Rift (12 page)

Did I really sleep at the side of this road for more than eighteen hours? Surely many cars must have driven past me by now. And not only would their engines and rolling tires have woken me, but someone—everyone, really—would have stopped to check on me. There is no way I could have slept on this bridge for eighteen hours.

The road is four lanes wide and bordered on both sides by a wide shoulder. I turn my head first to the left and then to the right, as if I was going to cross to the other side. It's obvious which way I need to go. Everything on the left is dark, while the amber lights of civilization light the opposite sky. It's hard to tell how far away they are, but I suppose that doesn't really matter. I need to find someone who can help me. I need a drink of water.

I start walking.

         

Ten minutes into this journey and already my feet are killing me. When the pitted surface of the asphalt becomes too much, I try walking on the sandy soil that borders the road, but uncountable pebbles and sharp little rocks turn that choice into a poor one. So I go back to the road again, hoping I'll get somewhere before my feet are shredded into hamburger.

How did I sleep for so long? I don't remember anything at all after collapsing on the asphalt. In a way, it reminds me of the transmission, only instead of traveling across distance, I skipped through time.

It's like I lost the time.

Sleeping is always like that, I guess—eight hours in bed passes a lot more quickly than the same period of time at work—but something about this seems different. I can almost swear that I simply closed my eyes and then opened them again. And why didn't I wake up when cars passed me? They would have sounded like jets blazing by from where I was lying. Why didn't anyone stop?

I suppose I'm worried that the transmission has somehow changed my sleep pattern. I'm worried about all kinds of things that could be wrong with me. Maybe it's pointless to speculate on what possible physiological problems I have now or will develop later, but that doesn't stop me from doing it anyway. I just want my body back the way it was. I want everything to be how it was before any of this happened.

The lights ahead don't appear to be getting any closer. Either I'm miles away from them, or I'm making really poor time. On my left, the sky has turned from black to violet, which tells me dawn isn't far off.

Other than soft footsteps against the asphalt, the desert is quiet around me, at least until a gunshot splits the silence. But it isn't a real gun that makes the sound; it's my mind reliving what happened yesterday. The chase on the golf course. The third man coming out of nowhere. The gunshot—

I met Tom in college. We lived next door to each other in one-bedroom apartments for a semester before deciding that our standard of living would improve if we shared the rent on a two-bedroom unit and divided the utilities. But Tom met a girl before the ink on our one-year lease had dried, and for the next six months I saw less of him than when we had lived in separate apartments. Finally, he asked me to move out so the girl could move in. I hated him for that.

But in the end we became better friends for it. I can only take Tom in small doses, but I have more fun with him than I do with anyone else. I guess it's because I get to be a kid when I'm around him. Because that's all he is—a grown child. Still, I probably wouldn't have gotten away from those men, Ivan and Ed, if it hadn't been for Tom. He convinced me to run and then took a bullet while I went on without him. And now he might be dead. My God. I know I shouldn't . . . I can't. . . .

I walk on. The road in front of me lengthens as the sky becomes brighter. My feet throb and sting.

The sun breaks across the horizon just after six o'clock. Jagged brown mountains stand in silhouette against the battle zone between fiery sunlight and cool blue sky. I realize that it's no longer quiet. Instead, the mechanical sound of engines and rolling tires floats across the desert from the town in front of me. I see what looks like a row of houses, as well as tall signs lit up against the morning sky, and my footsteps quicken. Civilization isn't far away.

Moments later I notice something in the road ahead. It's rectangular in shape and stationary. My progress brings the object steadily closer, and soon I'm able to guess what it is: an answer to one of my questions about the eighteen-hour nap. This thing in the road is a barrier, one that says, as I pass by and look at it from the other side,
ROAD CLOSED
. Which means the city, surely a suburb of Phoenix, is expanding so quickly north that someone decided to lengthen the road ahead of time. Because as I turn around, it's plainly obvious from here that these four lanes of asphalt stretch a few miles into the open desert and then simply end. Which is why no one found me on the bridge.

