Читать книгу Escape from Coolville - Sherman Sutherland - Страница 3

CHEW

MAIL POUCH

TOBACCO

TREAT YOURSELF TO THE BEST

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Welcome To

WEST VIRGINIA

Wild and Wonderful

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Virginia

Welcomes You

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I don’t even know how I ended up here, wherever here is. Under a buzzing orange light in the last parking space at some rest area on I-77. In Virginia, I think. Maybe North Carolina.

The last thing I remember, I was driving to work and I was listening to Radiohead—“Idioteque”—and I was in a hurry and worried about being late, and I still wasn’t sure what I was going to tell Smeagol—was I going back to train­ing, or not—and the weather was really really beauti­ful for the first time in a long time (actually, everybody’s been saying for a month how nice it is, but this was the first time I noticed).

The sky was perfectly sky blue and not that hazy blah color that it usually is, and the temperature was just perfect and it was just humid enough without being too humid, and it smelled like everybody between Athens and Coolville had just mowed their lawns and it seemed like everywhere there were these purple blooming bushes and white bloom­ing trees and yellow blooming dandelions and birds were flittering from tree to tree and people were waving and I was really really high.

But I was still planning to go to work. Seriously.

I had my business casual blue shirt already tucked into my business casual khakis, which matched my busi­ness casual tan socks. I’d even had my business casual brown shoes tied and my business casual reversible belt flipped over to the brown side.

I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble if I’d never planned to go to work. But Maury had the fat kids on today, which made me totally hungry for a grilled cheese sandwich and, before I even got the cheese goo tongue-rubbed out of my teeth, it was like, Holy crap, I’m late!

When I unlocked my car door, I noticed that the key didn’t stick like it has every day for the last however-many months and the door didn’t squeak when I opened it.

Then there was this wall, like, of warm vanilla air that washed across my face when I leaned in. And the car didn’t make that normal squonking noise when I sat down.

And the door shut easy and the window rolled all the way down without sticking and the engine started on the first try and the gearshift actually slid into reverse without having to push down and yank on it and I could hear the gravel crunching under my tires when I backed up and then when I plugged in my iPod, the song that started play­ing right away was “Idioteque” and I couldn’t help but think, This is going to be a good day.

I was still planning to go to work then, though, too.

I missed every single pothole on Carpenter—even that su­per-bumpy part at Court Street—and I even hit the green light at Stimson, which never happens. And then I didn’t see one cop on the whole entire highway, so I could drive eighty all the way to where the road splits to Coolville or Pomeroy. It was like the whole universe was working to­gether to get me to work on time.

When I got to that “Abortion Stops a Beating” bill­board, I remember thinking, God, I wish I didn’t have to go to work today, but I didn’t notice it being any different than my normal God, I wish I didn’t have to go to work to­day feeling.

And somewhere in there I was trying to figure in my head how much I pay for rent, plus the electric bill, plus groceries, plus all my credit cards, plus whatever else, and trying to figure out, if I made eight dollars an hour instead of eleven, if I’d have enough to pay my bills and still get schwasted every now and then.

And then I slowed down as I got to Dixon Road—I had my turn signal on, I remember that—and I looked at my watch and I was thinking, Okay, it says 3:26, but it’s actually forty-three minutes fast, so that means it’s actually 2:54, which means I’ve got eight minutes to get from Dixon Road to Dogwood to Buckeye. I bet I can still make it if I sprint across the parking lot and up the stairs, as long as Security Guard Gary isn’t flirting with the girls at the front desk so he can let me in the door right away and as long as there’s no dumbass at the time clock trying to swipe their card backwards a million times, saying, “Why won’t this stupid thing ever work?”

So I was thinking all that as I came up to the turn and I just . . . kept driving. I don’t even know why.

I just kind of stared at the little green street sign—Dixon Rd—and I drove on past.

Then I drove across the Hocking River right there, and then past that little rest area and then I was in Belpre, then Parkersburg and on the I-77 onramp and, before I even really knew what was going on, I’d driven past Ripley and Charleston and some town with a bunch of strip clubs, and then another town and then I drove through this long tunnel and when I came out the other side, there was this “Virginia Welcomes You” sign.

Weird.

The thing it reminded me of more than anything was in fifth grade when we had to fill out those surveys.

“Don’t put your name on it,” they kept telling us. “These are anonymous. We want to know what you really think.”

When it got to the question, “What do you like least about school?” I wrote, “Bitchy teachers.”

Even though I wrote it in different handwriting, I was still scared they’d know it was me. And when I handed it in, I felt the same way as I did today when I watched myself drive past the turn onto Dixon Road. Kind of giddy and relieved and nervous and scared all at the same time.

Hopefully Mom and Dad won’t be waiting for me when­ever I get back home. That would suck.

At least in fifth grade, I could say, “But that’s really what I like least about school!”

Now, all I’d be able to say is, “Uh, Radiohead was play­ing. And the song wasn’t over. And I was really really high.”

They’d bitch slap me into next week.

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rules and Regulations of Waysides and Rest Areas that I either plan to, hope to, or expect to break:

#3: When posted, parking shall be limited to the two-hour period specified.

