::the open end::

by ML Kennedy

(Author’s note: Firefox is trying to tell me that “blonde” is incorrect. Perhaps it finds the term demeaning. The noun blonde refers to a woman with blond hair, whereas the noun blond refers to a man with blond hair. This was always my understanding of the thing. At any rate, enjoy the next 1200 words worth of The Mosquito Song.)

Read Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 3 if you’ve just joined.  If you’ve been here all along…

Chapter 4

I stare at the squiggles for three hours, looking for any sign of a Rosetta Stone. I can’t even figure out if it is coded English, or another language. Or another language coded. Eventually, I fall asleep having made no discernible progress.

It is dark outside when I wake up. I am full of a mild hatred of the world and all its things. I want to hide under the stairs. The cement floor is cool and smooth and covered with a thin layer of powder that cannot rightly be called dirt or dust.

I lie down and stare up at the bottoms of the wooden steps. Their latest paint job only bothered with the tops and the sides; only a few brushstrokes reached the bottoms, like those stairs were wearing baby blue vests.

I don’t want to do anything. I just want to lie underneath these silly stairs, feel the cold cement on the backs of my arms, and breathe in the musty air.

I get up anyway.

I’ve got to keep moving. Hugh might have competent friends out looking for me. Keep moving and figure out who is trying to kill me.

I open up my bag and throw all my stuff back in, plus three cans of soup. I head upstairs and steal a spoon from the snow birds. Chicago is my best bet, or at least my only workable lead. I open a can of sirloin burger while thinking about Italian beef, polishes and pork chop sandwiches. The spoon makes a pleasant noise, rubbing against the ridges inside the can. The soup has an aftertaste that reminds me of nickels.

It’s good soup.

Chicago, I might have a few friends left in Chicago.

It’s probably just a stupid video store. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just a waste of time. Thankfully, I have a surplus of that particular resource.

Let’s go steal Barb’s car.

Both cars are still resting, warm in their winter blankets as I enter the garage. Uncovering a corner of the nearest vehicle reveals a bright purple fender that would make a pimp blush. Barb’s car does look like a sporty little thing, though.

I press the unlock button on her keychain; the noise comes from the other car. I put the purple nightmare back to bed, and head towards a much larger car cover. As I throw the cover off Barb’s actual car, my hate of everything in the world is diminished.

It’s perfect: a few years old, but clean, simple and dark.

Driving across that region of America near the Great Lakes, you learn a few things. You learn that most cops won’t bother you if you are only going nine miles per hour above the speed limit. Almost none will bother you for four. You learn that Wisconsin police hate anybody with Illinois plates and will use any excuse in order to pull over a vehicle displaying such an affront as the “Land of Lincoln” motto. You learn that Ohio is interminably maggoty with construction. You learn that you can safely fall asleep while driving through Pennsylvania.

And you learn that the official car of Big Brother is the Ford Crown Victoria. She may not be as ubiquitous as she was a few years ago, but she is still a preferred choice for G-men of all shapes and sizes.

When you are in a Crown Vic no one dares cut you off, traffic moves aside for you, cops don’t hassle you, and life is generally good. I throw my bag in the passenger seat and head back into the house.

There is a large spiral notebook next to the answering machine. I flip through a few pages with names, numbers, and doodles, and rip out the first clean sheet.

I write.

“Dear Jack and Barb;

Thank you so much for your involuntary hospitality. It was a pleasure to stay at your lovely home during this cold winter season. You will find that I left the place in, more or less, the same state that I found it. This is minus, of course, three cans of delicious sirloin burger soup. (The missing Rocket Pop can be attributed to your mustachioed friend whom I assume to have an uptight home life.)

You may also notice that I have borrowed a sizable sum of money and one of your automobiles. I am sorry that I did not ask you to lend me these supplies ahead of time, but my present situation demanded immediacy in their use. Your forgiveness seemed to be more accessible than your permission. Rest assured, I have left you some collateral. First, my wallet (full of my ID and credit cards) can be found atop your laundry pile. In your basement you will also find that I have also left you my cherished family crucifix. Please take special care of that cherished heirloom.

I fear I will not be able to return Barb’s car personally. If this is the case, I shall leave it in a long term parking lot adjacent to the Bangor International Airport.

Thanks again.

Sincerely,”

I run to the basement’s laundry pile and grab the drivers license out of Hugh’s wallet. I stick it under the letter and trace Hugh’s signature. The rest of the handwriting won’t match, but it’ll be enough to keep the kid’s life interesting for a few days.

I back the car out of the garage, then lock up the house. I drive down more than a few roads without streetlights. Big, fat snowflakes drift down from the sky.

The Crown Vic has a smooth ride. In half an hour’s time, I stop at a gas station near the Silver Creek entrance of interstate ninety. Being on a reservation, the gas is fairly cheap. I pull the car up next to pump one, throw on my backpack, and walk into the mini-mart. It’s full of cigarettes at wholesale prices.

I hand the blonde behind the counter thirty dollars but only manage to squeeze twenty-four dollars worth into the gas tank. The blonde smiles at me as I walk back in to get my change. “I tried my best,” I tell her. Her nametag says her name is Nicole.

I wonder aloud if I can get my six dollars change paid in jerky. Nicole obliges this previously hypothetical request, handing me jerky and twenty-seven cents change. As I tuck these things into my backpack, Nicole asks if we’ve met before.

I respond, “All alone, at this hour, it isn’t really safe for a girl like you to be flirting with customers.”

Nicole looks me up and down. “Believe me, I’ve had more than my share of ugly, lovesick truckers come around here. I know how to make them feel pretty damned unwelcome.” She pauses, glancing underneath the counter. “And if I was flirting with you, I’d start by telling you how nice you smell. It sort of reminds me of. . .”

Nicole doesn’t get to finish this thought as a bullet crashes through the window of the mini-mart. I feel something sharp hit me in the back.

I fucking hate getting shot.

Related TOE posts:

• TOE Short Story :: The Mosquito Song – Ch 5
• TOE Short Story :: The Mosquito Song – Ch 2
• TOE Short Story :: The Mosquito Song – Ch 3
• TOE Short Story :: The Mosquito Song – Ch 1
• TOE Short Story :: The Mosquito Song – Ch 6