Closer, and now I can see houses on both sides of the road, several rows of them and then an intersection governed by a traffic signal. There is a Texaco gas station and a Taco Bell. My mouth floods with the taste of seasoned ground beef and lettuce and the toasted corn of a taco shell. Cheese and tomatoes and spicy taco sauce. Refried beans. Sour cream.

When did I eat last? More than twenty-four hours ago for sure.

I slip my hands into my front and back pockets, but of course the money clip and wallet are long gone. Last year Misty and I reported more than one hundred and thirty thousand dollars on our federal tax return, and today I don't have enough money to buy a single taco.

I'm just a man stumbling into town after being lost in the desert.

         

My slow progress eventually brings me to the intersection of a residential street, where I meet the eyes of a middle-aged woman driving an ink-black Lexus. The point in time when my presence fully registers is obvious—her eyes stretch wide under a hurricane of blond hair, and her mouth drops open.

I can almost hear her unspoken dismay.

She turns right and speeds away in the direction I'm walking. The engine of her car growls like a lion. Maybe we'll meet again at the Texaco station. I could beg for a dollar.

This is a ridiculous situation I've created for myself. What the hell was I thinking when I climbed into that transmission portal? Is this what I wanted? To be wandering around with no money and no food and no idea what the hell is wrong with me?

I used to play golf twice a month with an information systems specialist whom I had known since college. His name was Pete. Last spring, just as courses in Houston were reaching full bloom, Pete abruptly stopped playing golf with me. The change was so sudden that I was sure I had said or done something to offend him without knowing it, but two months later he showed up on my doorstep sickly pale and about ten pounds lighter. He said he'd been experiencing weakness and tingling in his left arm and leg for about six months. I asked if he had seen a doctor.
Last week,
Pete told me.
He sent me to a neurologist, who ordered an MRI. And yesterday they discovered a grape-size tumor in my brain
.

Then he cried, right there in my living room.

The tumor proved operable. Pete is still recuperating, and only time will tell if all traces of the cancer were completely removed. I asked him recently why he waited so long to see a doctor.
I didn't want to believe anything was wrong,
he told me.
I kept hoping I had a pinched nerve or something. And all I kept thinking when he told me about the tumor was
Why? Why me?
I didn't want to believe it.

In Pete's case, finding an answer is beyond the scope of current medical science. My situation, however, is considerably different. I know exactly why. Because Rodrigo Batista and the rest of his corporate demigods are trying to make a buck, and because I thought I could use the transmission test as a way to jump-start my humdrum life. There's no question about the jump start. I just wish I knew where I was going.

I step onto the concrete property of the Texaco station. The Taco Bell stands across the street. Cars pass intermittently through the intersection, and one pulls into the Texaco parking lot. Only three cars are filling with gasoline. Two others are parked in front of the Star Mart.

I shuffle across the parking lot, past a machine marked
AIR/WATER
and then past a brushless car wash advertising a
NEW IMPROVED SPOT
-
FREE RINSE
.

A tall twentyish woman bursts out of the Star Mart just as I reach the front sidewalk. She's wearing an expensive casual suit with shorts instead of a skirt. Her legs are tanned and bare, her auburn hair swept away from her face. She's eating a doughnut wrapped in wax paper, and a covered cup of coffee occupies her other hand.

When the woman sees me, her indigo eyes fly open like window shades. Judging by the frozen, horrified look in her eyes, I must look even worse than I imagined. An urge to explain my appearance to this stranger grips me—you would think such concerns would seem trivial in a time of crisis—but instead I decide to keep my mouth shut and walk past her.

That's when the coffee slips out of her fingers and explodes on the ground in a brown gush. Next goes the doughnut. Her hands fly to her neck and her mouth flies open, revealing a mouthful of white, half-chewed batter.

