s been in the town for two nights and three days now. A man walks up and pats him on the shoulder and holds out a bottle, his smile is mostly toothless and the skin around his eyes looks like he?s spent too much time standing around staring into the sun.
?Where you hitched up tonight, son??
?Same as before,? Glenn says. He takes a sip from the offered beer and nods to a door behind the bar.
?My offer still stands.?
?Not looking for work.?
?Then what the fuck are you doing all the way out here??
Glenn thanks him for the beer and leaves. He steps out front and lights a cigarette, saluting the passing sheriff?s truck with his bottle. The truck pulls into a space further down the dirt parking lot and a woman steps out in a khaki uniform. She approaches.
?You know you?re not supposed to be drinking that out here,? she says.
Glenn hurls the bottle out over the road and into a ditch on the other side. He takes a drag off his cigarette and looks at her. She?s thirty-five, or thereabouts, and tired in all the ways a person can be. She?s pretty like an old painting is pretty. It?s got cracks on the surface, the colors have dried up and begun to bleach. But underneath you can see the artist?s original vision, the smooth lines and brushstrokes that slowly fade with the passing of the years.
?When are you leaving?? she asks.
?Why?? he answers.
?You make me uneasy.?
?Couple of days. Just resting, been on the road a while.?
?You got two, exactly. Understood?? she puts a hand on her hip, right above her gun.
?Yes ma?am,? Glenn tips an invisible hat to her and turns to walk away from the bar.
?What?s your name?? she asks.
?I ain?t gonna tell you that,? he says, stepping out of the dirt lot and onto the dark asphalt road.
She doesn?t follow him.
He walks for an hour or more. Walks until the distant, westward sun falls from the earth and the sky fills up with the light of stars he counted when he was young. They?re different out here, the shapes don?t add up and he puzzles on this for a spell. Not much happens out there on the road. A car might pass him by once or twice, its high beams temporarily blinding him. He wonders how he looks in the wash of bright, artificial light in those brief seconds he?s illuminated. Wonders if the driver sees him, or if he?s just a ghost.
He?s taken this route twice now. Down the road a ways, then back up the other side. He?s headed back after his handful of smokes and his hour or more of thought. The bar he comes to is quieter than the one he left before. It?s empty, except an old bartender with a beard that gray but stained yellow-green-and-brown around the mouth. He grunts at Glenn and Glenn grabs the broom from him and starts sweeping. It takes another hour to finish sweeping and cleaning the bar. He?s not too thorough, and the old man doesn?t seem to mind. When all?s said and done, he steps through the door behind the bar and past the storage room on the other side. In the back is a mostly unused office with an old, heavy safe, a cot, and a computer that?s a few decades out of date. He sits on the edge of the cot and reaches between his legs to pull his bag out from beneath it. He does a quick check to make sure the old man hasn?t stolen anything from him, then he flicks the light switch and goes to sleep.
It's warm. Warmer than warm. Hot, even. So Glenn wakes up and looks at the flickering light visible beneath the crack in the office door. He gets up and opens it and there?s a fire on the other side, engulfing the storage room in an angry fusion of orange and red. He tugs his boots on, grabs his bag, and charges through the fire to get to the door on the other side. He keeps his head low and his arms around his bag to protect it from the lashing flames that leap up at him as though eager for something else to burn. He barrels through the door and clambers past the bar. The main room is ablaze as well. The fires lick the ceiling and the lightbulbs overhead begin to pop and explode. He makes it to the main door and, not having a key, grabs it by the handle and pulls until wood splinters and cracks. The iron bars of the gate outside bend when he kicks. So, he kicks again, and again, until the metal is torn and twisted and he has an opening wide enough to just squeeze through.
He stumbles out into the dirt and lands on his hands and knees, his bag hits the ground in front of him. Glenn sits back on his haunches for a second, coughs the smoke from his lungs and replaces it with air. Then he grabs his bag, stands, and turns to look at the bar as the roof begins to crack and sink. It?s so loud he doesn?t hear the footsteps behind him. When the man speaks Glenn whirls around, ready to strike.
?That?s some fire,? the man says. He?s young, fair skinned and dark haired. He wears a leather jacket and has dark eyes. ?How do you figure that got started??
?Who the fuck are you?? Glenn asks.
?Just a traveler, like you man,? he lifts his hands in a placating gesture.
