Logjammed Page 3

  LONG ROAD TO LETDOWN

  Intro. Music. Stiff bus seat, and people snoring. Who’s snoring where? Behind, in front, and beside. As everywhere as cell phones. A digital revolution of nasal congestion. And this book reads terribly. Molasses for the eyes. “She introspectively thought about her difficult dilemma and decisively chose to act.” On and on. But this tune in headphones, okay. Drowning out the page-long paragraphs.

  Alien thump on shoulder. Childish voice. “Hey.” Turn to see, indeed, a child. Freckled boy, parrot green tee that only the young can get away with, worn-out sneakers with red thunderbolts. Holds up coke bottle. “Can you help me twist off this top?” Sans, “Please,” not a request, more an expectancy. No intention to chat.

  Plastic feels polar cold. Melodies no longer nice, just mosquito buzz, so tug headphones off. Cap sealed tight, frozen enough to sink a cruise liner. Failure to loosen. Mumbled apology.

  He shrugs. “It’s okay.” Bugs another passenger who pulls off the feat without even interrupting his snoring. Then, pothole, and boy spills onto floor, “Aaagh!” Pop gets all over his front.

  Back to tunes. Still somewhat insectoid.

  Shed music and book for a cozy and meditative stare at back of seat. Interior lights flick off because, presumably, driver wants that “lounge club feel” he reads about in home designer magazines when on the john. Darkness. Snorts. A wet kid’s pained whimpering.

  Thematic interlude. A childhood trip to Laissez-Faire, Kansas, and my mom turns to scream at me and Phillip to stop aiming for each other’s eyes when we fight, why is it always the eyes, do we want to go blind? “Like Daredevil?” Phillip says like a twerp. A look at rearview mirror shows dad’s eyes hang like a corpse, not a zombie, a corpse, because zombies hunger while corpses ascetically ignore the world. Grandma’s funeral happened last month.

  Before mom retorts, I get in a, “Shut up, Phillip.”

  “It’s Phil!” And he aims for the corneas again.

  I fend him off laughingly like any good sister while mom performs her soprano aria about how we are the worst. A correct opinion. Dad swerves on her highest note, but no one diverts attention away from the great debate of Phil versus Phillip. With a squeal, I go, “Phil-lip, Phil-lip, Phil-lip.” His fingers come dangerously to their target, but chant persists, “Phil-lip, Phil-lip, Phil-lip.”

  Car’s slouch to shoulder rides slow, unnoticeable. Only when dad pops door open do we shut up. We can all see his face in his hands. His sobs sound like a sound effect programmed into a synthesizer. Press key, “A-huh!” press key, “A-huh!” and one more for encore, “A-huh!”

  Eventually, a car pulls over ahead of us, and a bald guy in tropical button-down asks if we need a battery jump. Mom reassures Samaritan that everything’s copacetic, warding him back onto the road. Then comes task of reassuring dad, telling him we can cancel the trip, no big crisis there, that home would be nice, where we can watch some Red Skelton videos, dad’s favorite, wouldn’t it be lovely?

  Present. Guy to right nudges my side. Smells of barbecue smoke. “Where you off to, young lady?” Missing tooth on right side, doesn’t stop his smiling.

  “Laissez-Faire.”

  “Why not ride the rest of the way to Denver?”

  “Just want to check out the White Crow museum and go back to Missouri, honestly.”

  “I hear the kids love Denver.” He sighs and tugs at his shirt that’d been creeping up. “Used to do that stuff too, when I was younger.”

  Won’t ask what he means by “stuff.”

  He takes some pills, hopefully for sinus problems, hopefully offers them to rest of bus. “I’d take the plane, but there’s so little you can bring. One day, they won’t even let us take our bodies. They’ll shove our brains into jars and load them on shelves, and the rest of our flesh will need checking in. And, ha, heaven help you if there’s any turbulence.”

  “Yeah, transhumanism is going to be pretty awful.”

  No chuckles back, just jumbling around with his backpack. “Could you look after my spot while I put in my insulin?” Like vultures sat on the roof, seeking out empty seats by using the bus’s thrum for echolocation, or something. Sleep-deprived.