Instead of just standing there, watching her choke, I move forward quickly. Concern flares in her eyes, as if she thinks I'm going to kill her before the lodged piece of doughnut can, but before she can get away, I grab her midsection and spin her around. My right hand tightens into a fist and finds that special place below her breastbone. Her body is slim and toned against mine. The blouse beneath her coat is smooth silk.

Three sharp thrusts of my fist do the trick. The half-chewed doughnut batter pops out of her mouth and lands with a
splat!
on top of a red trash can. I don't even have time to let go of the woman before she begins to scream.

I possess no experience in matters such as this. It doesn't occur to me to run away because I've done nothing wrong. But only a second passes before a heavyset man in a red Texaco polo shirt bursts out of the Star Mart and rushes at me. I freeze like a frightened animal, too tired and wary to do anything else, and then he slams into me, his overweight body soft but powerful. We tumble hard onto the sidewalk. I hit the ground on my right side and pain threads into me like burning oil. My body is worn and broken. I have no energy with which to fight and can barely defend myself when he punches me in the stomach.

“Stop it!” the woman cries.

The heavyset man continues as if he doesn't hear, raining blows onto my body as patches of sweat form beneath his heavy breasts.

“Stop that!” she yells again. “You're hurting him!”

The pain fades a little as he punches me twice more. I might be going into shock.

“He was hurting you,” my attacker says in a thick, slow voice.

“No, he wasn't!” she screams. “I was choking!”

These words seem to reach the man, because he doesn't hit me again. We lay there for a second or two as he metamorphoses back into a Texaco employee. The vigilante role is over. He rolls off me and climbs to his feet.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “You were screaming.”

“I was scared,” the woman answers. “I thought I was dying.”

Neither of them move to help me, so I roll onto my stomach and push myself up. Nothing feels out of place, but the entire midsection of my body throbs. As badly as it hurts now, I can't imagine what this will feel like in a few hours.

There aren't enough people here to form a crowd, but the few patrons who had converged on our little scene drift back to what they were doing. I stand still to get my balance—head throbbing now, also—and realize the woman wants to say something. The vigilante looks away, as if embarrassed, but doesn't leave.

“I'm sorry,” I say, which seems appropriate. After all, the sight of me induced her choking fit.

Before she can respond, I begin to cough. My whole body shakes. I put my hand over my mouth and cringe. Each hack is like being stabbed with knives, and warm, sticky liquid collects in my hand. When the coughing finally stops, I am left with a handful of phlegm and blood and nowhere to put it.

“Don't be sorry,” the woman says. She can't help but look at my hand.

The glop tries to seep between my fingers when I close my hand to hide it.

“I think you saved my life,” she adds. “Thank you.”

“Don't worry about it,” I say to the woman. “You'd have done the same for me, right?”

She doesn't answer this unfair question.

“I should go.” I begin to walk away, rubbing the phlegm into the frayed cotton fabric of my golf pants.

“Hold on,” the woman says.

I turn around, and she is holding a bill of some denomination in her hand. It looks like a twenty. She walks in my direction, and I begin walking again myself. Away from her.

“Take this,” she says as she catches up with me. We walk by a set of gasoline pumps. One is being used by a heavyset woman refueling her Dodge Stratus.

“I don't want your money.”

I try to walk faster, leave her behind, but it's no use. I'm hurt and she knows it. We reach the road.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn't help you to get paid. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

She looks down at the money in her hand and stuffs it back into her purse, as if it has grown suddenly hot. The Dodge Stratus drives by us and turns onto the street. The heavyset woman glares at us.

“I didn't . . . I didn't know how to thank you,” she says. “I meant to be gracious.”

“I appreciate that. But instead you insulted me.”

“I'm sorry. I thought maybe you could use the money.”

She's right. That twenty-dollar bill would buy me a whole box of tacos, and an ice-cold Coke to wash them down. But I'm not homeless, and I'm not unemployed.