“It’s bad,” Mom’s voice quivered over the phone. I could tell that she was crying. I hated to hear my mom cry. I’d die a thousand deaths not to hear her start sniffling.
“How bad?” I asked, choking back tears of my own.
“I don’t know,” she cleared her throat. “We’re trying to get the next flight out but everything’s booked up.”
My parents had never gone on vacation in all the years that I’ve lived. It wasn’t easy raising a kid on minimum wages — no job was permanent either. With the little they had, they were able to work their way up in industries that they entered out of desperation. I highly doubt my mother aspired to a life in retail, where she’d miss holidays and soccer practices. No one wants to clean up another man’s shit — but my father never bitched when he came home with stained coveralls. There was always food in my stomach, even if they had to skip a meal. Now that I left the house and went away to college (the first I might add), they could save up for themselves. So, this vacation was huge for them. This was the first time they travelled to another country, let alone out of the Southeast. It’s only fitting that it’d be cut short due to emergency.
“I’ll go,” I said.
“N— No,” she coughed. “You can’t. You have finals—”
“I’ll get an extension,” I said, “family comes first.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“I want to.”
“We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
“Okay,” I said, “I got this. Don’t worry.”
“Be careful.”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
It was 1:33 in the morning. An ungodly hour — and certainly not one in which you want to receive a phone call from your mom. I woke up before the phone rung, and seeing MOM flash over the screen sent me into a mini panic attack. I knew nothing good would come from answering that phone and yet I had no choice but to press talk. I had to go. I owed it to them. I owed it to everyone.
My professor was known to arrive at his office incredibly early to write. The book he assigned for his classes, his own self published book My Writing, highlighted his writing process. He liked to finish his classes in the early afternoon, eat dinner as a late lunch, spend some time thinking about his dead wife, and be in bed by five in the evening. Hopefully he didn’t feel like sleeping in today. I needed to talk to him as soon as possible.
I got to the English Department doors around two. They were locked so I had to wait. My back slid down the brick wall and I hugged my knees. The campus sat with an eerie stillness in the middle of the night, resembling an oil painting in the blurred vision of my crying eyes. I felt like the only person left alive. My breath billowed into the unusually cold January air and a shadow shifted beyond the trees. The dark figure scuttled into the reach of a lamp post and James Mason’s hair swung wildly from its recent bout with a pillow. His eyes hung heavy in his potato sack eyelids. I stood up when he got close.
“I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” Professor Mason groaned.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You wouldn’t be here if you had good news.”
“No,” I said. “I guess I wouldn’t.”
“Bad news can never wait.”
Professor Mason unlocked the doors and nearly fell through. He disappeared into the shadows of the dark office and I stood there, petrified over what he might say. He wasn’t waiting up for me, that’s for sure. The door swung closed and I caught it before it could snap shut.
I entered the empty office and listened for a clue as to which direction the professor went. It was utterly silent. A light flicked on in one of the back rooms. I walked down the hall and looked in on Professor Mason’s sacred writing ritual. He took out a hot plate and plugged it in, poured water from his thermos into a teapot, and let it heat up. I was too afraid to break the peaceful silence of his tasks. He set up a French press and poured in fresh ground coffee beans. Then, he waited by leaning back in his chair and staring at me with a nonchalant bemusement.
“I don’t give higher grades for sexual favors,” he said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No,” I said disgustingly, “Of course not.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“Okay,” I said, breathing deeply in attempt to calm my raging heart, “my grandmother is in bad shape. She fell and hit her head and my grandpa can’t take care of her on his own and my parents are overseas so I have to—”
“No.”
“What?”
“You want an extension on your exam and term paper.”
Shit, he had me. I was at a loss, “Yeah, but—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” he said, clasping his hands together, leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, and softening his voice. “Life won’t pause at your convenience.”
“My grandma—”
“I heard you.”
Fuck you, I thought. I couldn’t even say my name at this point. Anger consumed me and I wanted to smash his ratty little face into the desk, shattering his framed family photos. His son sat with his wife and children. I bet he didn’t even call anymore.
“Look,” he turned his back on me and rummaged through a cabinet drawer. He pulled a stack of papers from a folder and slapped them on his desk. “You can take the exam right now but I doubt you’ve finished the paper yet.”
“No,” I said shallowly, “I haven’t.”
“Those are the only two grades for the entire semester,” he waited for my acknowledgement. I could only nod my head numbly. “So either way, you’d fail.”
I looked over his smug smirk and came to a finite decision. It was either: be there for my grandparents or pass the class (some deep, dark part of me thought of a third option — kill him). I dropped out of college right then and there. I’ll never put work or school or some bullshit obligation over my family. I saw how that affected my mom and dad. I saw how it wore them down with each missed opportunity. I’d stand midfield and look to the sidelines. Without them there the packed bleachers always felt so miserably empty. That’s not the life I want to lead.
I took off Northbound on I-95 from Miami. My grandparents lived in Myrtle Beach so I had a good ten to twelve hours ahead of me. I left in a rush and it wasn’t long before I had to pull off the highway to take a piss. I hit up a rest stop for some relief. The moment I stepped out of the car the stars struck me with all their glistening glory. My engine popped and sizzled under the hood. It was like the universe was passing through me and not the other way around. I felt at ease by the freedom of the expanse, yet crushed by the nothingness of the space around me.
It was one of those smaller rest stops with bathrooms on either side and a vending machine in the middle. I hurried inside a stall (I have a thing about being seen when I pee) and damn near exploded before I got my junk over my basketball shorts. I let out a breath and it was like my soul was squeezed out of me. I was left with an ultimately satisfying calm. That was shattered when the door swung open and slammed shut with a deafening echo. I jumped, my nerves went haywire, and a quiver spasmed up my neck.