Glenn drops the bag by his feet and grabs the man by the collar of his jacket. He lifts him up and then drops him onto his back and goes with him, a knee to the young man?s chest and a fist raised and ready to fall.
?Your nice guy act ain?t playin? here,? Glenn says.
The young man smiles at Glenn feels something warm at his side. He looks down between him and the young man and sees the latter?s arm looping past his leg, fingers wrapped around the handle of a folding knife. The blade is stuck in his side.
Glenn snarls and punches. The man laughs, his nose bleeds, and Glenn hits him again and again. Bones crack, lips split, and his knuckles bleed. He beats the young man until his face is all red and broken, until he?s sure the kid is dead, and then a little more for good measure. Then he stands, stumbles, and falls onto his backside gripping the knife still stuck in him. He sees the flash of red and blue lights bouncing off the trees that line the road before the sheriff?s truck pulls into view. An old fire engine lumbers along the road behind her. She pulls into the dirt lot and gets out of the truck and upon seeing Glenn and an unmoving body, draws her gun.
?Hands where I can see them!? she says. Glenn obliges, grimacing.
?I need an ambulance,? he says. She looks at his side, then over at the young man.
?One?s already on the way,? she says. ?Who is that??
?Don?t know. Never seen him before.?
?He dead??
?Probably,? Glenn says. ?He stabbed me. Think he started the fire, too.?
?And why on earth would he do that??
?Maybe he got pissed about the old man watering down the drinks.?
She walks over to his bag and kicks it away from him, then goes to search it.
?That?s private property,? Glenn says.
?You?re under arrest,? the sheriff answers. ?It?s evidence now.?
His sigh is exhausted. He stands, slowly, and walks over to her with a hand on the handle of the knife. She steps away from the bag and raises her gun.
?Don?t move!?
He reaches for the bag and slings it up onto his shoulder. She repeats the order.
?You ain?t gonna shoot me,? Glenn says.
She shoots him in the right shoulder, he spins and falls and hits the ground hard. He sees the ambulance rolling into view just as his vision fades to black. The ride to the hospital is filled with brief glimpses of bright lights and paramedics leaning over him, holding gauze to his wounds and checking his vitals. He?s in and out of consciousness for the rest of the night.
He?s been in the town for two nights and three days now. A man walks up and pats him on the shoulder and holds out a bottle, his smile is mostly toothless and the skin around his eyes looks like he?s spent too much time standing around staring into the sun.
?Where you hitched up tonight, son??
?Same as before,? Glenn says. He takes a sip from the offered beer and nods to a door behind the bar.
?My offer still stands.?
?Not looking for work.?
?Then what the fuck are you doing all the way out here??
Glenn thanks him for the beer and leaves. He steps out front and lights a cigarette, saluting the passing sheriff?s truck with his bottle. The truck pulls into a space further down the dirt parking lot and a woman steps out in a khaki uniform. She approaches.
?You know you?re not supposed to be drinking that out here,? she says.
Glenn hurls the bottle out over the road and into a ditch on the other side. He takes a drag off his cigarette and looks at her. She?s thirty-five, or thereabouts, and tired in all the ways a person can be. She?s pretty like an old painting is pretty. It?s got cracks on the surface, the colors have dried up and begun to bleach. But underneath you can see the artist?s original vision, the smooth lines and brushstrokes that slowly fade with the passing of the years.
?When are you leaving?? she asks.
?Why?? he answers.
?You make me uneasy.?
?Couple of days. Just resting, been on the road a while.?
?You got two, exactly. Understood?? she puts a hand on her hip, right above her gun.
?Yes ma?am,? Glenn tips an invisible hat to her and turns to walk away from the bar.
?What?s your name?? she asks.
?I ain?t gonna tell you that,? he says, stepping out of the dirt lot and onto the dark asphalt road.
She doesn?t follow him.
He walks for an hour or more. Walks until the distant, westward sun falls from the earth and the sky fills up with the light of stars he counted when he was young. They?re different out here, the shapes don?t add up and he puzzles on this for a spell. Not much happens out there on the road. A car might pass him by once or twice, its high beams temporarily blinding him. He wonders how he looks in the wash of bright, artificial light in those brief seconds he?s illuminated. Wonders if the driver sees him, or if he?s just a ghost.
