Read Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead Online
Authors: John Siwicki
In a glint of time, and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.
The driver calculated the options.
A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view, and said, I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then cranked the wheel, and slammed the brakes!
Tires screeched—the car whirled.
The scene in the windshield warped into a spinning whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag blowing in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again—hard! His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune musical instruments. Gritting his teeth, and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out and across to the other side.
This is it, I’m a . . . dead man, he said in a voice that faded, and went silent.
Shit, was the last word from his mouth after seeing a fence-line with barbed-wire and split wooden posts.
He waited for impact.
Like baseball bats connected to barbed wire they bombarded the car. One after another the clipped posts flew in the air, twisting, flipping, and crashing into the car.
The driver raised his arms to cover his face, to block the flying broken glass, but there wasn’t any—a mysterious force kept the windshield intact. With both hands welded on the wheel the car changed directions, snapping and cracking like a bullwhip. Finally it waddled sideways, and stopped in the center of the road.
The driver sat staring straight ahead, trance like, breathing hard, his heart beating like a jack-hammer, pumping his face red. Both of his hands were clenched around the wheel in an iron grip. A calm silence passed through the open windows on a gentle breeze. He caught his breath, leaned forward, and rested his head on the steering wheel a moment, then sat back.
What the hell just happened? he mumbled. What was that? A little farther and I’d have gone off the cliff; right into the bottom of that gorge.
The driver blinked, and crushed the wild nerves that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away, and vanished into the trees.
It looked just like Harley. Couldn’t have been, though, there’s no way. He closed his eyes, and caught his breath.
Man—was that ever close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around, and confirming he was okay,
Definitely not a good way to start a trip.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled over to the side.
I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.
His fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there.
He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.
Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.
As he tried to get out of the car, it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; had to actually say, Move legs!
In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle graze in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over a hill.
Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at the blue sky. And those clouds up there a fleet of ships floating on an upside-down sea.
Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.
There it is—this’ll be a good shot.
After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around, he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood, no chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves, no sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.
Panic raced in his blood again. What? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he looked left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.
There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear them. The world came to life. Birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.
That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone.
Some sort of delayed shock—
He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.
Now—that—is . . . weird!
He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.
How can that be?
It looks okay under here, he said, crouching on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.
The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened, and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late. He read one new message.
Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.
Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her, he said, and sent a reply.
You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made.
He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.
Call you later :-)
He set the phone back down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.
Now, let’s see. Where am I?
He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines and printed figures.
Here’s the road, Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.
He sat back and ate the sandwich.
This is a good sandwich, he thought, and she’s a good cook, then washed it down with a slug of water.
As he watched and looked around in wonder, nature’s breath caressed the trees, and stroked the tall grass.
This place feels so . . . tranquil.
Moments later in a dreamy state with images of raging waterfalls thundering down mountains and waves crashing into far-away shores, his mind floated out to sea.
Where do long forgotten memories go? he whispered, and closed his eyes as the sandwich fell from his hand.
The public school building in Four Corners was a five-story rectangular box of intimidating dark vampire-red brick, wire embedded windows, and a flat tar roof. It looked like a factory or prison, and maybe was a little bit of both—a factory for recycling knowledge, and a prison trapping imagination. On the lawn out front leading to the entrance of the school, on guard and standing tall, flying high between the zigzagging sidewalks, was the red white and blue flapping in the breeze. Next to the flagpole, a white six by eight foot sign board stood holding messages about upcoming sporting events, recent activities, and local town news. Behind the school was a practice football field with a running track around the perimeter. At the far end, a stream with a six-foot berm built to hold back the rain surge in spring.
Gray, beat up, dented lockers covered the walls in the halls, and was the first stop for students dropping off things and picking up books, or to talk in the morning. In a few chosen corners of the school there were glass displays with student trophies and ribbons. And behind these clear barriers the trappings of the record holders worth being remembered along with their accomplishments. The ones who had won awards, letters in sports, and were thought most likely to succeed in life.
On the first day of school, looking like budding explorers, freshmen searched for their classrooms. They marched down and followed a path worn in the wooden floor, a trail blazed by all the students who had studied there before. Some upper classmen prowled the stairwells to verbally and physically harass the new kids. The walk to the shower after Physical Education class or sports practice with only a towel for protection was like running a gauntlet. Odds were high a new kid would get ambushed by someone, or a group of someone’s lurking in a hallway somewhere.
