Lint

The Package by Rabeya Jalil. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery.

My hands were the thing. I could feel hot electricity in the bones of my knuckles. My pinkies were raw. The rest of my fingers felt like stoney promontories, immune to things.

The pack felt weightless. My ears were covered and my toes, lots of socks. Boots were larded with saddle soap. Everything felt like it could go. But my hands, shoved in my jacket, were hyperaware. When they started dying it was time to listen.

I could have turned back then, to that nice clutch of lights behind me.

The truck illuminated the snow well before I heard its rattling. It was a dually diesel full-cab, forest-green and scum-reefed with ice, especially thick around the wells. It passed by me, spewing slush, the swaddled sound of crunching snow, then stopped in the middle of the road twenty or so feet ahead. The brake lights made red twinkles on the powder and the pristine snow outside of the warm radius looked a half-drowned blue. The truck had an upper rack of fog lamps, but they weren’t on. The exhaust was camouflaged puffs for the sheeting snow—a retro television with a bad station.

Alongside of the truck I stopped walking and looked at it. My gaze was apathetic, I think. The windows were tinted or the interior was dark. Either way I couldn’t see inside. I stood a handful of purposeful yards off the road, oatmeal flakes hitting my upturned cheeks. The window slid down partway into the door. I saw brown hair and a half face that was underbelly color from the glowing dashboard instruments.

Hey. Fucko.

I didn’t say anything.

You want in? You just gonna stare me down?

I blinked some. It was the “Fucko.” It made it all different.

I detached from the pack. I felt its weight then, in my arms. Like another person on my back. I pulled back for momentum and arced it up into the bed. The bag made a nice bit of noise as it came down. Now my lower back felt it, uncoiling sorely in the absence.

The door cracked opened. He had leaned over to open it from the inside. I pulled the door edge all the way and had my boot on the foot rail when he told me.

You wanna brush off the weather?

The dually had those All-Terrain tires with the deep tread.

You gonna pull off the road?

No.

So he idled in the middle there and I brushed myself off. Snow came off of my hat and shoulders. The icecrust was hoary and paned, broken only around the wrinkles and bends of me. I beat at myself for a minute to knock the bigger chunks loose. I was still beating when he told me.

Alright. C’mon.

We drove for awhile. We were high up there. It felt like a flight simulator with all that land moving beneath us but no real movement in the gut. His radio had all sorts of lights but there was no sound from the speakers. He had the heat on high. I took my hat off. The gloves too. They went in my jacket pocket. He turned the heater lower after a minute.

He wasn’t one of those. He wasn’t a mountain do-gooder suspiciously doing well for himself despite the crutch of a good heart. He had all the gear, piles of North Face and Sierra and Mountain Hardware and thick woolens in the back seat. He could have been a testing himself. Or he might have a lot of keys in his pocket.

He saw me looking back there and he caught my eye. He grinned.

Your bag’ll be fine.

Well that I didn’t need to know.

He watched the road like everything else, brown eyes just barely flickering. On the road, off the road. Just like he watched me. It was a birdy kind of attention he paid to things. It was the eyes. Like nystagmus. A friend of mine had nystagmus. The condition got worse when he drank. We tried out together and stayed on the ground.

We drove like that for a while. He kept his lights low to avoid that vanishing-point of pelting snow.

You have a gun? Or a sticking knife? A baton? Something. You got something. Somewhere close. Don’t you? Just in case?

He grinned at me. He giggled like a kid.

Yes.

When he pulled up the top of the middle console his eyes stayed on the road and the edges of the road. It was an unopened pint of Chivas. He cracked it and tug a slug. He held it up to me. I took a slug too. I took a large slug, but I tried to do it slowly and quickly at the same time so I wouldn’t make too many glugs and seem rude. My lips were still thick and some of the liquor went down my beard and onto my jacket. I wiped at it.

He put the bottle between his legs.

What are you doing up here?

I cut roads.

For the oil.

Yes.

They cut roads this late?

I gotta make some places. Weather doesn’t really matter when it comes to these types of things. Neither do hours. They just need bodies on the ground to make it work.

To make it turn?

He glanced at me. Then back. Maybe he was offended about the Chivas. I had displaced a lot. I couldn’t tell.

Yeah. To make it turn.

