The Skin Show

Kristopher Rufty

This ebook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other
people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the
hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction. The names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or
have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations
is entirely coincidental.

The
Skin Show

First
Digital Edition

Copyright
© 2014 by Kristopher Rufty

Cover
Art Copyright © 2014

All
Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For Angie.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks
go to Heather Graham for her annual Writers of New Orleans Conference, where
the original idea for The Skin Show originated while I was sitting on a balcony,
watching the reverie down below. And many thanks to Brian Moreland, Tod Clark,
John Foley, Paul Synuria II, and the countless others supporting and
influencing me along the way.

Tennessee.
One Year Ago.

Eleven-year-old
Miles Faircloth watched the husky truck driver stick a credit card into the gas
pump, and quickly yank it back out. He dialed something on the keypad, snatched
the fuel dispenser off the pump, and pushed it into the eighteen-wheeler next
to him. Done with that, the man leaned a shoulder against the rig, his back to
Miles.

Out
of all the truckers Miles had seen come and go tonight, this one was the first
he felt bold enough to approach. Something about the man reminded Miles of his
grandfather. Dead four years now, and Miles still missed him, though his memory
of him faded a little more each day.

Raising
his hands to his mouth, Miles huffed hot air against his palms. They felt warmer
as he rubbed them together, but quickly became cold and numb once again.

Get
over there before he leaves.

Miles
had been hiding behind the dumpster beside the truck stop for an hour, possibly
even longer. After parking his bike, he’d taken shelter here and hadn’t moved
since. His bones ached with cold. And it stunk—a combination of garbage and old
burnt food.

Standing,
his knees felt tight and sore. He stretched. It helped his muscles relax, but
did nothing for the aches in his joints.

Deep
laughter from nearby caused him to gasp. Looking around, he didn’t see who the booming
chortle belonged to. He looked at the trucker again. He hadn’t moved from his
spot next to his rig. Taking one last deep breath, Miles started across the
parking lot, hunched over as if sneaking. Being as late as it was, there wasn’t
much flow-through traffic. Just a couple rigs parked here and there, and a green
beat-up truck, a clamshell camper over the bed, sat unoccupied at another
pump. 

The
closer Miles got, the weaker his legs felt. They wobbled as he tried to keep
his pace steady. He knew if he wasn’t careful, he’d fall. With all the spilled
gasoline and sand and broken glass sprinkled across the concrete ground, he
didn’t want that to happen. Finally, he arrived at the truck, stopping as he
reached the driver side door.

Miles
took another step. “Excuse me. Mister?”

The
broad-shouldered man glanced over his shoulder. When he spotted Miles he
frowned. “I don’t want to buy any candy bars. They’re overpriced and usually
stale. The peanuts taste like cardboard.”

“I’m
not selling anything.”

“Then
what do you want?”

Miles
gulped. He’d gone this far, now wasn’t the time to chicken out. “C-can you
guh-give me a ride?”

The
truck driver heaved himself off the truck, turning to face Miles. A toothpick extended
from the heavy man’s lips. Hands in his vest pockets, he stepped over the hose
connected to the pump handle that jutted out from the rig’s gas tank.

Miles
took a step back as the man approached. The heavy tang of gasoline hung around
him. He usually liked the smell, but right now, it was twisting his already
nervous stomach.  

Squinting,
the man leaned slightly forward. His eyes looked heavy and swollen, probably
from lack of sleep. Mom looked like that after working what she called
a
double.
This close to the man, Miles could see tiny black and gray whiskers
on his chubby face. He hadn’t recently shaved. “A ride?”

Miles
nodded.

“What’s
a kid like you doing out this late at night, anyway?” the man asked. His hands
came out of the puffy vest’s pockets. It reminded Miles of a life preserver,
but instead of bright orange it was navy blue. The long-sleeved flannel shirt he
wore underneath matched. A trucker’s cap with the outline of a curvy woman
festooned to the front was on top of his head. Oily brown hair arched out from
underneath the brim.

A
cool breeze cut through the pump island, causing Miles to shiver. Even under
his zip-up hoodie, his arms stippled with gooseflesh. Could also be from how
scared he was talking to this guy.

You
can do this.

“I
asked you a question, kid.” The man’s head tilted like a dog that had just
heard a strange noise. He studied Miles just as a dog would, too. Sizing him up,
curious.

“Just
looking for a ride,” answered Miles.

“Oh?
Just looking for a ride?” The man poked out his bottom lip, nodded as if
considering the answer. “You do know this isn’t a safe place for a kid, right?
Hell, it’s not so safe for adults, either.”

Miles
knew the risk of being here at Rick’s Truck Stop. His Mama worked the dayshift
as a waitress. He’d heard her comment, more than once, that nothing but bad
truckers and lowlifes came here.  

The
sudden roar of an engine caused Miles to flinch. He looked to the right and saw
the battered green truck pulling away from the pump. The tailpipe puttered
plumes of exhaust as it drove off.

Miles
nodded. “I know.”

“Oh,
you know? Then you’ve got it all figured out, do you?”

Miles
shook his head. “No, sir.”

The
man was about to say something else, but stopped. “Sir?”

“Um…”
Miles didn’t know if it had been a good idea to call him that or not. Some
folks didn’t mind, but others, when spoken to respectfully, seemed to get offended.

“That’s
a good kid, there. Don’t hear many kid’s your age calling adults sir or ma’am
these days.”

Miles
didn’t respond. He only stared at this big man. He kept one foot inching out in
case he needed to sprint at any moment.

“All
right, I’ll listen to your story. Why do you need a ride, and where to?”

This
was where Miles needed to be careful. If he told too much, this man might do
like the police officer had done last night and just take him home.

