St. John

The following short story first appeared in Interesting Tales of Other People's Woe, a collection of fiction by Damon Stewart (2014).

It was cold, March cold, the gray sky dripping down, wind pushing along the pavement, from nowhere back to same. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kicked the ground, as if to gauge the temperature by the degree of resistance in the broken asphalt. Frank looked down the road again, out along the hazy stretch of Maine’s County Route 9 that ran straight on to the Canadian border. He concentrated, squinting at the horizon, knowing it was ridiculous. A car wouldn’t appear just from staring and hoping, but he always did watch the pot ‘til the water boiled.

A truck suddenly came from behind and roared past. Watching it disappear, he felt a slight pang, wishing that he were inside the cab, moving ahead with clear purpose. And warmth.

***

He had shocked even himself, just up and said, “Gina, I’m leaving,” no explanations, no warnings. She didn’t believe him at first, but the scared look on his face confirmed it and she begged him to stay, actually got on her knees, saying, “God Frank, I love you, you …you love me. You said it. What’s going on, what’s happening?”

He couldn’t answer and was only able to reply, “I gotta go.” They’d been living together in Albany, New York, for three years and he had a truckload of stuff he could claim as his own, but he packed only a duffel bag with some clothes, an old Walkman and some old tapes; early ‘80’s favorites from high school, leaving behind the iPod and his cell phone even, going for the clean break, old school.

So he hit the road. He actually walked out of their Hudson Street apartment, down State Street until he got to the Hilton where he checked in with a stunned amazement at the dream he was in, only it was real, he was actually doing this. He threw his bag on the hotel bed and called Kenny, told him to meet at the hotel bar. He had big news.

Kenny didn’t seem to believe him. “Ok, and why?” nodding his head and rolling his eyes like he already knew.

“I don’t know, I’m just—I’m just marking time here, man. I want to head out and—”

“You want to go looking for Veronica.”

Frank narrowed his eyes and looked at Kenny. “What? That’s bullshit. That was so long ago—”

“What’s bullshit is that it was so long ago and you’re still pining for her. I don’t know what happened, Christ you guys divorced five years ago. You got over it. I thought. But lately, buddy, every time you get a few beers in you, you get this, ‘gotta go, gotta go,’ thing going on.”

“Yeah, but that’s got nothing to do with—”

“Frank, remember last New Year’s Eve party? You got drunk and ran into whats-her-name, Veronica’s old friend?”

Frank winced. He had forgotten that. He and Gina had gone out to dinner, a couple bottles of wine to get into the spirit of things, and he just kept going when he got to the bash. At some point (it was more than a little hazy) he saw Kathryn Sears. She used to be a good friend, would go out a lot with him and Veronica, but he lost touch when Veronica left.

They got talking, and the conversation turned to Veronica. It was a mistake to ask for her number; number; Kathryn wouldn’t give it to him anyway. A bigger mistake not to look behind him when he asked, as Gina was standing there waiting to get his attention.

Kenny had given him a ride home, and Frank had ranted on about Veronica and his life in general. “It’s like sleeping on a bad mattress, Ken. I can never quite get comfortable.” It was supposed to be deep, but Kenny laughed as he pulled up in front of Frank’s apartment. “I’ll stick around to see that she lets you in.” Gina did, and nothing was ever said between them about it.

“Yo Frank, you there buddy?” Kenny clinked his shot glass against Frank’s to bring him back to the hotel bar. “You lookin’ a little lost. So where you going?”

“I don’t know. Away. Far.” He thought for a moment. “North.”

Kenny nodded his head. “OK. Here’s to North,” and they toasted, slamming down the shots.

“Waitress!”

***

The hangover from the evening’s spree of tequila shots and beer chasers was dissipated with several breakfast screwdrivers. Frank started around 9 am, then followed up with a beer at 11:30. He charged it all to his room, thus stealing it, having no intention of paying the credit card bill. The place wouldn’t go under on his alcohol tab, and he needed to save his money anyway.

