Bail, part 1

Blue and white capsules floated on the surface, while the heavier, more dense tablets sank to the bottom of the bowl. The bottles had been pretty full. If the flush didn’t sweep them all away the rest would dissolve. Everything dissolves eventually.

The house was quiet, save for the hum of appliance motors, ticking clocks and other devices marking time and distance in their circular precision. A collection of inanimate objects assembled in a way that breathed a mechanical imitation of life into their existence. These things at least were spared the burden of consciousness. There were four walls and a roof with a staggering inventory of items contained therein, yet it was empty, hollow. Echoes of thousands of words whispered from the shadows, mindless chatter that in the end said nothing. This was how he would remember it, if at all.

The car was already loaded, it’s share of household inventory on board to be transported to the next hollow shell they were destined to inhabit. Once there, these would continue their mute existence as before, oblivious to the change of scenery to which they would become a part. Unlike their pilot they would remain unchanged for the journey.  He drove away with nothing in the rear view mirror. Rear view mirrors are illusions: what is behind remains behind.

March in the Midwest is suicide season; the light at the end of the tunnel dims even as arctic air recedes. The white blanket spread upon the land in the preceding weeks is no longer sparkling, pristine crystal. Roadsides are lined with the accumulated removal, skulking mounds shuddering around their icy core. They are weary, turned the same bleak hue as the clouded skies bringing the slow thaw of their pervasive damp. Away from the road in open ground, patches of land are revealed in their sickly brown pallor. Though daylight hours grow, the cold ever returns with the night, unwilling still to relinquish it’s hold. The sleeping earth is unfolded still lifeless, awaiting renewal. For those who make winters an annual soul cage the faltering light of hope on the March horizon is a fragile thing, easily extinguished by an early spring snowstorm. Each new cloud front carries with it the threat of extermination.

The monotonous landscape played in the car windows for miles. The only escape from the gaping maw was southbound now.  I-75, a piece of old Ike’s interstate system which ran along the route of the old Dixie Highway, marked a trail of tears for the many and varied rites of passage for generations of restless youth. It marked a route for spring break for many, a path of flight to anonymity for others: both escapes, distinguished only by their differing durations. He had himself traveled this highway as an economic refugee in the early ‘80s, one of hundreds of thousands of young people from the rust belt who descended upon the sun belt for work. They came, worked, then returned to Norma Jean or Betty Sue, or whoever waited for them back home. They went on to make the rest of their adult lives there, only to then sell off the home, pack up the RV and once again flee to the lands of fairer winds.

He’d forced himself to push on past the cold, inhospitable rust of Cincinnati. Even here, as far south as the Ohio River, the land was still held in the clutches of that ubiquitous grey. Low, grey cloud pregnant with the cool grey mists, inviting the parting season to linger on under protection of the shroud. Truck trailers, cars, the streets themselves, all were dusted in a fine grey powder of salt. Snow piles here had been relegated to those few mounds still cowering in the corners of mall parking lots, like a rearguard covering the flank of winter’s slow retreat, they stand as the final snows to melt. As he crossed the river into Kentucky, he noted that even the bloated, brown waters of the Ohio had taken on a grey cast from the dull reflection of the skies. In twenty minutes he was beyond the north Kentucky suburbs of Newport, Florence, Walton, approaching the 71/75 split.  Six hours. It was a good place to stop. Get fuel and decide: onward to Louisville to pick up 65 south or remain on 75 and make for Florida.

He found a BP station with a Mini-Mart that was easy off/easy on from the interstate and wheeled into the first pump available. As he stood by the pump, blankly staring at the digits rolling by on the display, he considered what else he might want to grab from inside. Occasional gusts swept across the lot carrying the faintest hint of warm, salt water as borne upon the winds from the far distant Gulf. On that particular day it smelled like freedom; on another day it might just have smelled of low tide. With the tank filled he replaced the nozzle to it’s cradle and headed into the store for a bathroom stop and a soda. He still had not decided which route he would take ahead.

He’d advanced to within ten or twelve steps of the door when he first took notice of the girl. A couple of steps to the left of the exit door she was propped up against the wall, slumping downward as though she were melting off the side of the building. She was clad in an olive drab, army surplus jacket, with the pastel pink of a hooded sweatshirt blooming from behind the collar. From beneath the hem of the jacket  her legs protruded in the “skinny” jeans that were in fashion, terminating in the incongruous pair of black Converse sneakers. She was a little waif of a thing, surely not an inch taller than five feet, and were it not for the bright splash of the sweatshirt about her neck she would have simply blended right into the wall. As he neared the door he gained a better look at her. She had a thick, brunette mane of somewhat wiry hair, tossed about unruly in the gathering breeze. A tiny hand emerged from one of the sleeves to brush her hair back, revealing the sunken and hollow eyes of a junkie.

“Hey mister! Ya got a cigarette?”

At first he wasn’t certain that she had been speaking to him. He heard the question and was close enough by then to get a look into those eyes. Within the sunken and dark-ringed sockets deep brown orbs still flickered with a trace of the plaintive charm of her youth. They were the one aspect of her emaciated face that still showed signs of whatever fire of life still resided in her.

“Uh, no, sorry, I gave ‘em up sweetheart.” 

She managed a weak smile, nodding in acceptance, though her body language seemed to slump further in defeat. He moved past and entered the store. Encounters like the one he’d just had were fairly commonplace and typically forgotten within moments. He found the restroom, finished his business there and then searched the cooler doors for Mountain Dew. After retrieving a 20 oz. bottle from the shelf he walked across the aisles to quickly survey what junk food was on offer, but decided against anything. A bit of a line had formed at the register. He took his place at the end of the line to patiently await his turn.