“Let
us handle it,” the officer had said after walking Miles to the door of the
singlewide trailer he lived in with his parents.

Mama
hadn’t even noticed Miles had left. She was too drunk to notice much, other
than the drained bottle of booze in her lap. It had a gold label on the front,
but Miles didn’t know the name. He just knew it made her talk funny and say
mean things. She was passed out in the recliner when he’d come home. Miles
wasn’t angry at her for her problem. He understood it stemmed from not knowing how
to handle Dad leaving.

His
anger was directed at his father, for causing Mom so much pain.

“I
want to go to this place…and I can’t find it on my own.”

The
man smiled. “What place?”

“I
think it’s called…” Miles paused.

“Yeah?”

“I
think it’s called The Skin Show.”

Mouth
drooping open, the toothpick fell from the man’s mouth. It landed on a tacky mound
of sand that had been poured on a puddle of gasoline. His mouth hung partly
open. His eyes looked lost, like he couldn’t remember what he wanted to say.
Shaking his head, he straightened himself. “The…Skin Show?”

“Yeah.
I’ve heard it’s somewhere near Black Creek, but that’s a really long ride to
make on my bike.”

The
man gave a quick look around as if afraid someone might be listening in. Then
he focused on Miles again. “Did someone put you up to this? How do you know
about The Skin Show?”

“Um…I’ve
heard about it.”

“Uh-huh…did
someone tell you to come over here and ask me about it?”

“No.
I swear.”

“How
did you hear about it?”

“My
dad.”

The
man’s eyes narrowed. “Your dad?”

Miles
nodded. “He’s there now, I think.”

If
Miles wanted to elaborate, he’d have explained that his dad hadn’t come home
from The Skin Show. A trucker himself, he spent many nights at places he
shouldn’t, coming home at sunrise, pale and sickly, sleeping all day, only to
wake up again in the afternoon. While at home, Dad was mean, cranky, and
violent. Around dinner time, he would leave, starting the process all over
again.

Miles
had overheard his dad talking to another trucker on the CB in their shed. The
gravelly voice had asked Dad if he was going to meet him at The Skin Show on
Friday. Dad had said he was and asked the man on the other end if he knew where
it was.

The
voice had said: “All I know is what the woman told me. ‘Drive west to Black
Creek’.”

That
was a week ago, and no one had heard from Dad since. And now Mom was becoming
just as mean and abusive as Dad. Here recently, she’d begun comparing Miles to
his old man, and he didn’t like that at all. So, he was going to go to this
place, no matter what, and either make his dad come home, or kick him in the
balls. Either one would suit Miles just fine.

If
this guy didn’t want to drive Miles there, he’d start pedaling.

“Listen
kid…”

“Miles.”

The
man held out his hands, signaling him to stop talking. “I don’t need to know
your name.”

“Miles
Faircloth.”

“I
said I don’t need to know your
name
. If your daddy’s out there, then
it’s best to just let him go. He ain’t coming back.”

“You
know where it is?” Miles’s voice squeaked with eagerness.

“I
didn’t say that, did I?”

“But
you know the place…”

“I
know Black Creek and it’s a ghost town. Kid, my advice, just let it go.”

“What?”

“Let
it go.”

“I
can’t.”

“Why
not?”

“He
ran out on my mom and me. And, Mom’s going nuts without him. She don’t know
what to do about money…”

The
man frowned, a long sigh hissed out his nostrils. He looked at Miles
sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that, but…”

“I
want to bring him home.” Tears stung Miles’s eyes and he cursed himself for
starting to cry in front of a stranger. He’d wanted to come across as tough.
He’d failed. He used his sleeve to dry the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“Damn,”
said the man.

“I’m
sorry I bothered you…”

Miles
turned away from the man and started walking. Another drifting breeze tickled
his face, cold on his wetted cheeks.

“Hey
kid,” called the man from behind him.

Miles
stopped. Turned around. “Yeah.”

“Get
in.”

Ten
minutes later they were driving on Route 91, heading away from the town of Leafbranch,
Miles’s hometown. Miles watched the lights of Rick’s Truck Stop shrink in the
large side-view mirror.

Jerry
had crammed Mile’s bike in the cargo compartment under the cab. Miles sat up
front, snacking on animal crackers and drinking coffee from a thermos. The
truck bounced and rocked each time the transmission was shifted. Unlike some of
his friends who got sick riding in a big rig, Miles enjoyed it. Even now,
knowing why he was riding in the truck heavy on his heart, he was still having a
good time.

“I
know your old lady,” said the man, who’d introduced himself as Jerry once they
were departing.

“Really?”
Miles had asked Jerry if he knew Rhonda Faircloth, and to his surprise, the man
did.

Jerry
nodded. “Yep. She’s one of the sweetest waitresses that place has. The food
isn’t much to speak about, but they have good coffee, and well…your mom’s good
people.”

Hearing
that about Mom caused Miles to smile. It also confirmed that Miles had made the
right decision. Not just by going out to The Skin Show, but choosing Jerry as
the one to ask for the ride. He’d been taught since pre-school not to talk to
strangers, and no matter what, never take a ride from one. He’d broken both
those rules tonight. It was worth it, however, if he found his dad.

“I’m
sure I probably know your daddy, too. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I bet
I’d know his face.”

“You’ll
see him tonight.”

“Oh
no, I agreed to give you a ride, kid. I’m not going in that place.”

“You’re
not?”

Jerry
shook his head. “Hell no. Pardon my language.”

“Have
you been there before?”

“No.
Just heard some murmurs about it. I got a wife with cancer at home, so I don’t
need to be messing around a place called The Skin Show.”