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Samuel Minier:Writing in the Dark
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Quiet Flickings, Milky Darkness
ROAD
CLOSED AHEAD Follow Signs To
Fisherman’s Way (Old S.R. 52) “Ah
shhhhhiit.” Dillon leaked out the word, reluctant to acknowledge the sign. A detour at two in the morning. Great.
He’d made the decision just over
the That’s
when he decided. Fuck it. Keep going, even if
it takes all night. Drew and the others had
gotten into Weeki Wachee this afternoon, and Dillon was NOT spending his first night of
Spring Break alone in some motel watching cable. And
it could be very cool to get there just as dawn was breaking; he’d wake their assess
up with the car horn and start the party as the sun rose.
Beers for breakfast, drink or be gone. Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time. He banged his palms against the steering wheel in
sleep-deprived frustration. With three burnt-out bulbs, the flashing arrow on the detour
sign looked like some strange constellation, stars short-circuiting in unison. He U-ied
the Fiero around in the middle of the road and took off with an aborted squawk. Fifteen
minutes later, the harbor unfolded on him quietly, unexpectedly. The low brush that edged
the road suddenly curved and dipped down, disappearing into an expanse of humped waves and
ripples. The water had a dull luster to it,
like a field of worn ebony. A sheet of fog was
tightly tucked against the harbor’s surface, with hazy feelers beginning to creep
their way across the road. At first they were
only thin and infrequent. Soon, the tendrils
had enveloped the Fiero in a curtain the color and consistency of ranch dressing. His
right hand drove while his left fiddled at his piercings, wandering between the three
rings in his ear and the one through his eyebrow. He played with them in a half-conscious
attempt to distract himself from the increasingly drowsy comfort of the driver’s
seat. The tires kicked at occasional potholes,
stoking the headache that had hung with him since Dillon
could make out the glowing over the harbor before the road lines began veering toward it. The lights, tainted a fuzzy saffron as they
attempted to penetrate the fog, seemed to flatten and lengthen from an arc into a line as
the road swung out across the water. A
billboard spelled out “FISHERMAN’S WAY” in faded red letters; the words
were underscored by a huge, gaudy arrow. The causeway marched out into the harbor like a
thin gangplank. Sour foam licked at the slabs
of rock attempting to cordon off the strip of road from the Ahead,
the bridge buckled toward the sky. It was old and ungainly, a mountain of concrete and
steel with a gaping slit running down its center. Apparently
that gorge was supposed to be the median. The
car thudded over the metal plates marking the beginning of the bridge’s assent, and
the tires’ steady hum lurched into a hollow growling. While the Fiero climbed, the
fog began to break back into tendrils, winding through the slotted railways and around the
tall light posts. The bridge’s slope was
gentle, languid. Fucking boring. Dillon leaned
harder on the accelerator, his mind drifting to pale beaches and cooper bodies. And
tattoos. When he and the others first decided
they were hitting The
soupy discharge was all but gone, but the wound was still tender enough that he flinched
as the seatbelt rubbed over the jutting hoop. Next
time, his tongue in the grip of pliers? Even
professionally done . . . maybe not. He
thought he’d settle for a mandala instead, on his right arm, or maybe between his
shoulder blades – He
almost didn’t see the thing come at all. It
seemed instantaneous; there was fog, bleeding in and out of itself, and then there was a
large form rushing at him, a fog-colored shape with eyes, off-centered and jaundiced. His
foot mashed the brake to the floor. The back
tires screamed as lights, bridge, and ocean swooped past him, long and shuddery. Momentum
ripped at him as the seatbelt death-hugged his chest; he didn’t even notice the
hot-pain in his navel. The form filled his
windshield, and then the car lurched to a stop.
Dillon lifted his head. The big Impala diagonally crisscrossed the road,
swallowing both lanes in its bulk. Dillon’s
headlights stared at him in an unblinking reflection off the slanted rear window. He guessed the two cars were less than a foot
apart. He
suddenly thought of Drew and the rest of his friends.