Two hard boots stomped down with each heel and slapped the tiles with the toes. Two timed, methodical, and menacing — they clucked over to my stall and settled before me. The massive weight in those boots crushed the dirt with a prickling precision. He pulled on the handle and the lock smacked against the door jam. The door shuddered as he frantically pumped the door against the hinges. Then, he released the handle and stepped back into the corner. The fluorescent lights burnt out and the bathroom fell dark. The silence made the air heavier. I could hear breathing from the corner. I’m not a big guy, so I braced myself to be mauled by a monstrous beast.
The breathing ceased and I was left with my pulse pounding against the walls of my brain. I waited for someone to make a move but it felt like I was the only one here to do so. I couldn’t tell you how long I stood there, trembling with fear. What the fuck did this guy want? Money? Sex? The thrill of acquiring both?
“Hello?” I called out without thinking. I was met by an empty echo.
Ten minutes went by before I turned on my phone flash light and shone it through the cracks in the door. I couldn’t see anything through the slit. I bent down and flashed the light in the corner. No shoes, no feet — no one. I must’ve been bugging out — I mean, I hadn’t slept for more than two hours that night. I just jumped right on the road and tossed caution out the window. Maybe I needed a couple of hours of sleep in the car. Yeah, that’s what—
The door lock crashed against the jam with the force of a kick and I nearly fell into the toilet. I desperately sought an escape from the coffin sized walls. There was only one thing I could do. Fight or flight. I unlocked the door and drove my shoulder through it, expecting to be met by a wall of meat and bones and organs but instead smacked right into the tile wall. I swung my cell light around and revealed an empty room. I checked the other stall, ready for murder. Nothing. There was nothing. My head throbbed. I needed to eat. Yeah, that’s it.
I got Sour Patch Kids and a soda from the vending machine. Sugar could keep me going another couple of hours. I couldn’t sleep here. I turned to the car and my shadow stretched out before me. Standing at the end of it was a man blacked out by the night. His features were hidden under the street lamp’s sharp glare. I was frozen with fear, expecting him to rush me with the fury of a demon. He just stood there in the empty parking lot, watching me as I watched him. No other cars were around. Did he walk here? Who walks to a rest stop? Maybe he was some truck driver hopped up on Meth. I took a step forward and so did he, heading on a diagonal to cut me off from my car. I stalled for a moment — as did he. We were trying to read the other’s next move. Here we go.
I broke out in a sprint to the driver’s side door and he rushed to the passenger side. I unlocked the car with my fob and pulled open the door, throwing myself inside. The door slammed shut and I double clicked the lock button. The doors clicked and there was a thud against the passenger door. The car rocked on its shocks. The handle jiggled furiously. I accidentally hit the panic button and the yellow lights blinked to the sound of a distressing horn.
I turned the ignition, kicked it into reverse, and drove the fuck out of there. I glanced into the rearview and the shadow just watched me as he sunk in the distance, making no more effort to chase after me. Even with the red brake lights reflecting off the trees around him, he stayed sunken in darkness.
Merging onto the highway, my mind went on cruise control. When the sky began to lighten, I was taken aback by my surroundings. A light fog hung between the trees lining the highway like a hammock and lazy deer grazed on the grass mere feet from the concrete. There was no way that I could have travelled so far in a single night. The land was flat and marshy and dominated by longleaf pines. I must’ve broken all known traffic laws last night.
The shadows of the grazing deer got closer to the road and I decided it’d be best to slow down — but like falling into a speed trap where the limit goes from 70 to 35 mph, it was too late. A deer crossed into my lane and I tugged on the wheel, swerving to avoid it. The deer stood dumb to the danger, staring at me like the specter at the rest stop. My car spun out of control and crossed over the median and into the southbound lanes. The car nearly tipped when I finally came to a screeching stop. My heart was racing and I looked back over to the northbound lanes. The deer had fled with his life. I never felt more alive and burst into the happiest of tears. I could smell the burnt tires and overworked engine. My flesh tingled with electric spasms. I was alive.
By the grace of god, there were no cars coming at me so I had a moment to collect myself. Once I got back on the highway, I felt an overwhelming thankfulness and sobbed freely. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I kept whispering. I turned on the music and the melodies never sounded so pure. I opened the windows and the earth’s aroma filled my lungs with purpose. Wind ran through my fingers, tickling my hairs. Thank you.
A couple of miles down the road, red and blue flashing lights emerged over the horizon on the southbound lanes. The lanes were completely blocked off and a column of headlights idled in anticipation. As I got closer, I slowed to see a team of emergency responders working on a totaled car. They took their time. The car looked familiar, like I drove side by side with him at some point in the night. Smoke rose from the engine and the mangled body of a deer was crushed in the grill. A gurney was loaded with a limp body and carted slowly to the back of an ambulance. There was no need to rush — the poor guy was a goner. Once again, I cried — knowing that it could have been me. No, it should have been me. I was grateful and found peace in never having to go back to school. Such things were so minuscule in the grand scheme of things.
I was barreling down US-17 just north of Charleston when I heard the tire blow. The car jolted and sunk down on the rear passenger axle. I pulled over to the side of the road to inspect and found a slash along the side. It was amazing to me that the bubble held on for this long. Must’ve happened when I just missed the deer. A creeping part of me thought otherwise. Something lingered inside of me, whispering that it was the man at the rest stop. He did this. He’s responsible for all of it. Of course, that was nonsense. He didn’t step out in front of my car. He didn’t push my grandmother over in the bathroom. He probably wasn’t even real — just a hallucination in my mind.