A few scotches for the post-noon celebration, and he was there. When the buzz hit, it kept the thoughts out, leaving only a purified desire—long since within him but diluted with the tasks of everyday existence—to start running. Somewhere obscure, into the cold and gray, see how far he’d get. No real reason; Kenny was just wrong about Veronica. She was part of it, but only a part. It was something he couldn’t shake, a feeling that somehow he was living the wrong fate. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Something went wrong when Veronica left; he knew he couldn’t get her back but he shouldn’t have just stuck around like he did, going through the motions of moving on, getting a promotion and almost accidentally starting a career as a state employee. More or less ending up in a relationship with Gina who worked in the same office. She was cute and they got along, but there was never the feeling. There was never any feeling about any of it, until lately, and the feeling now was to get away, fast and far. Fast and far.

After an hour of woozily pacing his room on the 15th floor, stopping to stare down at the cars and the people, Frank put his things in his bag and left the hotel, heading for the bus station. He stopped at a convenience store on the way to get a bottle of malt liquor—Colt .45, it just seemed right for the occasion—and a book, science fiction, something he hoped would help him escape while on his escape. But he threw them both out at the bus station; the booze was no longer a good idea, he knew, and the book just seemed—unwise. No more distractions, he decided, he would get on the bus and look at things out the window, at people, natural formations. He would muse on his life, subtly observe his fellow travelers, be friendly to any overtures, all honest replies and thoughtful declarations. He would go, quietly but mindfully, wherever this all took him, as long as it was away.

***

Ten hours and a long nap later, he found himself in Portland, Maine, sitting on an offensively orange-colored plastic chair with a crack in the middle, sipping wretched coffee from a beaten machine in the back and trying to figure out his next move. The bus ride went as planned, numbed observation was maintained, he was simply a biological unit of watching and awareness of events. Chronology, potential, and regret, all were lost, and he was mildly impressed at his ability to achieve this nirvana without the assistance of medicinal distillations.

But Portland was cold. He had worn his black trench coat and knit Giants cap; it was enough for an average Albany winter, but up here it was cold, even in the bus station. He worried about whether he had enough warm clothes. Other than what he had on—blue jeans, a sweatshirt over a plaid blue flannel shirt, Chuck Taylors—all he had packed in the duffel were four pairs of socks and underwear, three t-shirts, a turtleneck sweater, and a shower kit. He could put on his sweater, but then he would have used his last option, and it was too early for that. The sweater would have to be saved for when he really needed it. He couldn’t listen to the Walkman; the batteries were dead. Batteries cost money, and shivering in the Portland bus station made him feel vulnerable, afraid that money spent on new batteries would somehow be his downfall; two dollars short for … something, he didn’t know what, but he’d be short and he’d be sorry.

He didn’t want to stay here anyway; it wasn’t far enough. He walked across the dingy station floor and grabbed a schedule from a scratched plastic case. There were buses heading south to Boston, west to New Hampshire and Vermont, east to Bar Harbor; the only bus going further north was to Bangor. It didn’t leave until 4:30 am; giving him a few hours for another nap. He bought a ticket from the woman at the desk then slumped back in his seat, pulling his cap down over his eyes. He used to wonder about people he saw sleeping in bus stations. Maybe they were all like him. Maybe somewhere there was some giant bus station, full of people on spontaneous journeys, waiting on buses to take them to some paradise they couldn’t locate exactly but knew was out there, and so they just kept going…

He jerked awake and looked at his watch. The bus was leaving in ten minutes. He was freezing. He got up and shambled to the coffee machine for another cup, wishing he had brought gloves. He went back for his bag, then to the waiting bus, carefully climbing the steps then down the aisle, soaking in its diesel-laced warmth and promise of motion.

They pulled into Bangor at 6:07 am. Wide awake from the coffee and the inevitable stomach-ache, Frank consulted a stained state map on the wall of the Bangor bus station.

“Gateway to the World” a carved wooden sign over the main entrance proclaimed.

He couldn’t tell if it was a joke.

Staring at the map, it hit him: he didn’t know what he’d do when he got there, but he now had an idea, anyway. The next bus to the border, the town of Calais, didn’t leave until noon, but the pain and excitement demanded motion, so he decided to hitch the rest of his way to Canada.

He walked through downtown Bangor, past the same upscale franchises that were in Albany, across the bridge over the Penobscot River, straight into downtown Brewer. Another eleven minutes, passing cheap pizza joints and dollar stores, and he was at the outskirts of Brewer, just like that, no city fading to suburbia fading to country. Just the main street lined with a few brick buildings and a small collection of mobile homes, and then he was alone on County Route 9 in the fuzzy morning light.

