Body of Immorality (6 page)

Needless to say, Henry Rohrey did not have trouble entertaining himself while on the open road.

He was a stolid man, but not overly heavy. He had a thick black beard and hair in a need of a trim. Yellow suspenders kept his jeans up. He wore extra large T-shirts; they bulged from the thickness of his chest and biceps. Rohrey looked intimidating, but he was gentle at heart. He appreciated every kind of humor.

Driving the roads gave him time to cleanse his thoughts, free himself from the burdens of the rest of the world, and that’s what he was doing now. He loved this part of it, his favorite, no music, no radio talk shows, just the drone of the diesel, the wind whipping through the cab, and the quiet sights he passed. This was life at its finest. This was perfect.

When Henry contemplated life, it was
simple
contemplation, something along the lines of:
How much longer is this damn road?

It was good to think, not do much else—not
think
much else as he followed the curving, rising road of Highway 91 through small towns he could fit into the palm of his hand.

Pulling him from his long drive (because he had been behind the wheel since six o’clock this morning), a voice came through the radio. He’d forgotten to turn it off, and felt that nostalgic bliss slip—if only temporarily—away:

“
Baby Rohrey, come in Baby Rohrey, do you copy?
”

Rohrey didn’t know anyone who called him, Baby Rohrey. He knew lots of truckers, however, with some rather bizarre cognomens: My Feet are Burning, Too Much Caffeine, Bunny’s are Funny, and similar things. Someone had even called him, Wilted Titty once.

Rohrey picked up the c.b. and pressed the button. “This is Henry Rohrey,” he said. “Over.”

“
Henry Rohrey? Is your name Henry Rohrey? I thought your name was Some Kinda Wonderful, or Polished Shoes, or some damn thing. Henry Rohrey’s got no pizzazz!”

“That’s just the name momma gave me,” Rohrey said, grinning. At least the man had a sense of humor. Rohrey had to admit—as much as he loved it—it
did
get boring on the open road sometimes, the reason for the chains “Who might this be?”

“
Well, now, it might be any number of party crashers,”
the man said. “
Maybe a distant cousin, a goshdamn rocket scientist for all
you
know, girly boy. Maybe I’m the still small voice in your head trying to explain the importance of the life hereafter. Do you believe in the outer conscience, Rohrey-ole-girl?”

Henry wrinkled his brow. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Henry didn’t appreciate the way the yokel talked. Who
was
this joker anyway?

He longed for peace and quiet suddenly. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

“No offense,” Rohrey said, “but I’ve got a delivery to make. If you don’t mind…?”

He reached up to flick the switch on the radio to the ‘off’ position. But before he made the connection, the voice came back:

“
Hey now! Not so fast! I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just, you know, it gets kinda
lonely
out here on these deserted stretches with no one to
talk
to. You know what I mean? I
know
you know what I mean, Rohrey. It’s not like you’ve ever been in need of
company
before. I know you get lonely, even if you
do
like being on your own all the time.”

Was that a faint giggle through the static? It had to be someone he knew, someone he’d gotten close to at a diner somewhere. He hadn’t talked to another trucker since Salt Lake City, and that had just been idle chat.

“Look here, mister,” Henry said, trying to keep his composure. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m shutting you off. I’m just not in the mood. Nothing personal.”

He placed the receiver on the radio, flicking the switch to the ‘off’ position harder than necessary. The static cut off instantly.

He might hurt the guy’s feelings, Henry thought, but he wasn’t in the mood for games. Something about the way the man joked put him on edge. It wasn’t how Henry wanted to enjoy Idaho’s scenery.

He shifted in the seat again. The cool evening wind felt good against his face. He took a deep breath and shut the man’s voice out of his head, trying to enjoy the ride. Fifteen minutes went by without a single interruption, a distraction, a single car driving by. Talk about enjoying your time alone.

Maybe it was faulty wiring,
he thought, and wondered
why
he had this thought.