Drew and his case of Guinness every weekend, Peter and his plasma TV. Yeah, go
ahead and fly, you rich assholes, stick those of us on a budget with driving all night
through the middle of butt-fuck nowhere . . . “Ok. Ok.” He
said the words slowly, letting the sound of his voice fill the car. Once his breathing felt more normal, he opened the
door. His
legs ached sweetly from the drive as he stood up. Dillon approached the Impala. There wasn’t anything visibly wrong with it:
no blown tires, no oily pools. Still, it
looked less like a car than like a statue, immobile and forgotten. Except
it’s in the middle of the goddamn road. Through
the windows he saw an ugly tan interior, devoid of anything except a box of tissues,
scattered like white leaves across the back seat. He
yanked on the locked driver’s door, then headed around to the passenger’s. Maybe
it died on him, couldn’t get it over to the side.
The
air, heavy with fish and burnt rubber, assaulted his nose and clung to his arms. Something
flickered in and out of the fog, up ahead, by the harbor-side railing of the bridge. No, that was just the shifting mist, thinning and
thickening, giving the illusion of motion. No,
wait. There was something there, a monolithic
figure staring into the Gulf. His arms were
out in front of him, resting against the rail, occasionally twisting and pulling on a thin
rod that dangled over the water. Wow,
that’s fuckin’ brilliant. “Hey,
man, get your car outta the road. I about
wiped both of us out.” The
figure turned slightly. He was skinny, with
the high cheekbones of a cadaver. His bored
eyes considered Dillon. The figure adjusted
the red ball cap on his head, then reeled his line in and walked off into the fog. “Wai–
“ Dillon took a few steps after him. The
fog thickened, as if the figure was staging a magic trick, and then the milky veil
inexplicably parted again. The
fog revealed the forms in rapid, eerie succession. A
sulking boulder of a man had materialized to Dillon’s right. He was easily twice as wide as the thin man, who
sidled next to him and cast in. The giant
stood at an angle to the rail, his unseen face pointing out to sea. Past the giant clustered another group of people,
two men and a woman. A solitary fisherman a
ways beyond them, and then another two figures even further in the distance. The fog
gathered around them in silky bundles, like the wispy husks that dotted spider webs. To his left, two men and another woman were
fishing from the canyon in the center of the bridge. The
woman appeared to have no trouble balancing her fishing pole in one arm and a small child
in the other. The child picked its nose as it
stared up at the bridge lights.
What the hell is this, a party? “Is this somebody’s car?” A
few faces acknowledged him with disinterest, then returned to their work.
“Hey! Will somebody please move
this goddamn car out of the road?”
The forms give no response. A couple of
wrists flicked and snapped, casting their baited lines into the dark sea. The
slap on Dillon’s shoulder was light, but he jumped anyway, spinning around with his
arms half-raised. The
man in the wheelchair came to just above Dillon’s ribs.
He had the face of a middle-aged cherub, his forehead red and his eyes set
too far back in his skull. Tufts of hair, wild
and pubic, sprang out from beneath a webbed baseball cap.
A dirty gray blanket covered his stubby lap; it dangled flush over the
seat’s lip. The fishing pole that grew
out of the man’s fist bounced off Dillon’s shoulder again. “Mind
your mouth, son.” The
large hook passed close enough to Dillon’s eyes that he could see it was wedged into
the rod’s top ringlet, like some backwater version of a torture tool. “Fuckin’
watch it!”
“I said mind your mouth. There’s
a child present. Bad enough you come through
here like hell on wheels, driving like you ain’t have the sense God gave a rock
–“
“Look, I’m not the one who parked the car in the middle of the fucking
road so I could throw an all-night fish fry. Do
you know how close -”
“Say that word again, son.” The
man’s face had turned an ugly color. “Give
me an excuse to run you in.”
Run you in?
Who talks like that? “What?“
A hand appeared from beneath the blanket, clasping a black square with a splatter
of gold. “Deputy Joshua Evern. Prematurely retired.”
Dillon felt like he was in a bad sit-com. “You’re
gonna arrest me for foul language?”
“Try reckless operation of a motor vehicle and reckless endangerment of life
and property, for starters.”