He turned, preparing to stick his thumb out, but before he even raised his hand a maroon Buick pulled over and a man who appeared to be in his late 60’s, fisherman’s sweater and wool cap, just like Mainers are supposed to have, asked him, “You need a ride, son?”

“Sure do,” and he got in. The man was going to Mopang Lake, was “just in town to do some shoppin’. Can’t beat Wal-Mart, son. Open twenty-four hours, this one. I get in early, I get out early, no crowd, no fuss. Not natural though. May not like ‘em—I don’t—but can’t beat ‘em. Get used to it, s’what I say. ‘Course, they ever try to put one up on the Mopang and somebody’d burn it, but you live in Bangor you accept these things, I guess.”

Mopang Lake, it turned out, was another forty-five minutes down the road. He noticed the lack of any other cars the whole way, and wondered briefly if he had gotten on the wrong road or misunderstood the map.

“I’ll drop you off here,” the man said as he pulled over just before an intersection. The next town, Wesley, was another 15 miles. “And this ain’t no place for someone to just lounge around, son,” the man said, not unkindly as his eyes flickered from Frank’s cap to his sneakers, “So’s you might just want to keep movin’ if you can. Get to Canada, some of the bars up there hire barbacks without a lot of questions. The canneries—they’re all up the coast—they do too, but them job’s harder to get.”

“I’m not on the run or anything,” Frank replied.

“Right. Here, take this,” and the man held out a $20.

Frank didn’t want to take it, but he shouldn’t have wasted money on the beer and book back in Albany.

“Look, give me your address and I’ll—”

“Hey. Don’t bother with that. You want help or not?” The man just looked at him, and Frank lowered his eyes as he took the money

“Ok, maybe not the law, you don’t look the type. Not that anyone can tell, at least not me, but anyway. Wife, maybe. Girlfriend. Probably both. Maybe just crazy,” causing Frank to look up, “and I don’t want to know either. I hit the road once too, ended up in Tulsa.” He stared out the window for a moment as the car grizzled quietly by the side of the road, then shook his head. “Shoulda’ stayed there, but I thought I was comin’ to my senses and came back. Bad move. Been crazy myself ever since.” He grinned, but it was a death-row smile, and Frank felt he’d been given a sign.

The man let him out, turned up a pocked side road and rumbled out of sight. All I need is two more kindly old gentlemen, Frank thought, and I’m at the border.

***

Two hours later and he was cold and wet; the damp from standing in the freezing mist had settled in his clothes, sucking the heat from his bones and adding tangible support to the feeling that certain recent decisions may have been poorly made. He had kept walking from where the man dropped him off, turning every few seconds to see if any cars were coming. Only two had. The first was a truck that had roared past, whereupon he learned that the turbulent air of a vehicle’s wake is actually much colder than the ambient, no-vehicle air; and a second car that not only didn’t slow down, but seemed to actually speed up, the driver, he was convinced, maliciously seeking to induce hypothermia.

He wondered about hypothermia, debated the pros and cons of pulling off his coat to put the sweater on, the ten seconds or so of being colder from no coat for a hopeful payoff of more warmth in five minutes. He stood and stared at the empty road, trying by force of will to bring a car into existence. That didn’t work either, and as a last ditch effort, before taking off his coat and trying the sweater option, he sat his bag on the ground and began to do jumping jacks, his breath propelling out white plumes as he jerked up and down.

A few seconds had passed before he realized he was staring at a car, a black compact, coming his way. He stopped jumping and hoped the driver hadn’t noticed—though he couldn’t see how he or she wouldn’t have—and stuck out his thumb. Frank tried to put the right look on his face. Not a happy one, no sane person would be standing out on this godforsaken stretch of highway this early in the morning in the soul-sucking mist and be happy. But grim wasn’t good either, even though Frank had the vague impression that Mainers liked grim. He tried to adopt a serene, businesslike posture, that of a man in need of a ride to work or to surprise his long lost Army buddy; the lack of personal transportation a mere inconvenience, a man who was not dangerous in any way and who was not—despite the opinions of old Maine dudes who once were—on the run.

The car slowed, and Frank saw that it was a sedan, a Taurus with Ohio plates. A bright red parking sticker of some sort on the window, and a woman ducking her head to peer out through the passenger window at him. She didn’t smile, and Frank had a feeling that she might hit the gas and keep moving. But as she bit her lip and stared, she must’ve decided that he was ok—she suddenly stopped, nodded her head and leaned over to unlock the door.