We went on and the snow was getting thicker. The road was distinguishable from the side only because of the height of the accumulation on the outskirts. He had to go slow. Or he chose to go slow. Maybe.

I looked at him again. He face was smooth and assured with nice angles. Wiry and dexterous arms popped out of his fleece sleeves. His eyes were tired, but not sad. Relaxed. Fortified, maybe.

What about you?

I’m always going somewhere, Man.

Yeah. Yeah. It’s a long walk though. Maybe 25 miles. That’s what the GPS lady says.

It always is a ways. I was born on my feet, you get me?

Yeah. Yes. But it’s late. You could have stayed. Baliers’s the town ahead. It’s smaller. Why didn’t you stay back there for the night?

You mean in the shelter.

Yes. I mean in the shelter.

I don’t like shelters.

They’re warm.

I’ve been treated a lot of different ways in my life. I don’t like shelters. They’ll throw you the minute you want to talk to them like you ain’t broke.

Broke?

Yeah. Like not special. Not touched. Maybe you don’t need a diaper to sleep in. They don’t like you if there ain’t nothing wrong.

Hmmmmm.

He hadn’t grinned since I had mentioned his weapons. I had thought of him as the kind that grinned for punctuation or inflection. I felt weird now. Like maybe I wasn’t there. Like one of those phantom accident-people.

Do you mind if I smoke? I’ll be quick.

No. I mean sure.

He reached down to the door pocket while I was searching my pockets for a few loose snipes I had. He pulled up something red and white. Winstons. He popped the top of the pack on his knee until a few of the butts protruded. He offered them my way.

Light me one. Please.

I snuggled two in my lips, lit them both, handed him one. He took it. He cracked his window. It took me a minute to find the button. There were a lot of buttons. I cracked mine. I was getting a little rattled. It started with the bottle. Then the cigarette. No one shares from me.

It doesn’t smell like cigarettes in here.

It’s one of their trucks. They have people who detail them.

We went on and the snow kept coming. He had this patience. He took a slug and the bottle moved real slow. I took one. My lips were doing better. So was I. I had been dry since right after I had lunch at the A-framed church all made of logs. It had had a red, pro-panelled roof. It smelled of linseed oil. Potted meat sandwiches on Rainbow.

I was feeling sweaty so I unzipped my jacket. The speedometer bounced between 10 and 15.

Why did you call me fucko?

Hmmmm. Was that a bother?

It wasn’t a grin. His teeth opened a little and the tip of his tongue rested in them. It was amusement, maybe.

No.

I call everyone fucko.

Not how I usually get approached. Not by someone offering me anything.

I’m not offering you anything.

That’s what I mean. Why pick me up? Everyone has a reason when they pick me up.

You were there.

He saw something or felt something on the road that I didn’t. He eased off the gas.

We’re going to have to stop for a minute. Put your gloves on.

He got bundled, all his gear fit him tightly. Like it was made for his specifications. It all had these red logos on it. No names, just a logo like an old RKO radio tower. I thought that maybe he experienced life like everything was his size. That didn’t make it less hard, maybe. Just his size.

It’s the hill. And the grade. We’re slipping.

We were out. We laid the chains on the snow in front of each of the tires. I guided him where to brake with my open hands. He landed the tires on top. I clicked the little buckles that ran on the sides of the tire chains. The chain was a thick gauge. The road was sided by many trees. They were thick too, like you couldn’t see through them. And their branches leaned with snow all into the other ones.

It was really nice. Clear, even though there was the snow coming hard.

When I was up inside we took some quick hits and killed the bottle. I blew on my hands and he turned up the heat. He threw the bottle out the window and we stayed stopped in the middle of the road. He grinned at me once when he offered a cigarette.

It’s good to see you waking up. I thought you were dozing there for a minute. Can’t have a dozy driver.

We’re almost to the top, I think. I think I have another bottle in the blue bag behind my seat. It should be in the seat pocket.

It was there. I handed it over to him. He cracked it and we went on.

It was really coming down on us now.

Have you married?

Sure. Once.

Can I ask you how it was?

It was young. I don’t remember it much. We were apart a lot. I remember I didn’t like it at the end.

Hmm. I was asked to be married. Yeah. Recently.

With a girl?

Yeah. Yes.

Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me, with that. Some of my friends, good friends, just bums who got it into themselves to crawl up on each other. I’d have never known if I hadn’t seen it for myself. It’s fine.

Hmmm. Yeah.

Ain’t you supposed to ask?

Yeah. I know.

How is she?

She’s quiet. She’s stout.

You mean fat?

No. Not at all fat. Strong.

You love her?

I think I’d be alright without her.

She know that?

I think she’d be alright too.

It’ll show on you both real quick. One way or another.

What do you mean?

Nothing. What’s to mean?

So he put it in gear and we rode on and he watched the road. I could feel the chains, it wasn’t so smooth with the chains. But it gripped. We took some slugs. Smoked on some cigarettes. Crawled along. I liked the kid. He made me nervy, but I liked him. If he hadn’t come along, I wouldn’t have made it. I wouldn’t have even made it halfway backwards if I had it in me to try.

I don’t know how we got there, but suddenly we were there. It was a spot, the top of the hill. It opened up. There were these huge pines with thick trunks and some distorted skeletal branches on each one. I thought of the elephant man. I had seen the documentary. If I squinted I could see an ominous switchback that went down a long ways into the diffused glow of a town.

The wind was pelting us real good with snow, and it would get real bad for a minute and everything would white out. He stopped there. And looked down, peering strangely over the dash. It was a panorama. It was like the snow was formed of severed powerlines. The large wisps stuck together in neurotic cords that whipped and jerked in the sky and beat down in the valley. The trees up here were sparse, but they were gigantic and made breaks of the snow clouds that seemed competing for the peak.

I’m due for a piss.

Can I grab another smoke?

Yes.

He got out. I took another hit from where he had left it in the console. I lit my cigarette. I got down too. That kind of trust always ended badly.

When he was done he walked right out to the cornice. I went over there by him. I didn’t go as far as he was.

My cigarette was having trouble. I took quick inhales and was trying to shield it with my palm so I didn’t really notice it happen. And in the wind, I didn’t hear it much. I just looked up when I saw the movement on my peripheries. And there it was. A broken tree on top of the kid, like it hadn’t ever been anywhere else.

The tree was thick and I couldn’t move it. The kid wasn’t talking but his eyes were open. He kept looking at me and then behind me. Back and forth. The trunk was on his gut. He had this branch that was spilling red. It jabbed him right into the collar. Just below the collar. His mouth was bubbling life like there was some internal pressure escaping.

There was no way. No time and no way. I knew that. I like to think he knew that. Who knew what he knew?

I went back to the truck. I opened the driver’s door.

This event was one of those miracles. Like being molested. Or a robbery. Or AIDS. Or a war. Or that submerged root or rock catching at your foot just perfect as the water jumped above your head.

You think to yourself later, just how could I have been there. Right there. With all these strange combinations whirling around me. I should have played the lotto that year. You dwell on it. Sometimes you forget, but it comes up again. Your whole life. Or what was left of it. But that was your miracle, like it or not, and nothing that conclusive would happen to you again. It hit you stampede-on, that one time, and that was it. The rest of it was relegated to a reflection.

Not even enough for a movie jacket, really.

He wasn’t going to last long. I knew that. Not long enough for anything. But it might seem long to him. I hoped it was a gun he had. I don’t think I had it in me to get into him with a knife or beat his skull. It was in the door. Right by where he kept the cigarettes.

I took a slug. I took that whole thing. The kid owed me. He wouldn’t know it much. He was one of those.

And then I shook my head in the aftertaste of the alcohol. And the world came back. The kid and I were coming over the pass, coming down the other side. I had a low cigarette between my fingers. The cherry burned at them. It all came rushing. I always knew what was real when I departed from what wasn’t. But there was doom in the influence those slips had, and my hands shook when I came back as though I was again clenching a rattling force, barely containing it. The hands were always the thing. The thing you had to watch. It just happened like that.

I tossed my cigarette out the crack in the window and we went on until we got to the town, neither of us talking except in short draws.

N.V. Baker is a short story author and poet. His scribbles are inspired by the resulting confusion of existing as a stymie tethered between the imagined and the rendered. Look for his work in Weber-The Contemporary West, The Crab Creek Review, The Roanoke Review, and Peaches Lit Mag. [email protected]