  He makes it a few steps in the dark pretty well, but of course, pothole. Down he goes. “Son of-“ But he stops there, probably catching sight of the now-sleeping kid.

  Kid snores too, naturally.

  Interlude refrain. Phillip and I. Nineteen and eighteen, respectively. On the highway. First sibling road trip. He scratches the immature fur growing on his chin. “Do you think the engine’s running well?”

  “Put on a shirt.”

  “I’ll ask again, do you think the engine is-“

  “You’re hoping it breaks down so you can work under the hood shirtless and get some drive-by catcalls.”

  “Yeah, I want to be out a thousand dollars, you got me.”

  “Think you already did that when you bought this thing, Phil.”

  “Phillip.”

  Tire blows out.

  He scratches his head like a dolt, trying to figure out how to switch out tires. Each car driving by feels ready to clip us, as if all those race wreck specials gnawed into people’s collective conscious enough to take over their steering control. Or something. Sleep-deprived. Early start.

  “Mom,” I say over the cell, “how do you change tires?”

  “I knew you kids shouldn’t have tried to go to Laissez-Faire. After how last time went, I just knew.”

  “If you don’t know, just put dad on.”

  “I’ve been doing genealogy, you know, and there’s very little Native American in our bloodline. Maybe White Crow doesn’t think we’re worthy enough to visit his museum.”

  “Seriously, is dad out on errands or something?”

  “Why couldn’t you two have gone to Branson instead?”

  “Well, call me when he gets back, okay?”

  Typical.

  After coughing on some eighteen-wheeler’s exhaust, say to Phillip, “You have a friend in Rust Fork, right? That’s thirty miles away. We stay a night at his place, then he drives us home tomorrow.”

  “I can figure this-“

  He loses grip on the spare, and it rolls out on the highway and gets hit by a minivan which screeches off the road after impact.

  Present. Guy in front turns back towards me. “Excuse me, Miss?” Sweaty despite bus staying fairly chilled. Squints through expired prescription glasses. “Hasn’t your friend been gone for a pretty long time?”

  “Oh, he’s not with me.”

  “Well, all the same, I think, “and he checks the glow of his watch, “it’s been an hour now. He’s not sick, is he? You don’t think he has anything serious, do you?”

  “Oh, he’s probably dead from an insulin overdose or a bad heart or a sudden fatal case of AIDS caught from the toilet, and we’ll have to wait on the highway-side for an emergency lift, then we’ll have to head back because of some state amendment or the AIDS toilet or something.”

  His eyes widen. “W-w-what?” Then back to squint, to glean intent.

  “Sorry. Young people humor. I’ll go check on him.”

  Knock on door prompts some rustling inside, some grunts, but no death rattle. Back to seat. Shortly after, the restroom goer settles himself next to me again. “Sorry.” Giggle. “Fell asleep on the pot.” Guy in front already snoring again.

  Bus stops at gas station, last one for probably another fifty miles. Station stands in a blip of a town, basically six drive-thru places and a mortuary. Would think the isolation would scare passengers into staying seated, but no, they file out towards the station’s bathroom. Guess they don’t like the bus’s accommodations.

  Stretch legs by taking short walk down highway. Reach into purse for cigarettes, then remember I flushed them away back home. Frustrated whistle. See guy close to my age just ahead, staring at roadside cross. Looks safe enough. Hunting jacket, bit overweight, hands shoved in pockets, pants that are too baggy.


  Clear throat. “Anyone you know?”

  He shrugs, sighs. “Yeah. Me.”

  “You’re a ghost.” Somehow unsurprised. Always knew middle of nowhere Kansas refused to play by typical metaphysical rules.

  “Nope.” Scratches his neck. Has that flat-as-plains accent everyone has out here. “Drank a bit too much when I was seventeen and ran my mom’s Taurus into a tree.” Gestures at nearby stump. “So she put up this cross to remind me what could’ve happened.”

  “Hmmm.” Bend down and feel the roses lying at the cross’s base. Real, fresh. Fragrant. “She really goes all out on this, huh?”