#4: No overnight parking will be permitted.

#7: No vehicle shall be parked in such a manner as to oc­cupy more than one marked parking space.

#9: No person shall pick any flowers, foliage or fruit; or cut, break, dig up, or in any way mutilate or injure any tree, shrub, plant, grass turf, railing, seat, fence, structure, or anything within this area or cut, carve, paint, mark or paste on any tree, stone, fence, wall, building, monument or other object therein any bill, ad­vertisement or inscription whatsoever.

#12: No threatening, abusive, boisterous, insulting or in­decent language, gesture or behavior shall be used or performed within this area. Nor shall any oration or other public demonstration be made, unless by spe­cial authority of the Commissioner.

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Cast

(in order of appearance)

ME: Twenty-two-year-old bundle of telephone psychic awesomeness who’s currently confused about his present job situation, among other things.

THE OTHER ME: The person in my head I talk to when I talk to myself in my head.

SCENE ONE

Driver’s seat of my car, parked in the second-to-last spot at the Rocky Gap Rest Area in Virginia. It’s late night-early morning. An orange street light/sidewalk light/rest area light shines in through my windshield so I can see to write. Outside, a stranger sits on a picnic table nearby. Every few seconds, a truck or an occasional car can be heard speeding past on the nearby interstate. Closer, but less frequently—every several minutes, maybe—a car passes slowly behind before it picks up speed on the nearby interstate onramp. On the other side of the rest area and welcome center building, a truck’s airbrakes will make that squonking truck airbrake sound. Sometimes people talk on their phones or to each other as they walk to the restroom, but never loud enough to make out their conversation through the car window that’s rolled down just an inch to let out the cigarette smoke. Me is talking to Other Me, but the conversation is taking place entirely in my head while Me does his best to dictate the conversation verbatim.

ME: Thanks for visiting your psychic advisor in the front seat of my car. This is Antonio. May I have your first name and—

OTHER ME: Why are you talking to yourself?

ME: I’m not talking to myself. I’m thinking to myself.

OTHER ME: Whatever. Why are you thinking to yourself?

ME: I’m trying to make this feel like a real reading. I figure maybe it’ll work better that way. I give people advice all day, so I—

OTHER ME: That’s scary.

ME: Do you want to do this or not?

OTHER ME: You know you’re not really a psychic, right?

ME: All of us are born with inherent psychic abilities. It’s just that some of us were raised in an environment where—

OTHER ME: Cut the crap. You don’t even believe in this.

ME: I sort of do. Sometimes. There’s Irene, at work, she’s totally psychic.

OTHER ME: Maybe she’s just better at lying than you are.

ME: Okay, but what about when I have those nights at work when the cards are exactly right on every single call?

OTHER ME: That’s just the law of averages. When you do twenty or thirty readings a night for a year, the cards are bound to be right every now and then.

ME: You don’t believe that. You think, at the very least, that there’s some subconscious Rainman part of our brain that knows the answers and is shuffling the cards just right to show us what those answers are. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

OTHER ME: Just shut up and deal the cards.

ME: Okay. I need you to quiet your mind as you think of your question.

OTHER ME: What’s my question?

ME: You want to know if you should go back to training or not. On the one hand, if you go back to training, you won’t have to worry about getting fired. On the other hand, you’ll make three dollars less an hour, which sucks, because you can barely pay your bills now. On the other other hand, training is boring, and it’d be super boring the second time. But it’ll also be easy, so you’ll get paid to do basically nothing, which would be nice. On the other other other hand, everybody will think you’re an idiot for going back to training, but since when do you care about what everybody else thinks anyway, especially everybody else at ATS? On the other other other other other hand, training is at nine in the morning, every morning—for three whole unholy weeks—but you’d also have normal weekends for a change, instead of Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, when all the bars have their stupid Eighties Night or Lady Gaga Night or Drink This Crap We Found Under the Sink Night.

OTHER ME: Whoa! How do you know all that? Maybe you really are psychic.

ME: See? Maybe this will work after all. Now quiet your mind and tell me when you feel I should stop shuffling the cards.

OTHER ME: What’s that noise? Is somebody chanting in the restroom?

ME: No. That’s me. My landlady’s been playing this crazy music nonstop since yesterday morning and I can’t get it out of my head.

OTHER ME: E-jean boo lawn chi wren ling Ming John she ah me toe foe you chew shin John Zen’s eye Cheech in she wren John she zing booed yen Dow gee duh wan shin ah me toe foe gee lug whoa two—

ME: Please stop. I can hear it just fine without you singing along. Just ignore it and tell me when to stop shuffling the cards.

OTHER ME: Stop.

ME: Okay, a lot of cup cards, a lot of swords. From the looks of these cards, I’d say you have an active love life.

OTHER ME: Dude, you totally suck at this.

ME: You don’t have to be a butthead. I’m just reading your cards.

OTHER ME: What’s up with the Death card in my first position?

ME: We like to call it the card of transition.

OTHER ME: That’s just so your callers won’t hang up on you right away.