Frank pulled the handle and started to get in, but she held out a hand—“where’re you goin’?”

He looked at her for a moment, his mind blank. He didn’t know how to explain it all within the appropriate time for a roadside encounter, then realized that she wasn’t asking for his life story. The bus station map flashed in his mind and he said, “St. John.”

She looked up at the road ahead. “How far’s that?”

“Well, it’s in Canada.”

“How far?”

“About one, two hours, I guess.”

She looked at him again, checking him out—Frank wished he’d brought his other coat, the blue and red ski-jacket. He had thought the trench would give him a look of respectability, but out here in Fuck All, Maine, he felt like a flasher. He almost reached for his buttons to show that he was clothed underneath, then it occurred to him that this would be exactly the sort of thing a flasher might do right about now.

“Not a flasher,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“Sorry. Nothing. Can I have a ride?”

“Get in,” she said. “Throw your bag in the back seat.”

He pushed a button on the side of the seat and pulled it forward, leaning in and setting his bag next to a cheap suitcase. Then he pulled the seat back, moving slowly, not wanting to appear too eager for fear of scaring her. She looked twitchy. Too eager to flash, he thought to himself and smiled, quickly suppressing it, thinking that anyone who smiled to himself upon entering a stranger’s car was surely up to no good. Like a flasher.

The car lurched ahead into the lane, and Frank noticed that the woman didn’t even check to see if any other cars were coming. He didn’t think it would be good to be critical of her driving this early in the relationship, and sure, it was very unlikely that there were any cars on the road (who knew better than him?), but still. He hoped she was sober.

“Stacie,” she said and offered a tight-lipped smile. He took a moment to appraise his driver—late 30’s or early 40’s, the dark curly hair showing streaks of gray. She was pretty, thick eyebrows arched over brown eyes, thin face and he had noticed a dimple on her right side when she smiled. But her face was hard, too, the smile had faded quickly into an intense stare, a readiness for challenge or confrontation.

She wore a cheap-looking black leather jacket and black nylon slacks atop once-white running shoes. Years of practice performing a quarter-second, descending skim-glance allowed him the observation that she seemed to have average breasts (the slight tautness of the fabric of her white blouse stretched over them), just the hint of a belly. She was short; the seat was all the way up and her legs were straight to the pedals. Perhaps stocky legs, but maybe it was the slacks.

The car was a mess, food wrappers on the floor, hat and gloves on the dash, magazines and empty plastic bags strewn over the back seat, the ashtray overflowing.

“Frank,” and he held out his hand to shake.

“So what’s in St. John, Frank?” Hers was firm.

Nothing. That was the point, he thought. Hopefully a bar that would hire him to lug bottles up from some dingy basement and wash glasses. A library. A cheap room with, if he was lucky, a view of the sea, but he’d take one that was within walking distance.

“Oh, I got a friend up there.”

She looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the road. “You aren’t going to try to kidnap me or anything, are you?”

“No. Really. I’m just going to visit a friend. Thanks for the ride.”

“Uh huh,” she said. “And it’s probably just as good that I forget I ever gave you one, right?”

“Look,” he said, holding his hands out in front of him as if he were trying to force the point, “I’m not a criminal or whacko or anything. I’m just—”

“You’re on the run, buddy. Hell, anyone can see that.”

“I’m trying to … change some things, yes, but nothing like that. What about you anyway,” quickly to change the subject, “you from Ohio? I saw the plates.”

“Yup.”

“Where you heading?”

“You got a sense of humor?”

“What?”

“You got a—”

“Yeah, I guess. But I don’t get—”

“Well, maybe I’m going to St. John too. I’d like some company, and I like a sense of humor.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, and just nodded.

***

After an hour, he knew this: the car had no radio. “Stopped working yesterday. I was drivin’ along, hit a bump and it went out, just like that,” she told him.

He also knew that the car had a slight shimmy, the right front he believed, and it peaked at around 65. She noticed him checking the speed and said, “I had a boyfriend, he was a state trooper? And he told me that they never stopped anyone under 65 on the highway.”

“What state?”

“What?”

“Was he a Maine State Trooper? Or Ohio?”

She was silent for a moment. “Good point,” and she slowed the car to 60. The shimmying stopped.