Surprising him, somehow—after his relaxing fifteen minutes—the voice came through the radio again, despite the switch turned to the ‘off’ position. Henry thought he was imagining it.

“
I don’t understand why you’d cut me off right in the middle of our conversation, Rohrey-ole-girl,”
the man said. “
What is the
meaning,
I would like to know? Did I offend you in some way? Did I bring out the
worst
in you, Booby?”

The radio was not an old one. He knew it was in perfect, working order. When he shut it off, he knew he’d put an end to any incoming calls.

Cold sweat broke out on Henry’s neck, armpits, and the crack in his buttocks. His heart skipped a beat. His furrowed his brows. A minute ago, life had brimmed with meaning and satisfaction. Had some unruly, unnatural thing just happened? Was he home in bed, dreaming foolish dreams? In seconds, percipience took a sudden leap, a noticeable shift into a territory he’d never been before. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was a trifle…
frightened?

But doesn’t that justify there
is
something wrong with it?
Henry thought.
Obviously, the radio is
not
in working order. Obviously the damn thing has malfunctioned, and now I have to listen to this creep whether I want to or not!

Henry looked at the switch turned to the ‘off’ position.

Confirm what? The switch doesn’t work. That’s all.

It did not explain, however, the cold sweat. Where was this sudden, barren fear coming from suddenly, as if he’d stepped into a freshly dug grave? The fear came from knowing the c.b.
was
in perfect working order. The voice was stronger than radio transmitters. In the coldness of his heart, Rohrey
knew
this.

Where’s Rod Serling when you need him?
he thought.

“
Now, then Rohrey, ole girl,”
the voice chimed in. “
What is the cause of your actions? What is the reason for your behavior?”

He did not care that the voice had crossed from one unknown dimension to another.

Henry picked up the c.b. and heatedly shouted into it:

“Look here, you sonofabitch! I’m in no mood for games, you got that? I don’t know who the hell you are, but you get off this line right now! Is that understood? Do I make myself clear?”

Waiting for a reply, Henry received a long lapse of silence instead. After twenty seconds, the voice started up again:

“
You know something, Rohrey? You’ve pushed the wrong buttons, you have. Shouting is one thing, old girl. It’s rude and doesn’t suit you. But, ‘sonofabitch…Now, that was
not
a very nice thing to say. ‘Sonofabitch’ will take you to some unlovely places, Rohr-buster. ‘Sonofabitch’
sure
wasn’t the right thing to do.”

Henry gripped the wheel, knuckles white, teeth grinding together. His ears hurt.

The idea that the voice was coming through on its own didn’t concern Henry Rohrey. He accepted the fact that the radio had malfunctioned. Now, he was simply irate. Henry wanted a moment alone with the bastard,
whoever
he was. Just five seconds in a dark room…

Rohrey reached out with his right hand (left hand still holding the wheel) and clutched the radio mounted on the dashboard. Using all his might, he yanked, tugged, and pried at it, all the while keeping his eyes on the road. After some vicious, sweat-gathering violence, the radio came lose, sending black particles of plastic through the air. Irritated his relaxing drive had been ruined, Henry tossed the radio out the cab of the truck and onto the highway. He looked in the side mirror and watched it shatter on the asphalt of Highway 91.

Henry was sweating, breathing heavily. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, and managed to smile.

Was he going crazy? Christ! Nothing like this had ever happened before. My Feet Are Burnin’ was a practical jokester, a disgusting one even, but he didn’t know any truckers who were downright
sadistic.

Henry was, however, aware of the dark region he’d slipped into. Another side convinced him nothing was amiss at all.

All systems clear,
Henry thought.
We got a deadline to make.

Yet, he was breathing heavily for reasons he didn’t understand. If he were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of his ears accompanied by the sound of a screaming locomotive.

A malfunction was the only explanation, but he’d need a new explanation in the following seconds because suddenly—
without
static,
without
radio—the voice was everyone around him. It was bouncing through the cab of the semi:

“
Now then, Rohrey-ole-girl, a rule or two in the etiquette of politeness. No name calling. Is that understood?”