  “She’s like that.”

  Pick one rose away from the others, fourth-best looking. Breathe in its sweetness, let it wash out smells of body odor, lingering bathroom stench, someone’s open Tostitos bag. “Anniversary?”

  “Yup. But I come out and visit here all the time anyway.”

  “To remember your old self?”

  “Oh, I haven’t changed. She thinks I don’t drink anymore, but I do. Sometimes.” Sheepishly shrinks head into coat. “Just sometimes. But,” peeks out again, “everything else changes.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The Wendy’s closed. My first job. Poof.” Car roars by in time to see him dramatically opening his arms. “Half my friends left for Denver. Rest went to Wichita, except the people I don’t like, no, they stay here.”

  “Blows.”

  “So.” Adjusts collar. Got too excited. “What’s your story?”

  “Trying to get to Laissez-Faire.”

  “Why in heaven’s name you going there for? Nothing there but tumbleweeds.”

  “And a museum.”

  “There is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Must be something special.”

  “Not really.”

  “You must be totally from the middle of nowhere to get excited about it then.”

  “Actually, I’m from Lee’s Summit.” A Kansas City suburb.

  Gets a chuckle from him.

  Look back and see stream of passengers returning to bus. “I gotta go. Can I keep this rose though?”

  “Don’t think anyone will notice the difference, honestly.”

  Take a few steps away, then backtrack. “Hey, wanna exchange contact info?”

  Blinks in surprise. “I, uh-” Cheeks get apple red when embarrassed. “I guess there’s no problem there, but… why?”

  Tempted to leave it at calling him cute, but instead say, “Because this is my totemic journey. A spirit walk. Anyone I meet could be some huge figure in my future. And hey, maybe I’m your mystery girl that you meet one night by your memorial who you never see again, but always do in your dreams.” Wink at him in a cheesy way, immediately regret it. Mysteriousness blown.

  Laughs. “You’re a strange one. Maybe you’re the ghost.”

  Put rose in my mouth like some conquistador while typing in his digits. Tastes bad, ruining romance of its aroma. Say, “Thanks,” then move for the quick peck on the lips, but someone’s honk makes him jump to the left just as I go. Trip into him, and he holds me up, which should be nice, but whole point was a swift, electric moment that would leave him tingling while I sauntered away. Instead, awkward hug. A funeral hug. “I really have to go, though.”

  Last one back on bus. Say to driver, “Thanks so much for waiting on me.” No response, not even a grunt.

  Final refrain. Two years ago. Boyfriend at the time stares at car trunk, turns sideways one of the suitcases inside. Steps back. Rubs brow. Returns baggage to original position. “I don’t think all of these will fit.”

  Pull up the last suitcase. “It’s just five cases.” Plop it back on the driveway concrete. “Just five. This isn’t Jenga here.”

  “No, it’s more like Tetris.”

  Sun burns hatefully hot. Not sleep-deprived, but certainly dehydrated. “We can use the backseat, man.”

  “But if we get in a collision,” holds up hands demonstratively, “the bags fling forward, and,” claps, “boom, sandwiched.”

  “If they had anvils in them, you might have a point.”

  “Velocity will give them an edge. You know how snowstorms make flakes cut into you like shurikens?”

  “I think shuriken suitcases will be the least of our worries if we get in a head-on crash.”

  “I can’t be impulsive like you, okay?”

  “Hey, let’s play some video games inside, clear our minds, then try this again, alright?” Stealth joke that he’ll act on the impulse suggestions he likes, just not the ones he doesn’t. Alas, controllers out, console thrumming, menu scene soundtrack.

  He never lets me win. I beat him, or he beats me, but never does he throw the match. He just lets my hands sweat, lets my fingernail polish chip against the buttons, lets my wrists ache. Glances at me while we’re playing? No. Not ever.

  Say playfully, “I hate you,” mean it on a level, one of the beginner levels, not an advanced stage, not yet. “Anyway, that’s five matches. Have you figured out the great suitcase conundrum of our time yet?”