He learned that she liked to chew gum (Big Red), she didn’t mind the cold (“I was born in the Northeast, if you’re still here at my age you either take it or you’re just too dumb to find south”), and she was from Ashtabula, Ohio (“Don’t knock Ashtabula—you ever been there?” and when he said no, “Well, I’d tell you all about it but you should see it yourself”).

She seemed happy to have company, and although he wanted to sleep, he ended up chatting with her about franchise restaurants (“to be avoided at all costs; I like to give my money to people, not corporations”), Bob Barker’s irreplaceable role in “The Price is Right” (“It was his show, really, I mean who gives a shit how much a box of soap costs, right? But somehow, I dunno, he just kept it, like, interesting”), and the comparative weight-loss benefits of walking vs. running (“don’t let them try to sell you some fancy $200 shoes and shorts, you can just walk two miles and do yourself as much good”).

She asked him a few more questions about St. John, but his vague responses directed her inquiries to his past.

“Where you from?”

“Albany.”

“What do you do?”

“Work for the state.”

“Doing?”

“Claims Analyst for Workman’s Comp.”

“And that entails….”

He smiled. She was persistent. “I spend my day reading comp applications and making sure they fit the requirements for people to get compensated. Like, for example, they actually got hurt, and it happened on the job.”

“People file claims even if they didn’t get hurt?” “Well, headaches don’t count. Neither does hating your boss, spraining your back shoveling snow so you can get to your job, or getting hurt while on the job, but drunk.”

“People actually file claims saying they got drunk on the job and got hurt?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You wouldn’t believe the stuff I see. I actually like the weird ones, they keep it interesting. I only saw one of those, but yeah, this guy did about seven shots of Sambuca during lunch, then tripped on the way to his desk and whacked his head on a file cabinet. Pretty serious, I guess, gave him permanent black and white vision and he was numb on his butt.”

“How serious is that?”

“He wasn’t able to tell if he was sitting down, claimed it resulted in an additional back injury from missing a chair he thought was there.”

They pondered the meaning of this for a while, until Frank’s stomach audibly groaned for food.

She smiled. “I can buy breakfast.”

“Umm, sure. But it’s not like, y’know, I mean I have money ….”

“I don’t mind. I saved up a bit of my P.D.W. money.”

Frank squinted and looked at her. “P.D. —”

“Professional Dog Walker.”

“Ah … right.”

“You know, Joe Lawyer and his girlfriend get a puppy, they work all day, and someone has to take little Foo-Foo for a walk, make sure she’s fed, clean the crap off the kitchen floor. Take’s fifteen minutes, twenty tops.”

“Lot of people pay for that?”

“Nope. But all I needed was five people to sign up. $200 a month, each.”

“That’s—” Frank hesitated while he tried to do the math, never a skill of his.

“It’s $1,000 a month, Frank. That’s $12,000 a year. And it’s all under the table.”

“Yeah, but that’s still not—”

“My ex had the job. I stayed at home. Except to walk dogs.”

“Oh,” and he looked out the window. Thin ice here, and he didn’t want to lose the ride.

Imagine that, he thought, I slogged away for 10 years, filling out forms, making sure other forms

were filled out correctly, listening to Kenny talk about ultimate frisbee or his long-planned short film, and I could’ve been walking someone’s Rover in my jeans and sweatshirt, a beer with lunch and a nap after, only tough decision is whether to use the rubber glove for Rex’s poop or just scoop it up with a paper towel. Gina would’ve liked it, she always wanted to start our own business, two of us would pull down $24k a year, but no expenses, and if you double the number of pooches—then he stopped the thought. Maybe he’d call Gina when he got settled, now that he was actually under way it seemed ok to back off the “don’t look back” philosophy, but he’d have to think about thinking about it later.

“Frank?” She was looking at him closely, “Earth to Frank? You there, buddy?”

“Sure. Just thinking.”

“So Frank, you know what else?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “What?”

“Under your seat. The tampon box.”

He reached under his seat and pulled out a box of Tampax. “Ok.”

“Open it.”

He opened the box and pulled out a red rubber-banded brick of twenty dollar bills. “Shit.”

“Shit yeah, brother. Breakfast is on me,” and suddenly the car swerved to the right, flying into the pot-holed parking lot of a diner surrounded by ruined pickups and salt-stained all-wheel drives.