Careful.
He ignored the voice in his head. “You
just said you’re retired.” “I
got a dispatch radio in my car.” “You’re
gonna call somebody out here – “ “The
officer on duty’s an old friend of mine. I’m sure he’d agree with my
judgement. So, son, if you want to start what
I assume is your spring break in jail, say that word again.
Please.”
Dillon slowly pulled his hands down over his face.
Cool it down, or Deputy Torso here’s
gonna bend you over. “Fine. Sorry.” The
deputy still looked like he had smelled a carton of sour milk. Oh please. “Look, sir, I’m sorry about the
language. I didn’t think there’d be
anybody (in
the middle of the FUCKING road) this
late to look out for – “
“This is Fisherman’s Way.” He
said this as if it explained everything.
“Oh. OK, well – look, I
really don’t want any problems. Could we
just get whoever owns this car to move it so I get out of your hair?”
“Love to, son, but I’m afraid we can’t do that.” “Why
not?” “This
ain’t any of these people’s car. Illegal
to park on the bridge. All their cars are down
by mine, on the other side.” “It’s
abandoned?” “Was
sittin’ there when I got here. I just got
back from calling a tow truck. Should be out
here in hour, hour and a half.” Hour and a half! “Look,
is there anyway we could push it to the side, at least enough so I could squeeze by?” “No.”
“Officer, I’m sure that big guy and I and a couple other people
–“
“Too dangerous. What happens when
you’re all out in the middle of the road and the next maniac comes flying
along?” “It
wouldn’t take that long – “ “Son,
my advice to you is to get back in your car and wait for the tow truck.”
“You want me to stay in the middle of the road?
What about all the other ‘maniacs’?”
“Put on your hazards. Besides,
there’s not that many people come through here this late.”
“You just said – “
The deputy folded his arms and stared hard at Dillon.
“Son, I’m real upset you’re vacation’s gonna be delayed an
hour. I really am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got some fishing to
do.” You
fucking hick dickwad. The words trembled at his lips as the deputy
wheeled away from him. Dillon blew his
exasperation at the gaudy lights. The fishers
had remained mute throughout the conversation, their eyes devoutly cast down at the water. Fine. If you don’t belong to the United Elks Fishing
Club of Two-Shits-ville, you’re not even worth a dirty look. Whatever.
He retreated from their smug silence to the Fiero, plopping into the
front seat and slamming the door as hard as he could manage. “So
the sign’s up.”
The raspy voice was immediately behind him, nuzzling his ear. He jerked around.
The figure was crammed into the shadows of the back seat, so that Dillon could make
out only a shaded oval for his face.
“Yeah the sign must be up. Why else would you be here? Road out ahead, please take the detour.” “Who
– Get the hell out of my car!” The
stranger either didn’t hear him or didn’t care what he’d said. “I wish
I could figure out how they manage the sign. That’s
the trick, you know? Must be some link, sewer pipe, maybe.
I wonder how.”
“Wha – “ Dillon gave up in mid-word.
He reached for the door handle.
“Can I bum a light off you?” The
stranger used the large gun in his hand to gesture at the cigarette lighter lying on the
front seat. Oh shhhhit. Dillon
slowly pulled his hand away from the door. “Ok,
sure man, whatever you want.” The
stranger deftly pulled the lighter back to him. Orange
sparks flickered twice in the rearview mirror, and then a red nub appeared. Dillon coldly realized he had probably just missed
his best chance to do something. I hate detours.
“Look,
“ Dillon said, “I got cash if that’s what you want. I mean, whatever you want - ”
“Where’
s the deputy at?” The stranger took
jittery drags off the cigarette, his eyes pacing the windshield. “He’s
somewhere close by. He said he was gonna check
back with me in a couple of minutes.” Dillon
searched futilely for a shape half the size of the others. The fog was thickening into
froth again, obscuring the fishers into opaque blocks, featureless and too far away. In
the rearview mirror, a knowing smile appeared around the glowing nub. “Oh, I know.
I’m sure he’ll be along soon enough.