I limped my way to the nearest exit and got off. This wasn’t your typical highway exit. There were no gas stations, no fast food options. Just abandoned food and firework stands surrounded by an endless woods. I must’ve crept for nearly three miles, every minute worried me more. I was probably doing serious damage to the rim, a costly misfortune I couldn’t dream of affording.
Eventually, the woods opened up to a small town forgotten by time. The cars were vintage and kept in mint condition. The kids ran about in front of their homes in their Sunday’s best. Women strode down the sidewalk, gossiping under meticulously groomed poodle clips, soft bobs, and pageboy hair styles. Their dresses were simple but elegant. The men had cropped hair and their neutral button downs were tucked into slacks that rested near their belly buttons. The town was buzzing with activity in the golden glare of the high noon sun.
I pulled into the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly. The sign above the supermarket was a large blue circle with a pale yellow cartoon pig smiling at me while wearing a white triangular server’s hat cocked on the side of his head. I got out of the car and looked down at the sunken rim. Shit. I popped the trunk and lifted the hatch to the spare tire. I got out the iron and the jack, looking at them as if they were alien objects. This was one thing my father never had the chance to teach me. Another casualty to his busy schedule. I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do with these useless objects. Maybe I could check the manua—
“Howdy,” a voice chimed from behind me.
I turned and saw a man wearing a tucked in white dress shirt, navy blue tie, and matching blue slacks. His hair was combed over and greased with pomade. His smile was crooked like the television stars of a bygone era. He strode over gracefully until he was standing at my side, looking down at the torn up threads of what was once my tire.
“Looks like you’re in a bit of a pickle,” he chuckled.
“Yeah,” I said, “I don’t know the first thing about changing tires.”
He held out his hand and looked down to the jack, “Never a better time to learn than right now.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to be a bur—”
“Why of course, son, it’d be an honor.”
I dropped the heavy jack in his hand and his strength didn’t drop an inch. He went about changing the tire with proficiency. He showed me where to place the jack, how to loosen the bolts and lift the car. He wouldn’t let me touch a thing and dirtied up his white wardrobe without a care. He never bickered or cussed like my old man used to do for even the smallest household tasks. He simply smiled and went about his duty.
“There you go,” he dropped the jack and the vehicle settled on the donut. He kicked the tire to make sure it was firm.
“Now,” he mused, “I don’t suppose you’ll get very far on that there donut but if you head up the road to Deer Run and hang a right you’ll come across a mechanic shop at the end of the road. Place called Henderson’s. I’ll give ‘im a call and let ‘im know you’re coming. He’ll fix you right up.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“Goes to show you, there are still good people in this world,” he said with a smile.
“You’re living proof,” I shook his hand and nodded respectfully.
I walked back to the car and turned back to him, “Hey, what’s your name so I can—”
The door to the Piggly Wiggly closed and I saw his shadow pass by the windows and disappear into the depths of the store. A mother pushed her shopping cart by me, the baby kicking wildly in the seat. He was holding a spinner. He giggled and it made my heart smile.
I found the mechanic shop at the end of Deer Run easy enough and Mr. Henderson set me up with the closest tire he had that could match my set. It ain’t exact, but it ought to do, he said. I pulled out my wallet and fished through my remaining cash — most of it was gone with the gas. Hopefully I could cover it. Henderson held out a patient hand.
“No sir,” Henderson said, “You’re already paid in full.”
I argued with him but his southern pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. He explained to me that Roy Morrow offered to foot the bill, “Is that the manager at Piggly Wiggly?”
“Yessir,” he said, “the very one.”
“I can’t let him pay for this,” I said, “he’s already done enough.”
“You gon’ have to take that up with him,” Henderson said.
“Thanks again,” I shook his hand and despite the grease and calluses and scars, it was the smoothest flesh I’ve ever felt.
I wanted to go back to the Piggly Wiggly and thank Roy again for his kindness but it would have taken me out of the way. I was worried about my grandparents and this flat took up more time than I had hoped. I figured that I’d come back on my way south and pay back my debt then.
I got into Myrtle Beach just as the sun was setting, and by the time I entered the hospital visiting hours were long over. I’d come this far, the nurses wouldn’t stop me. I waited until they were busy until slipping through the double doors.
When I entered, I found my grandpa snoring in a chair positioned in the corner of the room. I approached Grandma and her eyes fluttered awake. They sparkled upon seeing me.
“Ritchie?” her voiced cooed. “Is that really you?”
“Yes Grandma,” I nearly cried, “it’s me.”
“I never thought I’d see you again.”
“I’m here.”
“You see that Bethel? Ritchie’s here with us.”
I looked over to where she had turned her focus. The room was empty except for the three of us, not to mention, I knew who Bethel was from photographs and stories. She was Grandma’s sister. She died just before I was born. My grandmother used to always say that she gave her life so I could have mine. That always made me feel guilty for breathing.
I pressed my lips against her hand and kissed as she said, “He’s really here.”
My parents couldn’t catch a flight back to the states until a week later, so I made sure to watch over them once Grandma was released from the hospital the next morning. All of her tests came back fine but her mind was clearly scrambled after hitting her head on the lip of the tub. A bruised knot shot out of her forehead in almost comic proportions. I don’t know if you’ve ever cared after a loved one suffering from dementia, but I found it easier to play into her fantasies. That way, I wouldn’t leave her all confused until she forgot about it again and moved on to the next thing. Sometimes she recognized me, other times she seemed to be horrified by my presence.