***

Frank ate the biggest meal he’d had in weeks. His appetite had been diminishing up to his leaving, as if he subconsciously decided to fast before a rite. But now, he was starving—waffles, scrambled eggs and toast with grape jelly, bacon, fried potatoes with ketchup and tabasco, coffee with lots of milk and sugar. Stacie had a cheese omelet with tea, and spent most of her time just looking at Frank. He couldn’t tell if it was some sort of come on or if she was debating a fake trip to the bathroom only to get back in the car and bolt. He didn’t know how much he cared; he liked her, but if she was going to leave that was fine too, as long as she left his stuff. He thought about asking her what she was planning, but figured he’d wait to see if she got up for a cigarette outside or something like that.

“So Frank.”

“Mhmm?”

“I don’t know. You really don’t mind if I tag along to St. John?”

Your car, he thought, who’s tagging along with who? “Not at all.”

“How far’s the border?”

He stared at the ceiling for a moment as he thought. “I dunno. Probably about fifteen, twenty minutes away.”

She looked down into her coffee, then turned back up to face him. “Hey, you want to drive for a while?”

“Sure. You getting tired?”

“Yeah. A little. A meal like this will put me to sleep.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“But?”

It took him a second. “Right. But I can drive.”

“Great.”

“No problem.”

They were walking out across the parking lot towards the car. The wind greeted him like an old grudge, cutting into his skin destroying the comfortable, sleepy feeling his breakfast had instilled.

“So Stacie, what are you going to do in St. John?”

“What do you mean?” Frank shrugged. “I mean, you know—you staying for a while?”

“Depends on if I get an invite from someone I like.”

He didn’t know what to say, but thought he got the gist and pretended to hesitate while he checked his watch and her ass. She whirled suddenly and caught him, but she was smiling.

“Want to stay for a while?” he asked.

“’Bout time,” she said.

“Cool.”

“Your friend going to mind?”

“Friend?”

“Yeah. You know, the reason you’re going to St. John?”

“Right,” and he blushed. “No, he won’t mind.” Frank knew he ought to give it up, she wasn’t fooled a bit, but it was just too awkward at the moment.

“And no, by the way,” she said.

“No?”

“No.”

“No what?”

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

“No that,” she said. “Or at least, don’t just assume. It’s not polite.”

“Not…oh.”

“Right.”

“Well, hell, I wasn’t—”

“I know, if you were like that I’d have thrown you out of the car miles ago. I’m just getting things clear.”

“Got it.” He did feel a tinge of disappointment, but there was some comfort in subtracting the options. The whole point of the trip was reducing complications, and she was helping keep it simple. Plus, there was more than a hint for the future, and he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, content in the possibility of intimacy.

***

“Border 8 miles,” Frank read the sign aloud as they passed it. They’d been quiet, staring out at the road and the flat, gray landscape. Frank wished it had snowed. He didn’t mind the cold, not as long as the sun was out, but the dead grass, dead trees—better to be blanketed with Holy White. Holy White? He worried about his state of mind for a moment. Holy? He wasn’t religious. But there was something about snow and silence that seemed reverential to him.

“What do they do, Frank?”

“Who?”

“The border people. Are they police?”

“I guess, why? They make you nervous?”

“A little.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry Stacie. They just ask where you’re from, where you’re going, how long you’ll be. No big deal.”

“They search the car?”

“Not going in. The Canadians never do. The American side does now and then, though.”

“How do you know?”

“Back when I was in college, I used to run up to Kingston for beer. Me and a couple of guys; we’d get a few cases, some Cuban cigars, head back to Oswego and have a party.”

“Ever get in trouble with the Cuban cigars? You’re not supposed to have those, right?”

“They only searched once, and when they found them they gave us a lecture and said they confiscated them. Told us we could get fined for having them, and that next time we’d have to pay a tax on the beer. But as we were driving away, one of the guys gave us a thumbs up and said “have fun.” We didn’t know what it meant ‘til later, my buddy was looking in the glove box for a lighter and found the cigars.”

“They put them back?”

“Yeah, the beers were in the trunk, too. They were cool. Don’t worry, it’s no big deal.” He leaned over and gave her shoulder a squeeze, smiling as he shook his head slightly. Gina was like that, always afraid of police or any authority, scared even when going through fire department fundraisers at intersections.