The voice was right next to Rohrey’s ear. The stranger was invisible yet—somehow—sitting on the seat beside him.

“
I SAID, ‘IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?’”

Henry did not reply. He was testing the voice, seeing how far it would go. Rohrey was infuriated, throttled at the same time. He was silently daring the voice to show itself. He’d settle this confrontation! He considered slowing Baby down, stepping out of the cab, onto the road, and shrieking, “
SHOW YOURSELF, YOU SONOFABITCH!”

“
Henry, you are making me very angry. If you do not answer me, several things are going to happen. I will take control of Baby-doll here and drive you off into the land of Mary Poppins. I will set fire to the fuel tank. I will grab your nuts from between your legs and squeeze so hard you’ll wish you’d filled out an application for the Vienna Boys’ Choir. Do you hear me?”

The preposterousness of these threats made Rohrey think otherwise. Suddenly (he didn’t know how), but he
believed
what the voice was telling him. He believed it could do all those things and more. It could reach up between his legs with invisible hands and pluck his manhood from between his thighs. Oh, yes. It could do all that and more.

The slip was real, only Henry wasn’t
aware
of the slip. This time, the slip was darker. He forgot his failed marriage, his dying mother, the unease he felt at never graduating high school. He wasn’t aware of the deadline at 11:30 pm that night. He didn’t even know what state he was driving in. The scenery disappeared, unnoticed and unappreciated. The semi was only a semi. Baby was part of a fading dream.

Like an obedient child, Rohrey replied:

“Yes. I understand.”

“
Well then, that is
very
good. I mean that is just
faaan- tastic!
That is suuu-pernal. Joy and laughter, yes sir! What do you think of
that,
Rohrey?”

“I think that’s just fine,” Henry said, like a robot.

He did not believe in the supernatural. He did not put his faith in the Almighty. When he heard ghost stories or tales confirming visitations from the dead, Henry questioned, scoffed, and raised his eyebrows. He was a good skeptic, shaking his head in disgust. He made contemptuous sounds. Sometimes, Henry even laughed with considerable volume at these stories.

Rohrey, however, was listening now, virtually slapping his heels together. Yes,
sir!
Okay,
sir!
Anything you say,
sir!
He did not question the authority because it was more powerful than he was. Gradually, it worked its way under his flesh, a gentle, oozing acceptance. Henry felt as if he’d been drugged.

“What do you
want
from me?” Rohrey asked, after a time.

“
That is a
very
good question,”
the voice replied. “
That is a
very
good question, Rohrey-ole-girl. I should give you about a
million
points for asking a question like that. A question like that has got
depth;
it’s
rich!
Why, a question like that might take you to some
happy
places. How did you come up with a question like that, Rohrey-ole-girl? I didn’t think you had the
faculties
to get in
touch
with a question of that magnitude. Are you Buddy’s Boy’s Pet Rocket Assistant or something? Can you tell me that, Rohr-buster? Are you some kind of fucking
genius?”

Rohrey sat and thought about it.

This is
not
the slip,
he thought.
The part where my brain accepts the unnatural and becomes a part of the
unnatural
with acceptance. I am
not
losing my mind. This is
not
happening. I am just bored! I’m making it all up!

“It’s a simple question,” Henry replied, not seeing the road, but still driving. Something was driving
him
while
he
was driving the truck. “What do you want from me?”

“
Who’s to say what I want, Henry. I mean everybody wants something, don’t they? President wants a good hand job, and not from his wife. Athletes want more money because they think they’re worth more than ten-zillion-goddamn dollars for putting a big orange ball in a tiny fucking basket. Artists want inspiration. They’re all a bunch of greedy cocksuckers, if you want to know, Henry. Hate the whole goddamn lot of them. The question perhaps, Rohrey-girl, is what do
you
want? What does your little brain-pan think about more than anything in the known universe?”