That’s why I don’t have much time.” The
stranger twisted around, looking over his shoulder, eyes searching. He pulled long on the cigarette, held it, blew it
out contemplatively. “People
that live on the water get weird. I’m
serious; take it from someone who made their living on the ocean. Twenty years as a charter captain, and I can
testify that the water does something to you. Creates
this . . . this thing. This need. I think it’s ‘cause you can’t ever
trust her. You pull food from her, you make
your money by crossing her, you swim in her for fun. And
she never ignores the chance to take you. Fill
you up. Make you a floater. You can drown on a tablespoon of water, you know
that?” He
paused, looking meaningfully at Dillon. “The
Indians worshipped the ocean. Bet they even
offered sacrifices to it. Bring in big schools
of fish, keep out the hurricanes, that sort of thing.
That’s what I mean. People
get weird around the water. Think they can
make deals with her.” Oh yeah, anybody want some home-rolled smokes? “Did
you know this bridge is the site of a lot of suicides?
No, of course you didn’t. You’re
a tourist. Of course. That’s why you’re here. The locals know better, know to stay away.” He took another drag.
“Well, some of the locals.” “Ah . . ., well, guess that makes sense. The
suicide thing, I mean. Easy to jump off
of.” Agree with him, stay on his side. “See,
though, we don’t get jumpers up here. We
get drivers.
Drive right off the bridge. That’s
what the police think, anyway.” Dismissive
click of his tongue. “I bet they
don’t know even half the cars sitting on the bottom of this harbor, just rusting
away. Well . . . no. I’m bettin’
there’s one deputy who knows about everyone of
them. But the rest of them . . .” His
words were like the fog, runny and elusive. Dillon
felt himself slipping into the disjointed narrative, even as he still watched out the
window for signs of rescue. “You
ever seen a car drop into water? I mean from
high up, off a cliff or something. A bridge,
maybe. This huge plume of water shots up. Looks like an old feather duster. The sound . . . when the car hits the surface,
there’s a flat, kinda smacking noise. It’s
overwhelming. But even before that’s over, the other noise is there, too. The sucking. It’s
like the ocean wants it as soon as the car hits, like she can’t get it fast enough. Hell, half the time water from the splash is still
coming down when the headlights go under.” His
voice was trailing to an emphatic whisper. “They
were tourists. Everyone of them. Like you. Because
the locals know better. Do you see? She’s greedy.
She makes them greedy.” He
purposefully closed his mouth. His eyes were
fixed on a bare spot on the dashboard, as if trying to concentrate. Where
the hell is the depu- “IT’S
NOT LIKE IT WAS THE EXXON VALDEZ OR SOMETHING!” Dillon
jumped at the sudden explosion. The stranger
was jabbing his arm toward the harbor. “I
wasn’t drunk. I was just tired. I mean, look at this fog. It wasn’t my fault. LOOK AT THIS FOG!”
“Look, man, I . . . I know. Believe
me, I know what it feels like. I mean, to be
tired . . .”
The stranger’s arm slashed at the air. “But
it doesn’t end, you know? No sleep. No rest. Even
after . . . after everything I’ve tried, everything I . . . I DID to make up for this
. . . Still here. Still stuck here.”
“Look, why don’t . . . if you
don’t like it here, why don’t you just leave,
you know? Just leave, man.” Just
please get out of this car you doped-out freak.
“Just leave . . .” He said it
as though it was a rhetorical question, as though Dillon didn’t understand. The color and energy in his face slowly leaked away
like a deflating balloon. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I gotta go. I can’t stay around for this.”
He leaned forward, opened the door, and glided out of the car in one graceful
motion. “Thanks for the smoke.” He
paused, looking down toward the fisherman.