It was worse at night. My grandpa was a proud man, so he didn’t let me help out a whole lot — so my efforts were best provided when he wasn’t around. That’s when my talents shined. I slept in such a shallow state that even the quiet creak of aluminum from her walker would wake me. I’d leap out of bed and help her to the bathroom, grab her from under the armpits, and lower her to the seat. She’d often make a mess and I’d clean her up, “I’m the one that’s supposed to be taking care of you.”
Some nights, I’d awaken to the clatter of fine China, then enter the dining room to find her sitting at the head of the table set for a feast. The silverware was polished and placed meticulously. She’d speak to each absent guest in turn. Mainly her father, sister, and a few people I didn’t know. I’d watch from beyond the shadows as she tilted the tea pot, pouring air into the cups.
I’d often stand in the shadows and watch. I learned a lot about her life that way. She’d recount stories that I didn’t know she still had access to. Like how she got a toy rocket for her eighth birthday, then the first time she popped it off it flew and hit her mother between the eyes. Or how her father took her to the World’s Fair and they walked up the steps to see the New York skyline from Lady Liberty’s crown. She’d cackle so loud that my grandfather would wake up and escort her back to bed. The party’s just getting started, she’d say.
One night I awoke to the sound of her crying and leapt out of bed. I thought I’d find her in the bathroom, squirming around in a puddle of her blood. Her face streaked with manic crimson. The bathroom was dark and empty, and her sobs fluttered from around the far corner of the hallway. Like always, I approached on socked feet to hide my entrance. She was pleading through her tears, bent over with her elbows on her knees, speaking low in confidence like someone whispering a confession to a preacher.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I’m worried for him. No, I don’t think he knows.”
I shifted my weight trying to get closer and the wood creaked underfoot. She turned sharply to me and her face recoiled in fear. She was shocked by the sight of me, pale in the moonlight flooding through the window.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she snarled.
“I heard you crying,” I said, “I wanted to make sure you were all—”
“Leave me alone,” she hissed, “I’m not ready.”
“You should get back to bed,” I said softly, reaching for her forearm.
Upon touching her skin she snapped her forearm away, “I’m not ready!”
Her eyes were wide and wild. I’d never seen her like this. She’d turned mad, as if spitting venom in an attempt to ward me off. She didn’t recognize me, thus her fear was channeled into an unbridled rage that erupted out of no where.
“I’m not ready! I don’t want to go!”
“That’s okay,” I assured, “we can stay a little longer.”
“Leave me alone! I won’t go with you! I’m not ready.”
A light came on in my grandpa’s room and he hurried out to us, “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“I— I don’t know,” I stammered. “I was just trying to get her back in bed.”
“C’mon,” he whimpered with worry, “C’mon dear, let’s get back to bed.”
“I’m not ready! I don’t wanna go! He can’t make me!”
“It’s okay my love,” my grandfather cradled her in his arms and escorted her out of the chair, “It’s all going to be okay.”
He barely had to touch her and she moved to his whim. It wasn’t power or dominance or fear — but reverence. They were dance partners for life. When he swayed to his right, she’d step to her left. She didn’t repulse to his guidance, but was lulled by it like a melody. The door to their bedroom shut gently behind them and her cries were reduced to silence almost immediately. I was left in utter despondence.
My parents came a few days later and took over the duties from my grandfather. I had to return to Miami to get my stuff and feint to my parents that I had more exams. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I was going to drop out quite yet.
On my way down, I wanted to stop by the ole Piggly Wiggly and give Roy a proper thanks for going out of his way to help me out. Not to mention, I wanted to pay him back somehow. Once I pulled off on the exit, I stopped by one of the fruit stands and grabbed a peach cobbler. Perhaps Roy’s wife, if he had one, would appreciate it.
As I rolled into town, I couldn’t help but notice a strange nostalgia that crept deeper into my psyche. The structures were the same, but they weren’t in their former glory. They were dilapidated and ruinous. The windows to the shops were boarded up and the mannequins sat dusty, eternally staring out onto the empty streets. Barbecue grills were rusted and turned over on their sides, absent of the smokey aroma of charred meat reaching to the heavens. The street light hung absent of color or power in the town’s square. The clock atop the bank no longer counted the time.
When I reached the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly, I couldn’t figure out what the hell had happened in only a week. The pavement waved over growing roots and cracked over the shifting earth. Weeds and grass grew out of the concrete in streaks. I got out of the car and took the peach cobbler with me. My shadow hid underfoot. The supermarket itself was just a structure without a sign. Peering through the spotted glass, I could see one or two nonessential items like Crisco still on the shelves but it was absent of any life. The roof had caved in some time ago and sharp beams jutted into the gray overcast skies.
I heard an old melody that perked my ears. I recognized it as one my grandfather used to play on Saturday mornings, Ambrose & His Orchestra - In the Middle of a Dream. I followed the brass band around the corner of the building and the trumpets flowed across a small golden field from the open windows of an old Victorian house with a wrap around porch. The wind blew the curtains out of the open windows. The clouds dissipated and color returned to the earth. I placed the cobbler on the porch banister and knocked on the door.
A shadow raced across my peripheral vision and a young boy’s giggle caused me to turn sharply. I stared out across the empty, overgrown field. I shook it off and reached for the peach cobbler. My fingers stopped upon touching the tray. A slice had been carved out of the pie and only a divot remained. The wind blew through my fingertips and the leaves rustled and shook. I stood before a perfect day, lost and alone in a ghost town.
