Somewhere Out on I-16

Myles released the steering wheel one hand at a time, splaying his fingers to stretch out his already cramping hands. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, as the orange fuel warning pierced the cool blue light from the dash, and dusk settled on the horizon.

 

“Shit!” he said, pounding the wheel. He retightened his grip as he passed the sign: Savannah 160 mi.

He turned into the next service station on I-16 and refueled under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, looking down and away from the guy at the next pump, the clerk in the booth, the camera in the corner. As he rehung the nozzle, his phone lit up. “Constance.” It was the fourth time she’d tried to call, but he couldn’t get into a fight with her. Not now, not here, he thought. 

 

In the men’s room, he washed his face in the rust-stained sink and noticed the dark circles forming under his eyes. He looked older now, that was certain, more like his father than ever before, and he felt shamed by the thought of his father seeing him like this: avoiding his girlfriend, ducking away from security cameras like some sort of fugitive, trampling one promise after another.

 

He had watched his father take over the family business when his grandfather’s health began to wane, saw the concern on customers’ faces when they thought their neighborhood hardware store was changing, then saw that look fade when his father gave the same time and attention to a customer looking for a fifteen-cent bolt as he did to someone buying enough paint to cover their entire home. “You have to be part of the community,” his father explained to him. “What they buy doesn’t matter. Your help is what they need. It’s how Pa ran the business. It’s how you’ll do it when it comes your turn.”

 

His turn.

 

As though that were even possible now. An honest life was there for the taking if he could have just been patient, but he felt the constant need to escape from behind the counter, from under the shadow of the sign out front. Myles loved his father, but he didn’t want to be an “and son.” He didn’t want to be an “and anything.”  

 

He was sixteen then. Now he was staring at thirty, staring into the mirror of a gas station bathroom trying to figure a way to explain himself to Connie, but he was too deep to just turn around and try to right the ship. What he’d done today wouldn’t allow it.

 

He was back on the road when Connie called him again. He had to answer. If he kept ignoring her, she’d stop calling altogether.

 

“Connie! Hey... sorry I missed your call earlier.” He tried to sound cheerful, but she’d become far too acquainted with his brand of counterfeit.

 

“Why didn’t you call me back?” she demanded.      

 

“I’ve just been—”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“On the road.”

 

“On the road where?”

 

“... I’m in Georgia.”

 

Connie let out a sigh. “You told me you were done with all that.”

 

He had told her that, and he meant it at the time. Still meant it in fact, but there was no escaping the truth of what he’d done, the truth of what he was transporting and that the only way out—he’d convinced himself—was to dump it in the Georgian wetlands and hope no one happened upon it before the blackwaters could do his bidding.

 

“Connie, I just need to finish this one thing, and I’ll be home in the morning. Then we can figure things out,” he assured her.

 

“I’ve done all the figuring I need to,” she said. The line went dead as the “call ended” message appeared on his screen.

 

Myles gripped the wheel tightly once more and adjusted himself in the seat. The light from each streetlamp washed up and over his windshield one after another, the rhythm clouding his mind as he tried to remember exactly what happened earlier, where things had gone sour and why he had to react with such suddenness and force. Images from that day ticked off in his mind one by one, matching the rhythm of the passing lamps. The exchange was unremarkable. Same as any other, he thought. And then he remembered the tip of the blade coming toward him, gleaming in the sun.

 

That’s where it all got blurry. 

 

He started at a bump in the road, a rock or errant piece of wood he didn’t see in time to avoid. As he continued to piece together his day, a new rhythm emerged, a thumping from somewhere in the rear of the car. It grew louder, and he could feel the pounding in his bones, feel it in his chest as his heart raced to match its tempo. If he had a flat, he was done for. He knew where the spare was. He knew what was sitting on top of it, but he also knew he would tear up his rim if he didn’t take care of it. He pulled the car to the side of the road, tires crunching on the gravel as he approached the shoulder and put the car in park. But he was frozen in the driver’s seat, heart still pounding hard in his chest, still keeping time with the sound he realized was still coming from the back of the car.