With only so many things to look at inside of a gas station mini-mart his gaze was inevitably drawn outside. Over the shoulder of the cashier there was a window with a clear view to the lot beyond. Through there he could see that the girl was still out front in the same spot. As he waited two more people came to the entrance, each of these also greeted with what he assumed were further requests for cigarettes. The next customer in line decided to buy a sampler package of lottery tickets and there were yet two more customers ahead of him after that. It was obvious there would be a few more minutes to wait. For no reason he could think of he stepped away from the line and went over to the door to poke his head outside.

“Hey! What’s your name?”

She seemed startled at first and then the smile. “I’m Tammy.”

“What kinda smokes ya like?”

A light came upon her face like a child opening a present. “For real? Uh, Camel filters...”

She was still saying something else as he ducked back inside. He grabbed another bottle of Mountain Dew and then resumed his previous place in line. After a few more minutes his transaction was completed and he exited the store with the sodas and a pack of Camel filters.

“Hey Tammy. Here ya go. I got ya a pack of smokes and I hope ya like Mountain Dew.”

“Holy shit! Thanks! I don’t have any money, uh… ”

“No, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.” He was ready to wave it off and return to the highway when suddenly, for no cause he could fathom, he decided to talk with her further. She had the sickly cast of skin common to junkies, a Goodwill wardrobe, begging cigarettes outside of an interstate gas station. He might just as easily have found this girl at a downtown bus station. She was running from something. Then again so was he. “ So… ya waitin’ on somebody?” A brief shadow of suspicion crossed her face.

“Yer not a cop, are ya?”

“Me? Hell no! What, do I look like a cop?”

It was the first time he had seen her smile. It was electric, a broad, kind and innocent smile that would seem better paired with freckles and pig-tails. It was at one time: some missing teeth rendered it to broken toy status in her mind, causing her to self consciously bring a hand to cover her mouth. “ Yeah, ya kinda do!”

“Really? Shit, man! That sucks!”

“Well, okay… ya don’t look like a cop, but you look like you could be.”

“You wanna see some ID?”

She laughed again, now careful to keep her dental imperfections obscured. “ No, we’re cool, uh… what was your name?”

“I’m Vic.”

“Okay, Vic. So, seriously, uh,thanks for the smokes.”

“Oh, no problem. So, uh… you need a lift somewhere or something?”

“I’ve always been more of an or something girl. Where ya headed?”

He couldn’t say he didn’t know. Could he? Really, what difference did it make? “South. No point certain. Just south.”

She drew from her cigarette impassively, affecting a Gallic indifference. “No point certain. Yeah, that’s kinda where I was headin’.”

“Well I’m getting ready to go, so if I can give you a lift somewhere?”

Her face suddenly brightened. “Can you take me back up into Cincy?”

He wasn’t really keen on heading back into the city, but he had asked. It wouldn’t take that much time and he didn’t plan on pushing too much further before he would stop and get a hotel for the night. “Sure, I can do that for you. Come on, I’m over here”, he gestured towards the deep blue sedan at pump number 5. “You can smoke in the car, but ya gotta crack the window. Passenger side should be unlocked.”

Inside the car was still warm as he turned the key. The fasten seatbelt chime had just begun to ring as she pulled the passenger door closed. They exchanged a brief and awkward eye contact, there in such a confined space, as they engaged their buckles. Smoke had just begun to gather in rings about her head when she found the switch to crack the window. The sudden updraft caught thin wisps of her wiry hair, drawing them up to entangle with escaping smoke to form a wreath about her face. For the first time he noticed that there were shadows of freckles on her cheeks.

“How old are you? Do I need to ID you?”

She giggled. “What?! I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?”

“Old enough to be your daddy.” His response came out a little more gruff than he intended.

“You ride me up to Cincy and you can be my daddy. For a while.”

This was a response loaded with implications. He had not offered the ride with the idea that she was a prostitute. There was perhaps some part in the back of his mind that recognized the possibility from the moment he’d spotted her outside the station, but he had not entered this as a solicitation arrangement. As he pulled off of the lot and back towards the northbound on ramp he was asking himself if he would pay to have sex with this girl. It seemed she was offering and he could not find a single reason to say no. 

“So what’s up in Cincy that’s so important?”

She pouted, ignoring the question. “You don’t wanna be my daddy?”

“You want me to be your daddy?”

She grinned, again drawing up a hand to hide her smile. “Maybe I do. We’ll see. I need to get some of my pills.”

He’d had her made as a junkie from the start. Oddly he was a little relieved to discover her poison was pills instead of the needle. So she wasn’t a prostitute by trade; just by opportunity.

“What kinda pills, sweetheart?”

“Oxys. Ever try ‘em?”

“I’ve had vicodin. Those are pretty good.”

“No shit! You like to party?”

“I’m an old stoner who went legit.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

He had to stop for a time to consider the broader implications of this question. Was it a matter of her not being familiar with the term? Or was she questioning the general premise? 

“It means I went over to the dark side.”

“Gotcha.”

He had answered while still considering the premise of going legit. What does that even mean? His flippant reply had seemed to satisfy her curiosity on the matter. The fact that she accepted the answer so readily somehow affirmed his suspicion that it was, in fact, an unvarnished truth.