He?s taken this route twice now. Down the road a ways, then back up the other side. He?s headed back after his handful of smokes and his hour or more of thought. The bar he comes to is quieter than the one he left before. It?s empty, except an old bartender with a beard that gray but stained yellow-green-and-brown around the mouth. He grunts at Glenn and Glenn grabs the broom from him and starts sweeping. It takes another hour to finish sweeping and cleaning the bar. He?s not too thorough, and the old man doesn?t seem to mind. When all?s said and done, he steps through the door behind the bar and past the storage room on the other side. In the back is a mostly unused office with an old, heavy safe, a cot, and a computer that?s a few decades out of date. He sits on the edge of the cot and reaches between his legs to pull his bag out from beneath it. He does a quick check to make sure the old man hasn?t stolen anything from him, then he flicks the light switch and goes to sleep.
It's warm. Warmer than warm. Hot, even. So Glenn wakes up and looks at the flickering light visible beneath the crack in the office door. He gets up and opens it and there?s a fire on the other side, engulfing the storage room in an angry fusion of orange and red. He tugs his boots on, grabs his bag, and charges through the fire to get to the door on the other side. He keeps his head low and his arms around his bag to protect it from the lashing flames that leap up at him as though eager for something else to burn. He barrels through the door and clambers past the bar. The main room is ablaze as well. The fires lick the ceiling and the lightbulbs overhead begin to pop and explode. He makes it to the main door and, not having a key, grabs it by the handle and pulls until wood splinters and cracks. The iron bars of the gate outside bend when he kicks. So, he kicks again, and again, until the metal is torn and twisted and he has an opening wide enough to just squeeze through.
He stumbles out into the dirt and lands on his hands and knees, his bag hits the ground in front of him. Glenn sits back on his haunches for a second, coughs the smoke from his lungs and replaces it with air. Then he grabs his bag, stands, and turns to look at the bar as the roof begins to crack and sink. It?s so loud he doesn?t hear the footsteps behind him. When the man speaks Glenn whirls around, ready to strike.
?That?s some fire,? the man says. He?s young, fair skinned and dark haired. He wears a leather jacket and has dark eyes. ?How do you figure that got started??
?Who the fuck are you?? Glenn asks.
?Just a traveler, like you man,? he lifts his hands in a placating gesture.
Glenn drops the bag by his feet and grabs the man by the collar of his jacket. He lifts him up and then drops him onto his back and goes with him, a knee to the young man?s chest and a fist raised and ready to fall.
?Your nice guy act ain?t playin? here,? Glenn says.
The young man smiles at Glenn feels something warm at his side. He looks down between him and the young man and sees the latter?s arm looping past his leg, fingers wrapped around the handle of a folding knife. The blade is stuck in his side.
Glenn snarls and punches. The man laughs, his nose bleeds, and Glenn hits him again and again. Bones crack, lips split, and his knuckles bleed. He beats the young man until his face is all red and broken, until he?s sure the kid is dead, and then a little more for good measure. Then he stands, stumbles, and falls onto his backside gripping the knife still stuck in him. He sees the flash of red and blue lights bouncing off the trees that line the road before the sheriff?s truck pulls into view. An old fire engine lumbers along the road behind her. She pulls into the dirt lot and gets out of the truck and upon seeing Glenn and an unmoving body, draws her gun.
?Hands where I can see them!? she says. Glenn obliges, grimacing.
?I need an ambulance,? he says. She looks at his side, then over at the young man.
?One?s already on the way,? she says. ?Who is that??
?Don?t know. Never seen him before.?
?He dead??
?Probably,? Glenn says. ?He stabbed me. Think he started the fire, too.?
?And why on earth would he do that??
?Maybe he got pissed about the old man watering down the drinks.?
She walks over to his bag and kicks it away from him, then goes to search it.
?That?s private property,? Glenn says.
?You?re under arrest,? the sheriff answers. ?It?s evidence now.?
His sigh is exhausted. He stands, slowly, and walks over to her with a hand on the handle of the knife. She steps away from the bag and raises her gun.
?Don?t move!?
He reaches for the bag and slings it up onto his shoulder. She repeats the order.
?You ain?t gonna shoot me,? Glenn says.
She shoots him in the right shoulder, he spins and falls and hits the ground hard. He sees the ambulance rolling into view just as his vision fades to black. The ride to the hospital is filled with brief glimpses of bright lights and paramedics leaning over him, holding gauze to his wounds and checking his vitals. He?s in and out of consciousness for the rest of the night.