“If
I were you, I’d get off this bridge before the deputy gets back.” “Wh-“
Dillon began, and the question died in his throat. The
stranger hurried toward the harbor. From
behind, Dillon could clearly see the exit wound that had opened the back of his head. The mouth of a crusty pink-and-black tunnel gaped
among his matted hair. A bony chip dangled
precariously off a strip of skin, occasionally bouncing on his shoulder. The stranger’s gait slackened only briefly as
he stepped up onto the railing; he threw the other leg over and out into midair. The pieces of his head fluttered as he dropped over
the side. Dillon’s
eyes clung to the spot the man had disappeared from, struggling to wrap logic around a
memory not yet seconds old. He was vacantly
aware his heart was slamming against his ribcage as though it wanted out. Everything
between his legs had pulled in on itself, attempting to hide. Fuck
this, time to go. He stabbed the keys into the ignition. “You
know, it’d been a lot easier if you’d just gone to sleep.” Deputy
Evern’s broad face leered in at him through the open driver’s window. Dillon managed not to scream. “Yeah,
you’d be surprised how easily they drift off once they’re stopped. Late night, hazy and warm, usually been driving all
day. Most go in fifteen minutes, half hour at
the most. ‘Course, that’s if . . .
well, that’s if certain other parties aren’t running their yap when their not
supposed to.” Dillon
found his voice. “Deputy, I think
I’m gonna get go-“ The deputy smiled, getting ready to tell the punch
line. “You know what I don’t
understand? Why good-lookin’ young fellas
like you need to stick all that crap in your face. What
the hell kinda trend is that? I mean, take a
look at Curtis over here. Curtis, turn around
for the boy.” The
deputy had called to the hulking giant. The
man-shape carefully leaned his fishing pole against the metal railing, regarded Dillon
with his broad back and dangling arms, and then turned.
Dillon’s
gasp was similar to the slight whistling that emerged from what was left of Curtis’
mouth. The chunk of glass was embedded in his
face at an angle, starting just beneath his left eye.
It had shaved off his upper lip and punched most of the teeth inward. The glass extended a jagged half-foot out from his
face, as though Curtis was teething on a giant, translucent razor. The
deputy’s voice was tiny, far away. “Now
see, that’s why I was wondering why you would put all that stuff in your face on purpose. Ol’
Curtis, I think he’d love it if he could get unpierced, or whatever you’d call
it. Not likely, though, not without losing the
rest of his teeth, anyway.” The
fishing hook ripped into Dillon’s cheek. For
a second, he thought a mosquito had bitten him, and then there was the sickening punctured
sensation as the hook sliced through to the tender inside of his mouth. It sank in over his teeth, jabbing between two
molars. The sticky tastes of worm and blood
washed over his tongue. He gagged in surprise,
in revulsion, and reached toward the line. “No
you don’t,” he heard the deputy say, and suddenly his head was yanked to the
left. The hook carved a trench across his gum. Dillon tried to pull against the force, and a
dangerous feeling of stretching rippled across the side of his face. The fishing line grew out of him like a tense
muscle; he grabbed hold of it in an attempt to reduce the pressure. The
deputy was leaned back in his chair, both hands wrapped around the pole. In his eager
squirming, his blanket had slipped off, revealing the knobby end of bone that jutted out
of his right leg. A limp snake of intestine
hung out of the gaping hole where his left leg had once been. He pulled the pole closer to his chest, forcing
Dillon’s head and shoulders further out the window.
Dillon’s hand was locked against his cheek in an attempt to fight
without having his face ripped open. “Come
on over, folks, I got a lively one, need some help landing him!” Past
the Impala, Dillon saw the rest of them turn. They
came at him instantly, their lethargy horribly gone. Now
they were like wolves, with loping gaits and rolling shoulders. They swarmed around the Impala, their own wounds
suddenly all too clear, bloated blue faces dragging along broken limbs and blood-soaked
clothes. The thin man Dillon had first met was
the only one who appeared whole, but his eyes were as vacuous as the others. He grasped the deputy’s wheelchair in an
attempt to steady it. The rest encircled the
Fiero, Curtis’ strange shadow looming over the hood. The
deputy hauled again, and Dillon tried to cry out. The
pit in his gum throbbed as the hook played deeper into it.