Up the street from school next to the jewelry store was a small grocery that opened at six A.M. Before email, web chatting, and Facebook, this is where kids met. They talked in the morning before school, found out what was happening, and who was doing what to who. Into the grocery through a cow-bell ringing double glass door they walked as their eyes followed rows of warped shelves holding packages, boxes, and stacks of cans. Heads turned slowly like watching fence posts and scenery from a moving car window. The old crooked wooden floor squeaked under their feet while they perused the aisles for snacks, pens, pencils, and what some really wanted, a pack of smokes. The owner was a short stocky guy who stood vigilant behind a gigantic shimmering brass cash register, his eyes peeled on kids looking for a five-finger discount. There was a sparkle in his eye like the shimmering brass register sitting on the counter, and a smile of contentment on his face when it went—ka-ching! He sold cigarettes to minors along with illegal fireworks: M-80s and Cherry Bombs he kept hidden under the counter. He was in business to make money, and little by little, money he made.
A stocky police chief and skinny deputy, who looked like the Laurel and Hardy of law enforcement, worked out of the old converted train station. It was a narrow three-story brick building that stood next to the double set of railroad tracks that passed through the center of town. The chief never got excited, moved in a relaxed way, and always seemed to have the situation under control. His uniform was always the same, hat and sunglasses peering under a black visor, dark brown boots with a cuff stuck in the top. Most every day he sat in the patrol car on Main Street reading something; police reports maybe, at least that’s what everyone thought. The tall beady-eyed deputy was a different story. He was always on the look out for some criminal activity no matter how trivial. Unusual things would happen to him, or the patrol car, while on or off duty. He was always in the grip and doubted everyone, especially teenagers. He had a right to be weary of the kids because they played potato-in-the-tail pipe practical jokes on him all the time. Some boys used the toilet in the police station building to stash a bottle of booze. They’d meet after school, crack open the brandy or whisky bottle, and be feeling pretty fine after thirty minutes. All while the police were next door in their office jerking off without a clue.
At one time the train had been the common mode of transportation; how people traveled from place to place, after horses and before automobiles. The train took passengers to the larger cities for business and pleasure, but now was only loaded with freight. It roared in and out of town twice a day. Behind the drugstore, next to the lumber yard, kids’ played on the empty freight cars parked there waiting to be hooked up to an engine to take them to a far away place.
From a second floor window of a small feed mill office near the police station, a small crew of guys in faded bib overhauls stood looking out a window that overlooked a line of farmers waiting in their new, and beat-up pick-up trucks. All day the place was surrounded by a lingering sweet nosh sprinkled in the air from the grinders humming inside, outside, and all around the mill. This is where the farmers’ unloaded corn and oats, and had it ground and mixed for cattle, pig, and chicken feed. There were always stacks and stacks of burlap bags piled along the wall. The bags were filled, loaded on the farmer’s trucks, then hauled back to the farm for the ever hungry animals.
Below a cliff on the edge of town was the two-gas-pump service station, where a greasy hand mechanic asked, Filler-up? then washed the windshield and checked under the hood. Usually in the garage on a hoist, looking like a shoeless kid, was a car without tires. And in the next bay one with the hood up; tools, wrenches, and parts were scattered on and around the oil-stained concrete. The scratched and dented Coke machine out front was refilled and kicked every day because sometimes it just took money. No food sold here; this was a garage, and a temple for grease monkeys—not a super market.
In the middle of town on a corner covering the entire block sat a big old store built of brick that had been painted in pale-yellow white-wash, over and over, again and again, many times. They sold everything from house-hold goods to furniture, clothes, paint, and toys for all ages of kids. The manager was friendly, always smiling, and worked there with his wife. She sold the clothes, and helped people with things bought on lay-away. Eventually the whole block was bought-out by a company who used it for a warehouse until it was demolished, then made into a parking lot.
Next door there was a busy restaurant with red and white checked table-cloths that offered free coffee re-fills. The owner was known to complain to the customers, especially kids, if they used too much ketchup on their fries. He had a monopoly on the morning restaurant business seeing it was the only place to eat other than the quonset hut bowling alley next to the river. Both places are still there, and have been bought and sold a dozen times, with a new owner ready and waiting to go into the cuisine business.