ME: True. But if you look at the picture on the card, you see a guy swinging his scythe in the middle of a burned field. Farmers do that all the time so their crops will grow better in the spring. I’m more interested in this Queen of Swords in your second position. It suggests a quick-witted woman in your life. Plus you have three different Cup cards. Cups are the cards of love—

OTHER ME: Yeah, yeah. And Swords are the cards of the mind, and Coins are money and Wands are strength. I know all that. But I don’t have any kind of love life at all.

ME: But this inverted Four of Cups in your sixth position. A new, loving relationship in your future—

OTHER ME: Dude, I’m telling you, I’ve only had sex once in the whole last year. Remember? two months ago? after I got kicked out of that stupid Halfway to Halloween party? Catwoman? the bushes behind Konneker Hall? How could you forget that?

ME: As I recall, that was followed by a campus police escort to my dorm, where they saw my Hawaiian themed room and all those plastic plants I borrowed from Shively Hall.

OTHER ME: Yeah, that part sucked. Catwoman was fun, though. But that’s as close as I’ve been to a girlfriend since Ashley.

ME: Maybe there’s somebody else. Somebody you don’t know about.

OTHER ME: How could I not know about it?

ME: Your eighth position represents the people around you, and the Two of Cups is one of the clearest signs of love in the Tarot deck. As you look at it, you see—

OTHER ME: As you look at it, you see there’s another card stuck to it, Mr. Psychic: an upside-down Knight of Cups. What’s that supposed to mean?

ME: The inverted Knight of Cups here suggests that you also have a romantic rival, somebody sneaky and distrustful. Who do you think that is?

OTHER ME: Dude, seriously, I don’t have a love life.

ME: The rest of these cards look right, though: transition in your first position. The Three of Coins representing your recent past. The Hanged Man in your seventh position—you feel like you’re in limbo right now, right? The Knight of Swords in your ninth position says you hope to act bravely when the need arises.

OTHER ME: You could say that about anybody. Just tell me if I should go back to training or not.

ME: Often the answers to such questions are already inside of us.

OTHER ME: Isn’t that a line from The Matrix? Could you please just answer my question?

ME: Which question?

OTHER ME: Should I go back to training or not?

ME: In your tenth position, you have the Chariot, inverted: defeat, stagnation. If you stay on your current path, you have that to look forward to.

OTHER ME: But that’s just it: I don’t know what my current path is. I’m in the parking lot of some rest area in Virginia at three in the morning. Does that mean that the path I’m on now is to a beach in Florida, or am I actually just here for the night and I’m actually headed back to work tomorrow? I don’t know. It’s like I’m in the middle of this big forest with all these trees and no path whatsoever. I don’t even know which direction I’m supposed to go to find a path, or which direction I want to go, or which direction I can go. It’s like The Blair Witch Project inside my head, except without the witch and the shaky camera and that super annoying chick who should’ve died before the movie even started.

ME: The Six of Swords here in your fifth posit—

OTHER ME: God, you’re annoying. How do you get people to stay on the phone with you so long?

ME: That’s a very good question. What I try to do first is empathize with the caller. Let them know I understand what they’re feeling. For example, you feel like somebody else is always in charge of everything you do: Go to school. Get out of our school. Do what we tell you to do when we tell you to do it. Say what we tell you to say when we tell you to say it. You don’t feel like a real person, but more like a puppet on a string or a video game character that somebody else is always controlling. When you were little, you used to picture what your life would be like when you were twenty-two. This isn’t what you’d imagined. Sometimes you wish the earth was flat so you could just drive off the end and float into peaceful nothingness. Sound about right?

OTHER ME: Yeah, I guess.

ME: I can also keep people on the phone by going off on a lot of tangents. Make them think we’re just having a normal conversation. Time goes a lot faster that way. Open-ended questions help a lot, too. Half the time, they already know the answer to whatever question they have; they just need to hear it out loud. The main thing, though, is to never let the conversation stop. Always keep it moving, moving, moving, and you too can be an excellent telephone psychic.

OTHER ME: If you’re so great why are you on probation at work?

ME: Let’s not talk about me. We’re here to help you.

OTHER ME: Which you still haven’t done, by the way.

ME: What is it you really want?

OTHER ME: I want to be like Matt—remember? freshman year? Used the last of his money to buy a plane ticket to California without knowing a single solitary person in the whole entire state, met those Bud Light or Miller Lite models on the plane, they hooked him up with a landscaping job for, like, twenty-five bucks an hour, and now he’s got it made. I wish I had the balls to do that.

ME: Yeah, you are a wimp. I don’t need to be psychic to see that. Maybe you can start small. What can you do besides flying to California and hoping for a job?

OTHER ME: I don’t know.

ME: What would you like to do right now?

OTHER ME: I’d kind of like to get out of here before that weird guy at the picnic table comes over here and does something.

ME: What’s he going to do?

OTHER ME: I don’t know. Something crazy. Can we just leave?

ME: I guess. Where are we going?

OTHER ME: That’s what you’re supposed to tell me. Where should we go?

ME: How the hell should I know?