---
Credits
“How bad?” I asked, choking back tears of my own.
“I don’t know,” she cleared her throat. “We’re trying to get the next flight out but everything’s booked up.”
My parents had never gone on vacation in all the years that I’ve lived. It wasn’t easy raising a kid on minimum wages — no job was permanent either. With the little they had, they were able to work their way up in industries that they entered out of desperation. I highly doubt my mother aspired to a life in retail, where she’d miss holidays and soccer practices. No one wants to clean up another man’s shit — but my father never bitched when he came home with stained coveralls. There was always food in my stomach, even if they had to skip a meal. Now that I left the house and went away to college (the first I might add), they could save up for themselves. So, this vacation was huge for them. This was the first time they travelled to another country, let alone out of the Southeast. It’s only fitting that it’d be cut short due to emergency.
“I’ll go,” I said.
“N— No,” she coughed. “You can’t. You have finals—”
“I’ll get an extension,” I said, “family comes first.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“I want to.”
“We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
“Okay,” I said, “I got this. Don’t worry.”
“Be careful.”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
It was 1:33 in the morning. An ungodly hour — and certainly not one in which you want to receive a phone call from your mom. I woke up before the phone rung, and seeing MOM flash over the screen sent me into a mini panic attack. I knew nothing good would come from answering that phone and yet I had no choice but to press talk. I had to go. I owed it to them. I owed it to everyone.
My professor was known to arrive at his office incredibly early to write. The book he assigned for his classes, his own self published book My Writing, highlighted his writing process. He liked to finish his classes in the early afternoon, eat dinner as a late lunch, spend some time thinking about his dead wife, and be in bed by five in the evening. Hopefully he didn’t feel like sleeping in today. I needed to talk to him as soon as possible.
I got to the English Department doors around two. They were locked so I had to wait. My back slid down the brick wall and I hugged my knees. The campus sat with an eerie stillness in the middle of the night, resembling an oil painting in the blurred vision of my crying eyes. I felt like the only person left alive. My breath billowed into the unusually cold January air and a shadow shifted beyond the trees. The dark figure scuttled into the reach of a lamp post and James Mason’s hair swung wildly from its recent bout with a pillow. His eyes hung heavy in his potato sack eyelids. I stood up when he got close.
“I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” Professor Mason groaned.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You wouldn’t be here if you had good news.”
“No,” I said. “I guess I wouldn’t.”
“Bad news can never wait.”
Professor Mason unlocked the doors and nearly fell through. He disappeared into the shadows of the dark office and I stood there, petrified over what he might say. He wasn’t waiting up for me, that’s for sure. The door swung closed and I caught it before it could snap shut.
I entered the empty office and listened for a clue as to which direction the professor went. It was utterly silent. A light flicked on in one of the back rooms. I walked down the hall and looked in on Professor Mason’s sacred writing ritual. He took out a hot plate and plugged it in, poured water from his thermos into a teapot, and let it heat up. I was too afraid to break the peaceful silence of his tasks. He set up a French press and poured in fresh ground coffee beans. Then, he waited by leaning back in his chair and staring at me with a nonchalant bemusement.
“I don’t give higher grades for sexual favors,” he said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No,” I said disgustingly, “Of course not.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“Okay,” I said, breathing deeply in attempt to calm my raging heart, “my grandmother is in bad shape. She fell and hit her head and my grandpa can’t take care of her on his own and my parents are overseas so I have to—”
“No.”
“What?”
“You want an extension on your exam and term paper.”
Shit, he had me. I was at a loss, “Yeah, but—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” he said, clasping his hands together, leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, and softening his voice. “Life won’t pause at your convenience.”
“My grandma—”
“I heard you.”
Fuck you, I thought. I couldn’t even say my name at this point. Anger consumed me and I wanted to smash his ratty little face into the desk, shattering his framed family photos. His son sat with his wife and children. I bet he didn’t even call anymore.
“Look,” he turned his back on me and rummaged through a cabinet drawer. He pulled a stack of papers from a folder and slapped them on his desk. “You can take the exam right now but I doubt you’ve finished the paper yet.”
“No,” I said shallowly, “I haven’t.”
“Those are the only two grades for the entire semester,” he waited for my acknowledgement. I could only nod my head numbly. “So either way, you’d fail.”
I looked over his smug smirk and came to a finite decision. It was either: be there for my grandparents or pass the class (some deep, dark part of me thought of a third option — kill him). I dropped out of college right then and there. I’ll never put work or school or some bullshit obligation over my family. I saw how that affected my mom and dad. I saw how it wore them down with each missed opportunity. I’d stand midfield and look to the sidelines. Without them there the packed bleachers always felt so miserably empty. That’s not the life I want to lead.
I took off Northbound on I-95 from Miami. My grandparents lived in Myrtle Beach so I had a good ten to twelve hours ahead of me. I left in a rush and it wasn’t long before I had to pull off the highway to take a piss. I hit up a rest stop for some relief. The moment I stepped out of the car the stars struck me with all their glistening glory. My engine popped and sizzled under the hood. It was like the universe was passing through me and not the other way around. I felt at ease by the freedom of the expanse, yet crushed by the nothingness of the space around me.
It was one of those smaller rest stops with bathrooms on either side and a vending machine in the middle. I hurried inside a stall (I have a thing about being seen when I pee) and damn near exploded before I got my junk over my basketball shorts. I let out a breath and it was like my soul was squeezed out of me. I was left with an ultimately satisfying calm. That was shattered when the door swung open and slammed shut with a deafening echo. I jumped, my nerves went haywire, and a quiver spasmed up my neck.