He was almost sideways in the car, his upper body crammed through the
window’s opening. “OK,
let’s threw him back. Everybody lift at
the same time, on three. Remember, use your
legs, not your back.” They
all bent down and grasped the Fiero as the deputy began the count. The car began to reluctantly levitate. They brought it up slowly, until it was even with
their waists. Most of them looked emaciated,
but they seemed to draw strength from Curtis, who handled the front end by himself. The
deputy remained where he was, letting out just enough slack to keep Dillon rigid in the
car without completely dragging him out. The
child was sitting on the ground near the deputy. It
flapped what was left of its left arm at Dillon, perhaps waving. The others began shuffle stepping, bearing the car
toward the ocean like a dead animal. The
smell of salt water swelled in Dillon’s nose as he was carried closer to the
bridge’s edge. He had both hands clamped
on the sinewy line, trying to pull the line even closer to him to get some leverage. The hook tickled a nerve, and his jaw spasmed. Suddenly, the curved sliver slipped out of the gum. He guided it back toward its entry point, but the
deputy had too much torque for Dillon to slide it out.
The car was past the right hand lane, in that slim space between road and
railing. The
sucking, like the ocean wants it, as soon as it hits . . . Dillon
squeezed his eyes shut, released the line, and wrenched his body back into the car as hard
as he could. There was a wet pop, a second of
numb nothingness, and then the air, like acid against the edges of his ragged gill. The
night was swallowing the right side of the car as he twisted the key. The Fiero rumbled like a bear waking up, and Dillon
saw what passed for a surprised look on Curtis’ face.
He could hear the deputy screaming, “Throw it, throw it!” He jammed the stick into Reverse and floored it.
The tires whirled, spraying fingers like dirt.
The right back tire scraped against the guardrail before the rear end slammed back
down onto the bridge. The front end landed a
second later as it dropped out of Curtis’ hands.
There was a confused milling around the car, and Dillon floored it again. The rear bumper knocked two of the fishers aside,
but one was standing even with the license plate. The
car chopped him at the knees a second before the plate smashed his head in.
Dillon was flying backwards, weaving wildly. The
deputy’s arm blurred as Dillon passed him, but the hook meant for Dillon’s eye
caught on the doorframe instead. The
wheelchair took off like a rocket-powered chariot, the deputy’s hair flapping from
beneath his ball cap like wings. Dillon
slammed on the brakes and swung the wheel around, fighting against crashing into the
railing. The deputy had enough slack on the
line that the car didn’t mow him down, but inertia snapped the fishing rod at the end
of the car’s screeching arc. The
wheelchair shattered as it hit the guardrail, sending a torso pin-wheeling out across the
water. Dillon
tore through the gears, almost missing the clutch going into third, and he forced himself
to take a breath and look back. They
didn’t try to come after him; they stood motionless before the Impala, shrinking into
the rearview mirror and the returning fog. The
wind streaming through his face was beginning to awaken the runny pain in his lop-sided,
gory smile. The car thud-dunked onto the
causeway as Dillon glanced one last time in the rearview mirror. The
bridge was gone. When
he got the car stopped, he was shaking so bad it took him three tries to get the door
open. Stupid
fucking stupid keep going, but he had to get back out, had to see this with his own
eyes, to know that it wasn’t some optical illusion.
A
hundred feet or so behind the Fiero, the causeway dead-ended into a four-foot high
concrete embankment running the width of the road. Beyond
the blunted end of the road, the harbor stretched out into the night sky, uninterrupted by
anything human, black sky and black water merging as one.
It was a strikingly clear night, without a wisp of fog.
Posted on the embankment was a white sign. Its
lettering was respectful, simple in the manner of a memorial: The
Fisherman’s Way (Old S.R. 52) Memorial
Fishing Pier Dedicated
to the memory of those killed when
the fishing charter Alma Marie collided
with the July
27, 1989 Dillon
hadn’t finished mouthing the words when a silvery strand dropped out of the sky with
a clang. The fishing line lay draped over the
railing for a few seconds, hook still swaying, before being whipped back out into the
water. A
gurgling tenor rippled out from some indeterminable point in the harbor. “Ah, come on, son, stay a while. We’ll do the other cheek for you.” By the time Dillon made it off the causeway, the Fiero was doing well over
ninety.
Copyright 2000, Samuel Minier |