  Clicks around the character select screen. “Maybe one more match.”

  “Why stop at one? Let’s go for another five.” Keep tone light, keep anger in. “Or five hundred. Am I hearing a five thousand?”

  Won’t look at me. “I don’t. Really. Want to go. To. Stupid. Laissez-Faire. Kansas.”

  “No one in history ever has.”

  “Except you.”

  “Nope.” Hold hands up in surrender. “Not even me. Let’s stay around here. Go into KC, hang out at the Plaza.”

  “I don’t know, the traffic around the Plaza gets rough, you know?”

  Hatred advances a level.

  Present. Music. Book. “She feared death like she would a scary nightmare, that’s how forebodingly terrifying it was.”

  “’Forebodingly terrifying.’ That’s it, I’m done.” Turn around in seat, hold up book to couple behind me. “Want a free read?”

  Man just snores, but woman stares at me, eyeglasses quivering with her nose, her frown tight above her jowly chin. Wave the book at her, grinning, but no warmth returned. Unsure if she even breathes.

  Settle back into seat, shove nose in book to burrow away from those no doubt still staring eyes. “She placed her hand on the knob and twisted, using her metacarpals with nervous agitation.”

  Thematic digression. Graying of sky. Ears too tired for one more song about losing boyfriend. Between jobs just as between points in Kansas. Doldrums. What’s my career track? Don’t know, Mom, didn’t know people had those anymore. Maybe I’ll finally go to Laissez-Faire, really commit to getting there. Her rolled eyes. Enough about her.

  Moon bleeding away. Recently, read book about lunar landings written less like heroic odyssey, more mourning of the space program’s fallback. I got sick of its self-pity three-quarters through. What sights went unseen there, on that powdery surface with some acne pits and a few garish flags? Maybe Laissez-Faire will be same. Spirit walk ending with dropped curtains and stagehands frozen midstride with set pieces in hands. Masks off, kid. Truth is, you live, you die, and you assuage your parents’ worries along the way.

  Could blow off stop. Keep on going to Denver. Or San Francisco. Anchorage? Tokyo? Places. And let White Crow keep the mystery of his powwows. After all, I might legitimately not stand worthy of visiting his museum. Would just look down my paleface nose at his exhibit, grading a half-dead civilization. Wooden carving of crying Native American woman? Two stars out of five. When I could keep my fantasies about it imprisoned in dreams. Keep the totems preserved.

  “Oof!” goes a passenger getting out of his seat. Morning. At a stop.

  Look out the window. “Where are we at?” Hope that I missed my exit. That decision slips out of my hands.

  Man beside me just snores. Man in front turns around. “MacKelvey,” he says. Only twenty miles away from Laissez-Faire.

  “Thanks.” Curse inwardly.

  F
lat prairie rushing by. Fear. LAISSEZ-FAIRE, fifteen miles, DENVER, a bajillion, but somehow, temptingly close, so I stop checking the highway signs. Back hurts. Ears hurt. Snack pack spent.

  The driver’s apathetic grumble. “Laissez-Faire. Next stop, McConnery.”

  Step out into aisle, supplies in hand. Survey scene. I’m the only one leaving. Wait for split second so people can wish me well. So soda boy can tell me, You taught me not to rely only on myself. So the man who’d sat next to me can say, You proved young people can still show concern for old folks like me, a hope I’d lost. And the creepy staring woman can say, You reminded me how to hate complete strangers for no reason, and now, I feel alive again. Then we can all group hug and reflect on how life-changing this bus ride has been, how we will never forget each other.

  Doesn’t happen, of course. Man who’d sat next to me still slumbers, and everyone else ignores my departure. “Laissez-Faire,” repeats the driver. “Next stop, McConnery.” Not impatient with me, in fact, droning, but an urgent drone nonetheless. “McConnery, next.”

  So. Standing on what looks to be the only patch of sidewalk in town. Holding a dried-up rose. Looking at the few houses that line this road. Beat-down blue or red wood shingle siding. On each, some roof tiles amiss, likely from windstorms. Look more like barns than houses. Stunted grass that shakes with gusts. Sure enough, tumbleweeds rolling along the lane markers.