After the usual questions they were waved past the border. Stacie dozed off afterwards, sleeping for half an hour before suddenly sitting up and looking around, a wild look on her face.

“Hey, you ok?” he asked.

“Umm. Little confused, that’s all.” She blinked and rubbed her face, then, “Where are we?”

“Just rolling into St. John.”

She nodded.

“So Stacie,” he began, “why are you here?” It seemed a good time to try nail that down, every time he had asked she changed the subject. She looked half-asleep still, maybe this time she’d answer. That, and he needed some time to think; what was he going to do? Where was he going to go? He had only focused on getting here, but the rest of the plan was highly conceptual at best.

Stacie looked out the window, staring at the identical two story wooden houses they slowly passed. Up ahead Frank could see cinderblock warehouses, surrounded by rusting fences, stacks of empty pallets and scattered vehicles.

“Well, Frank, why are you? There’s no ‘friend’ here.”

She looked around. “There’s nothing here.”

“Well. I don’t know. I think I want to be anonymous for a bit. Just Frank, the guy who works at the bar. Work my eight hours, go home, hot shower and some TV, sleep late in the mornings.”

“Go to a diner where they know your name, movies on Saturday nights, long walks on Sunday mornings? Find Cheers and drink with Norm?”

She didn’t seem to be sarcastic, so he continued. “Yeah, that sort of thing. People used to go to California, but I’d just as soon go further east. Or north.”

“Against the grain. You’re a rebel, right Frank?”

This was sarcastic, but not in a mean way and he chuckled with her as they rolled to a stop at a traffic light.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “I want to conform so much you can’t even see me.”

“Then what?”

He didn’t know. They sat in silence as the light turned green.

“So you want to know why I’m running Frank?”

He glanced at her, then gunned the car ahead. “Abusive relationship?”

She laughed. “Fuck no. Or at least, not abusive to me. I don’t know if I treated him that well.” She laughed again.

“So why—”

She lowered her voice. “I stole money Frank. A lot of money. I worked at this company—McGowen Fabricators—they make the metal cases for computers. I was the assistant Comptroller, and one day—two days ago, actually—I just walked down to the bank, told the cashier I need $50,000 from one of the accounts for cash bonuses the company was giving out this year, and walked away with it.”

“Jesus.” He didn’t know what else to say. “The P.D.W. money—”

“It’s crap, Frank. My sister did that, that’s where I got the idea to say that. I never walked a dog in my life. I got cash in the trunk—in cereal boxes, tampon boxes, lining of a suitcase. I even have some stuffed into an old laptop, the guts pulled out of it, I just snap the keyboard off and you’re staring at three piles of fifties.”

“Holy Fuck.” So he was riding with a fugitive. For a moment an odd chagrin came over him, the thought that even while on the run, doing the most extreme thing he’d ever done, he was still just an amateur, a kid trying to play grown up.

“Stacie—”

“Name’s not ‘Stacie,’ Frank. It’s Kim.”

He nodded. Made sense. “This your car, Kim?”

She smiled. “Nope. It’s rented under the name of Stacie Burrey, of Ashtabula, Ohio. I’m from Jamestown, Frank,” anticipating his next question.

“How did you do that?”

“Stacie’s a new secretary in the Finance office. Just moved to town. She left her purse at the office the day before I took off; I was working late and borrowed her license and credit card. We don’t look much alike, but no one ever questions that. She’s probably realized by now it’s all missing, but I bet Hertz doesn’t know what’s up yet. By the time they do, I’ll have something else.”

“Jesus.”

“You sure are religious, Frank.”

“’Do you mind driving Frank?’, mimicking her voice.’ “Right,” and he shook his head.

“Yeah, well, I was nervous.”

“They got your license info at the border, Sta—Kim. They’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

She sighed. “I know. Too late now anyway. I think I’ll ditch the car somewhere. Get lost somewhere else.” She looked around. “I think this town’s too small.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Why did you leave Albany?”

He thought for a moment. “Right. So, when the police figure it all out, they’ll find out I was with you.” She started to shake her head, but he interrupted. “They took my license at the border too. They write that stuff down, looking for just this sort of thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she shook her head. “I shouldn’t have picked you up. I shouldn’t have told you any of this,” and she reached under her seat. For a moment he felt a trill of fear in his stomach. She pulled out an envelope and threw it at him. “Here. It’s only $1,000, but it ought to help you get settled in.”