Two hard boots stomped down with each heel and slapped the tiles with the toes. Two timed, methodical, and menacing — they clucked over to my stall and settled before me. The massive weight in those boots crushed the dirt with a prickling precision. He pulled on the handle and the lock smacked against the door jam. The door shuddered as he frantically pumped the door against the hinges. Then, he released the handle and stepped back into the corner. The fluorescent lights burnt out and the bathroom fell dark. The silence made the air heavier. I could hear breathing from the corner. I’m not a big guy, so I braced myself to be mauled by a monstrous beast.
The breathing ceased and I was left with my pulse pounding against the walls of my brain. I waited for someone to make a move but it felt like I was the only one here to do so. I couldn’t tell you how long I stood there, trembling with fear. What the fuck did this guy want? Money? Sex? The thrill of acquiring both?
“Hello?” I called out without thinking. I was met by an empty echo.
Ten minutes went by before I turned on my phone flash light and shone it through the cracks in the door. I couldn’t see anything through the slit. I bent down and flashed the light in the corner. No shoes, no feet — no one. I must’ve been bugging out — I mean, I hadn’t slept for more than two hours that night. I just jumped right on the road and tossed caution out the window. Maybe I needed a couple of hours of sleep in the car. Yeah, that’s what—
The door lock crashed against the jam with the force of a kick and I nearly fell into the toilet. I desperately sought an escape from the coffin sized walls. There was only one thing I could do. Fight or flight. I unlocked the door and drove my shoulder through it, expecting to be met by a wall of meat and bones and organs but instead smacked right into the tile wall. I swung my cell light around and revealed an empty room. I checked the other stall, ready for murder. Nothing. There was nothing. My head throbbed. I needed to eat. Yeah, that’s it.
I got Sour Patch Kids and a soda from the vending machine. Sugar could keep me going another couple of hours. I couldn’t sleep here. I turned to the car and my shadow stretched out before me. Standing at the end of it was a man blacked out by the night. His features were hidden under the street lamp’s sharp glare. I was frozen with fear, expecting him to rush me with the fury of a demon. He just stood there in the empty parking lot, watching me as I watched him. No other cars were around. Did he walk here? Who walks to a rest stop? Maybe he was some truck driver hopped up on Meth. I took a step forward and so did he, heading on a diagonal to cut me off from my car. I stalled for a moment — as did he. We were trying to read the other’s next move. Here we go.
I broke out in a sprint to the driver’s side door and he rushed to the passenger side. I unlocked the car with my fob and pulled open the door, throwing myself inside. The door slammed shut and I double clicked the lock button. The doors clicked and there was a thud against the passenger door. The car rocked on its shocks. The handle jiggled furiously. I accidentally hit the panic button and the yellow lights blinked to the sound of a distressing horn.
I turned the ignition, kicked it into reverse, and drove the fuck out of there. I glanced into the rearview and the shadow just watched me as he sunk in the distance, making no more effort to chase after me. Even with the red brake lights reflecting off the trees around him, he stayed sunken in darkness.
Merging onto the highway, my mind went on cruise control. When the sky began to lighten, I was taken aback by my surroundings. A light fog hung between the trees lining the highway like a hammock and lazy deer grazed on the grass mere feet from the concrete. There was no way that I could have travelled so far in a single night. The land was flat and marshy and dominated by longleaf pines. I must’ve broken all known traffic laws last night.
The shadows of the grazing deer got closer to the road and I decided it’d be best to slow down — but like falling into a speed trap where the limit goes from 70 to 35 mph, it was too late. A deer crossed into my lane and I tugged on the wheel, swerving to avoid it. The deer stood dumb to the danger, staring at me like the specter at the rest stop. My car spun out of control and crossed over the median and into the southbound lanes. The car nearly tipped when I finally came to a screeching stop. My heart was racing and I looked back over to the northbound lanes. The deer had fled with his life. I never felt more alive and burst into the happiest of tears. I could smell the burnt tires and overworked engine. My flesh tingled with electric spasms. I was alive.
By the grace of god, there were no cars coming at me so I had a moment to collect myself. Once I got back on the highway, I felt an overwhelming thankfulness and sobbed freely. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I kept whispering. I turned on the music and the melodies never sounded so pure. I opened the windows and the earth’s aroma filled my lungs with purpose. Wind ran through my fingers, tickling my hairs. Thank you.
A couple of miles down the road, red and blue flashing lights emerged over the horizon on the southbound lanes. The lanes were completely blocked off and a column of headlights idled in anticipation. As I got closer, I slowed to see a team of emergency responders working on a totaled car. They took their time. The car looked familiar, like I drove side by side with him at some point in the night. Smoke rose from the engine and the mangled body of a deer was crushed in the grill. A gurney was loaded with a limp body and carted slowly to the back of an ambulance. There was no need to rush — the poor guy was a goner. Once again, I cried — knowing that it could have been me. No, it should have been me. I was grateful and found peace in never having to go back to school. Such things were so minuscule in the grand scheme of things.
I was barreling down US-17 just north of Charleston when I heard the tire blow. The car jolted and sunk down on the rear passenger axle. I pulled over to the side of the road to inspect and found a slash along the side. It was amazing to me that the bubble held on for this long. Must’ve happened when I just missed the deer. A creeping part of me thought otherwise. Something lingered inside of me, whispering that it was the man at the rest stop. He did this. He’s responsible for all of it. Of course, that was nonsense. He didn’t step out in front of my car. He didn’t push my grandmother over in the bathroom. He probably wasn’t even real — just a hallucination in my mind.