  Tuck rose back in jacket. Pull out tourist brochure. CONVENIENT BUS ACCESS. Notice, for umpteenth time, no pictures of museum actually featured in pamphlet. Sigh. Listen to music. Unremarkable song about getting drunk in LA.

  Morning heat. No passersby. Not even cars. Feel like on movie set. But after hours, when everyone’s gone home. Everyone but me. The next tune blubbers about Janis Joplin. Give up on soundtrack.

  Say aloud, “Why am I here?”

  Hear a vehicle’s thrum. Mud brown bus, a caking of farm soil stuck to its sides and undercarriage, with tires up to my waist. More tank than public transportation. Greeted by driver who looks like she’s losing battle against diabetes. Face scrunched up and stern, but says, “Where you need to go, hon?” Like a doting waitress. Probably was one, once.

  “The White Crow Museum.”

  “That’s just along my way.”

  Only other passenger, a woman with Down’s, humming to herself. Wears ratty lavender sweatshirt and faded pants. Sit across the aisle from her and feign boredom, hoping she says hello. But no, the humming continues unabated.

  The “way” runs off asphalt soon enough and drives on a mish-mash of pebbles and soil. As for scenic sights? Tractor shelters. Silos. Possible moisture pumps. Agricultural apparatuses that I can’t even identify. For all I know, death rays prepared against a Martian invasion. Or undiscovered Martian reconnaissance probes.

  Roll in front of a two-story house, quainter than the glorified warehouses in Laissez-Faire’s “downtown.” Daffodil paint. Flower garden in front, but no blooms. White closed drapes in all its windows.

  Driver says, “How long do you need to be here, hon?”

  “That’s the museum?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re just going to idle here while I visit?”

  “Oh, the little lady here,” and she gestures at the still-humming woman, “isn’t in a hurry, don’t worry.”

  “You’re not concerned I’ll take forever?”

  She frowns in thought, then says, “Well, no one has ever stayed more than an hour here before.”

  Crescendo. Up the two cement steps to the entrance. Knock. Get a, “Come in,” but no answered doors. Step inside, onto dark wooden floors that creak like my feet are tornados. Foyer. White walls, dotted by pictures with dark wooden frames whose subjects aren’t Native Americans but turn-of-last-century settlers. Grandfather clock, tick and tock, tick and tock. In rickety rocking chair, a woman with wide and English face, rosy and English skin, and curly, gray English hair. Wears conservative periwinkle dress that recalls the Quakers. Knits a scarf.

  Nonetheless, ask, “Are you from White Crow’s tribe?”

  “Oh, I’m from the Kansas historical society.” “Looks at my rose. “That’s a pretty adornment, Miss.”

  Rickety-rickety-rickety. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

  See open door behind her. “Is that-“

  “The museum, yes.”

  Stairwell to foyer’s right? Roped off. Only route, further in.

  Long, wide room. Coffee table at center. Guest book. Donation jar. I stuff wad of bucks in it, then as afterthought, stick in rose. Nice makeshift vase.

  The exhibits. Framed, the same five pictures of White Crow pulled up by Google. On plaques next to them, hand-written in messy cursive, such illuminating contextualization as, White Crow, 1887. Move on to the flint knives. As distinct as the ones found in side yards back home. Squint to read barely legible explanations. The type of weapons White Crow’s tribe may have used in Battle of Snake Plain, found in Saint Joseph, MO.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Blink. Read again. Saint Joseph, MO. Feel a surge of joy pulse through me. Feel the poor quality of the paper on the plaque. For old time’s sake, one more reading. Saint Joseph, MO.

  Only a little over an hour away from my house.

  “I love it.” I do. Sincerely. Romanticism of disappointment. What makes tragedies work. And, sometimes, comedies. I’d traveled across an entire state for what amounted to a fifth grade research report. Not even a good one, more of an attempt that barely passed. My father suffered a mental breakdown, my brother lost two years’ worth of savings, and my romantic relationship lost a layer of luster over a place that Topeka has clearly forgotten they funded.