“Thanks, Kim. Really, but you need it more than—”

“I got $49,000, Bub. You got nothing.”

“Yeah but—”

“And what the hell Frank? I saw that look.” She turned to him quickly, a hard look on her face. “You think I was going to pull a gun? Shoot you and leave you in a ditch? I stole some money from a company, Frank, that’s all. This your first time in the real world?”

He didn’t say anything.

“You’re a little old to be in the real world for the first time, Frank.”

“Yeah.” To his right appeared a view of the harbor, about half a mile off, and he could see a solitary concrete dock jutting into the slate-colored water. There was a forklift on the dock, waiting for a ship. But no people. He looked ahead- the tallest structure seemed to be a four-story concrete office building in what he assumed was the center of town.

“Why don’t you just come with me?”

“I don’t…I mean, it’s just…”

“This isn’t a marriage proposal,” she said, lighting up a cigarette, “I just don’t want to do this alone right now. You seem like a nice guy. What, you had other plans?”

Suddenly he could see the future. They’d be together for six months, maybe a year. Cheap apartments, maybe squatting. He’d work in bars or construction and she’d waitress. He’d fall in love probably, for a while anyway. Then he’d want to settle down. They would eventually part and it would be bittersweet. Perhaps some trouble with the law, but he’d worry about that later.

“Well. I guess I needed a change anyway, right?”

She smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “So what do you think we ought to do?”

He thought for a moment. “You had the plan. Ditch the car. Montreal or Quebec.” He paused, then, “Quebec. I’ll bet they don’t care about US police bulletins. At least not those involving embezzlers and rented-car thieves.”

She stuck out her lower lip. “Hope so.”

They drove to the center of town and stopped at a convenience store. Frank bought a map, water, potato chips, and two large cups of coffee. They stood beside the car for a while, silent, sipping coffee and munching on the chips. Eventually Frank set his coffee on the roof, opened the driver’s side door and sat down. He unfolded the map, studying it carefully while Kim leaned on the open door and watched over his shoulder.

“Got a pen?” he asked.

She rummaged in her purse for a moment. “Here.”

He traced the route to Quebec, then checked his watch. “Won’t get there ‘til late, ten or eleven. Can you drive? Let me crash for a while?”

“Sack out, Frank. I like driving.” She raised her hands to the sky and stretched while groaning. Pulling himself out of the car, Frank looked down and noticed half a tattoo on the patch of skin between her sock and pant leg. It looked like a spider. He grabbed his coffee, tossed it into a trash can and slumped into the passenger seat.

“Wake me up if you need help,” as he reclined the seat all the way back and pulled his trench coat over him like a blanket.

“Don’t worry.”

Frank drifted off, musing on how fast things change. This morning I’m alone and cold in Portland, this afternoon I’ve got a new girlfriend—sort of—and beginning life as a genuine fugitive. Sort of. Then he was drifting down a road again, but this time he could feel the warmth of the sun.

***

The truck was hauling a load of winter clothes, heading north to a department store in Fredericton. The driver’s name was Tracey. Tracey was twenty-eight years old, from Pike County, Arkansas, and content to be passing his days rushing over concrete. New Brunswick today, Maryland the day after tomorrow. A three-day R & R in Chicago next week with a $600-a-night friend who really was a friend and usually spent the money on dinner and drinks for the two of them. Tracey knew some would think his a superficial life, but most people’s lives wouldn’t withstand close examination either, and he knew that there was more to come, some good, some bad. Now was the time to recollect, think, and plan. Tracey had his shit together and knew it.

The black eighteen wheeler roared along the highway, 10 miles outside of St. John, the CD playing soft jazz. He automatically hit the left signal and checked the mirror as he guided the truck into the passing lane to get around the black Ford compact, and he glanced down into the car’s interior as he drove by.

Woman driving, man sleeping, he thought idly as the truck roared past. The woman was leaning forward, looking straight ahead into the distance, the man sound asleep with a crumpled map on his lap. Tracey knew—he just knew—that there was no radio playing in the car, that the man was dreaming of strange, welcoming places, and that the woman had no plans or goals, other than a hope for a better future. He wished her better things, honked his horn as he pulled ahead, and wondered about the random trajectories of life.

Ⓒ 2014 Damon Stewart