I limped my way to the nearest exit and got off. This wasn’t your typical highway exit. There were no gas stations, no fast food options. Just abandoned food and firework stands surrounded by an endless woods. I must’ve crept for nearly three miles, every minute worried me more. I was probably doing serious damage to the rim, a costly misfortune I couldn’t dream of affording.
Eventually, the woods opened up to a small town forgotten by time. The cars were vintage and kept in mint condition. The kids ran about in front of their homes in their Sunday’s best. Women strode down the sidewalk, gossiping under meticulously groomed poodle clips, soft bobs, and pageboy hair styles. Their dresses were simple but elegant. The men had cropped hair and their neutral button downs were tucked into slacks that rested near their belly buttons. The town was buzzing with activity in the golden glare of the high noon sun.
I pulled into the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly. The sign above the supermarket was a large blue circle with a pale yellow cartoon pig smiling at me while wearing a white triangular server’s hat cocked on the side of his head. I got out of the car and looked down at the sunken rim. Shit. I popped the trunk and lifted the hatch to the spare tire. I got out the iron and the jack, looking at them as if they were alien objects. This was one thing my father never had the chance to teach me. Another casualty to his busy schedule. I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do with these useless objects. Maybe I could check the manua—
“Howdy,” a voice chimed from behind me.
I turned and saw a man wearing a tucked in white dress shirt, navy blue tie, and matching blue slacks. His hair was combed over and greased with pomade. His smile was crooked like the television stars of a bygone era. He strode over gracefully until he was standing at my side, looking down at the torn up threads of what was once my tire.
“Looks like you’re in a bit of a pickle,” he chuckled.
“Yeah,” I said, “I don’t know the first thing about changing tires.”
He held out his hand and looked down to the jack, “Never a better time to learn than right now.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to be a bur—”
“Why of course, son, it’d be an honor.”
I dropped the heavy jack in his hand and his strength didn’t drop an inch. He went about changing the tire with proficiency. He showed me where to place the jack, how to loosen the bolts and lift the car. He wouldn’t let me touch a thing and dirtied up his white wardrobe without a care. He never bickered or cussed like my old man used to do for even the smallest household tasks. He simply smiled and went about his duty.
“There you go,” he dropped the jack and the vehicle settled on the donut. He kicked the tire to make sure it was firm.
“Now,” he mused, “I don’t suppose you’ll get very far on that there donut but if you head up the road to Deer Run and hang a right you’ll come across a mechanic shop at the end of the road. Place called Henderson’s. I’ll give ‘im a call and let ‘im know you’re coming. He’ll fix you right up.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“Goes to show you, there are still good people in this world,” he said with a smile.
“You’re living proof,” I shook his hand and nodded respectfully.
I walked back to the car and turned back to him, “Hey, what’s your name so I can—”
The door to the Piggly Wiggly closed and I saw his shadow pass by the windows and disappear into the depths of the store. A mother pushed her shopping cart by me, the baby kicking wildly in the seat. He was holding a spinner. He giggled and it made my heart smile.
I found the mechanic shop at the end of Deer Run easy enough and Mr. Henderson set me up with the closest tire he had that could match my set. It ain’t exact, but it ought to do, he said. I pulled out my wallet and fished through my remaining cash — most of it was gone with the gas. Hopefully I could cover it. Henderson held out a patient hand.
“No sir,” Henderson said, “You’re already paid in full.”
I argued with him but his southern pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. He explained to me that Roy Morrow offered to foot the bill, “Is that the manager at Piggly Wiggly?”
“Yessir,” he said, “the very one.”
“I can’t let him pay for this,” I said, “he’s already done enough.”
“You gon’ have to take that up with him,” Henderson said.
“Thanks again,” I shook his hand and despite the grease and calluses and scars, it was the smoothest flesh I’ve ever felt.
I wanted to go back to the Piggly Wiggly and thank Roy again for his kindness but it would have taken me out of the way. I was worried about my grandparents and this flat took up more time than I had hoped. I figured that I’d come back on my way south and pay back my debt then.
I got into Myrtle Beach just as the sun was setting, and by the time I entered the hospital visiting hours were long over. I’d come this far, the nurses wouldn’t stop me. I waited until they were busy until slipping through the double doors.
When I entered, I found my grandpa snoring in a chair positioned in the corner of the room. I approached Grandma and her eyes fluttered awake. They sparkled upon seeing me.
“Ritchie?” her voiced cooed. “Is that really you?”
“Yes Grandma,” I nearly cried, “it’s me.”
“I never thought I’d see you again.”
“I’m here.”
“You see that Bethel? Ritchie’s here with us.”
I looked over to where she had turned her focus. The room was empty except for the three of us, not to mention, I knew who Bethel was from photographs and stories. She was Grandma’s sister. She died just before I was born. My grandmother used to always say that she gave her life so I could have mine. That always made me feel guilty for breathing.
I pressed my lips against her hand and kissed as she said, “He’s really here.”
My parents couldn’t catch a flight back to the states until a week later, so I made sure to watch over them once Grandma was released from the hospital the next morning. All of her tests came back fine but her mind was clearly scrambled after hitting her head on the lip of the tub. A bruised knot shot out of her forehead in almost comic proportions. I don’t know if you’ve ever cared after a loved one suffering from dementia, but I found it easier to play into her fantasies. That way, I wouldn’t leave her all confused until she forgot about it again and moved on to the next thing. Sometimes she recognized me, other times she seemed to be horrified by my presence.