  Yes, I could certainly spend an hour in here, could spend over an hour figuring out what brand of polish lathered the floor, speculating on what mind-boggling wonders resided upstairs, grafting a mythical backstory behind the curator. Maybe I could even spend an eternity. No longer afraid. Opened the treasure chest at the end of the scavenger hunt, found only ashes, rubbed ashes on face. An effective sunblock. Prevents cancers and all of that.

  Don’t stay forever, though. Retreat to foyer. Listen to my footsteps clank against the boards, its thuds echoing alongside the sounds of the clock and the rocking chair. Tick-rickety-tock-clonk and repeat. Gears in an otherwise silent machine that never moves. But I have to get going. Check phone instead of clock. Visit only lasted ten minutes.

  Hand out terrible book to curator. “Want a free read?”

  “The only book I read is the Good News, hon.”

  Coda. Bus driver says she can drop me off at bus depot in MacKelvey. Day feels like it should be late afternoon, but actually still moseys through morning. Gravel gives way to highway again, shabby and rough highway. No cell reception. No other traffic. Feel like one of the only three people in the world. Seat’s leather musk still better than stench of interstate bus. Other passenger still humming.

  MacKelvey. Multiple buildings with “Saloon” in name. Derelict stage coach exhibited in front of court house. Tarp on some of the roofs. Probably from a recent tornado.

  Driver says, “I remember the old depot here. Had a statue of Colonel Reeves made of bronze? Such a sight. This new building, though, look at it. It has no character.” She’s right. Brick box that could just as easily be school, post office, or jail. “Now, hon, if you need to call anyone, make sure to stand under that pole by the Costco. Best signal in town.”

  Before leaving, offer her book.

  “Oh thanks, hon, but I’m not much of a reader.”

  Leave book on bench in depot and walk out to pole. Traffic here, enough to qualify as vague facsimile of civilization. Tumbleweeds still, but rolling more trepidatiously, sticking to gutters and not center of road. Dial number.

  “Hello?”

  “Phillip?”

  “I told you, it’s River now.”

  “There’s no way I’m calling you that. Ever.”

  “Glad you phoned
me before noon just to say that.”

  “Took the Midnight Express last night.”

  “Ha, did you? Where to, Saint Louis?”

  “Laissez-Faire.”

  “Oh.” A degree of hurt there, like learning a childhood pet had died. “I didn’t know busses went through there.”

  “Did you actually want to go there? After what happened last time?”

  “That wasn’t my last try. Attempted to go with dorm buddies, but Todd got alcohol poisoning along the way. In a dry county, to boot.”

  “I mean, there’s nothing there.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure, but I wanted it to be our nothing.”

  Pause. A second of deep guilt, but then, think of fields rushing by. Remember the smell of Doritos. “It’s a nothing that works best when done solo, I think.”

  “Real spirit quest, huh? Like that tea house in the Himalayas that Sherpas hike to even though you have to cross tight ropes and stuff?”

  Lie and say, “Yeah.”

  “Maybe I’ll bike there. Show you how it’s really done.”

  “You do that.” Letdown setup complete.

  Check bench in depot. Book still there. Back to pole. Call the stranger from back by the roadside cross.

  “Lester speaking.”

  “Your name’s Lester?” Had him listed only as Country Boy in Contacts. “It’s me, it’s Mystery Girl.”

  “Aw, I liked calling you Ghost Girl better.”

  Hear machines in background. “Oh man, am I calling you at work?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. Hey, got to thinking last night, and… I think I did go to that museum. Real little kid when I went. The most forgettable place.”

  “I’m glad you forgot to tell me. Preserved the spirit quest.”

  “So you saw what I was talking about?”

  “The biggest waste of time the universe could possibly shove on me.”

  “Haw-haw-haw-haw!” His laughter makes me feel good. “I think my boss heard me there. So, where you going now?”

  Grin as wide as a canyon, even if he can’t see. “Where do you think I’m going? I’m going to where all the young people go. I’m going to Denver.” Fade-out.