It was worse at night. My grandpa was a proud man, so he didn’t let me help out a whole lot — so my efforts were best provided when he wasn’t around. That’s when my talents shined. I slept in such a shallow state that even the quiet creak of aluminum from her walker would wake me. I’d leap out of bed and help her to the bathroom, grab her from under the armpits, and lower her to the seat. She’d often make a mess and I’d clean her up, “I’m the one that’s supposed to be taking care of you.”
Some nights, I’d awaken to the clatter of fine China, then enter the dining room to find her sitting at the head of the table set for a feast. The silverware was polished and placed meticulously. She’d speak to each absent guest in turn. Mainly her father, sister, and a few people I didn’t know. I’d watch from beyond the shadows as she tilted the tea pot, pouring air into the cups.
I’d often stand in the shadows and watch. I learned a lot about her life that way. She’d recount stories that I didn’t know she still had access to. Like how she got a toy rocket for her eighth birthday, then the first time she popped it off it flew and hit her mother between the eyes. Or how her father took her to the World’s Fair and they walked up the steps to see the New York skyline from Lady Liberty’s crown. She’d cackle so loud that my grandfather would wake up and escort her back to bed. The party’s just getting started, she’d say.
One night I awoke to the sound of her crying and leapt out of bed. I thought I’d find her in the bathroom, squirming around in a puddle of her blood. Her face streaked with manic crimson. The bathroom was dark and empty, and her sobs fluttered from around the far corner of the hallway. Like always, I approached on socked feet to hide my entrance. She was pleading through her tears, bent over with her elbows on her knees, speaking low in confidence like someone whispering a confession to a preacher.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I’m worried for him. No, I don’t think he knows.”
I shifted my weight trying to get closer and the wood creaked underfoot. She turned sharply to me and her face recoiled in fear. She was shocked by the sight of me, pale in the moonlight flooding through the window.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she snarled.
“I heard you crying,” I said, “I wanted to make sure you were all—”
“Leave me alone,” she hissed, “I’m not ready.”
“You should get back to bed,” I said softly, reaching for her forearm.
Upon touching her skin she snapped her forearm away, “I’m not ready!”
Her eyes were wide and wild. I’d never seen her like this. She’d turned mad, as if spitting venom in an attempt to ward me off. She didn’t recognize me, thus her fear was channeled into an unbridled rage that erupted out of no where.
“I’m not ready! I don’t want to go!”
“That’s okay,” I assured, “we can stay a little longer.”
“Leave me alone! I won’t go with you! I’m not ready.”
A light came on in my grandpa’s room and he hurried out to us, “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
“I— I don’t know,” I stammered. “I was just trying to get her back in bed.”
“C’mon,” he whimpered with worry, “C’mon dear, let’s get back to bed.”
“I’m not ready! I don’t wanna go! He can’t make me!”
“It’s okay my love,” my grandfather cradled her in his arms and escorted her out of the chair, “It’s all going to be okay.”
He barely had to touch her and she moved to his whim. It wasn’t power or dominance or fear — but reverence. They were dance partners for life. When he swayed to his right, she’d step to her left. She didn’t repulse to his guidance, but was lulled by it like a melody. The door to their bedroom shut gently behind them and her cries were reduced to silence almost immediately. I was left in utter despondence.
My parents came a few days later and took over the duties from my grandfather. I had to return to Miami to get my stuff and feint to my parents that I had more exams. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I was going to drop out quite yet.
On my way down, I wanted to stop by the ole Piggly Wiggly and give Roy a proper thanks for going out of his way to help me out. Not to mention, I wanted to pay him back somehow. Once I pulled off on the exit, I stopped by one of the fruit stands and grabbed a peach cobbler. Perhaps Roy’s wife, if he had one, would appreciate it.
As I rolled into town, I couldn’t help but notice a strange nostalgia that crept deeper into my psyche. The structures were the same, but they weren’t in their former glory. They were dilapidated and ruinous. The windows to the shops were boarded up and the mannequins sat dusty, eternally staring out onto the empty streets. Barbecue grills were rusted and turned over on their sides, absent of the smokey aroma of charred meat reaching to the heavens. The street light hung absent of color or power in the town’s square. The clock atop the bank no longer counted the time.
When I reached the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly, I couldn’t figure out what the hell had happened in only a week. The pavement waved over growing roots and cracked over the shifting earth. Weeds and grass grew out of the concrete in streaks. I got out of the car and took the peach cobbler with me. My shadow hid underfoot. The supermarket itself was just a structure without a sign. Peering through the spotted glass, I could see one or two nonessential items like Crisco still on the shelves but it was absent of any life. The roof had caved in some time ago and sharp beams jutted into the gray overcast skies.
I heard an old melody that perked my ears. I recognized it as one my grandfather used to play on Saturday mornings, Ambrose & His Orchestra - In the Middle of a Dream. I followed the brass band around the corner of the building and the trumpets flowed across a small golden field from the open windows of an old Victorian house with a wrap around porch. The wind blew the curtains out of the open windows. The clouds dissipated and color returned to the earth. I placed the cobbler on the porch banister and knocked on the door.
A shadow raced across my peripheral vision and a young boy’s giggle caused me to turn sharply. I stared out across the empty, overgrown field. I shook it off and reached for the peach cobbler. My fingers stopped upon touching the tray. A slice had been carved out of the pie and only a divot remained. The wind blew through my fingertips and the leaves rustled and shook. I stood before a perfect day, lost and alone in a ghost town.
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Credits
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