The Ice Age (15 page)

When we started nearing a town, Gunther took over the driving again. I'm not quite up to negotiating traffic yet. And all the stuff you have to do in towns; parking, stopping, starting, indicating. But I'm fine out on the open road.

Gunther checked us into a hotel. I stayed in the car. We brought everything up to the room. Gunther took a shower. I sat on the bed and typed up all the day's adventures: my driving lesson, Gunther's mysterious wander. It feels like we are finally out of the scope of the horrible vengeful hicks. Like we're back in the world again.

When he got out of the shower, I was watching Bambi on TV. He sat next to me on the bed and said, ‘Oh, my small thing,' and I was reminded English isn't his first language. He stroked my hair. I nestled into his chest. He put his arms around me and held me for so long he fell asleep. I probably seemed asleep, too. But I couldn't sleep. Being close to him again was just too electric. I didn't want to miss out on any of it. So I stayed awake. Besides, I could hear his heart beating. So I just stayed up, listening to that, until I got too tired, and shuffled down onto my pillow. By then it was practically dawn. A bird was singing.

Gunther woke up and disentangled from me, efficiently but not without tenderness. He went through his morning routine to the letter. He was a little withdrawn still, but seemed basically composed. I really want him to get his old composure back. I find it reassuring. I don't like seeing him all frazzled. I don't know what to do. But he's a pretty sturdy old horse, I guess.

We went out for breakfast. I got pancakes. They were damn tasty, too. Big and fluffy, just like I like them. This place was a family-run restaurant. One of those ones with a slew of adorable kids serving you. A big lady who resembled Aretha Franklin waved at us from behind the counter with a wooden spoon. It was nice to be somewhere normal again. It didn't seem boring at all now. Normal seemed fantastic, sent waves of relief through me. They were all so nice to us, so friendly. I don't even care if it was put on. I'm not about to get picky. Our waitress even had pigtails.

As soon as we got out of town a ways, I took over the driving again. I really think I'm starting to get the hang of it. It's funny to look over and see Gunther in the passenger seat. He looks so helpless, just sitting not doing anything, not controlling anything. Well, not controlling the vehicle, at least. Truth be told, I don't glance over that way much. I really have to concentrate.

As we got further out into what felt like the middle of nowhere, I got my confidence up, and indulged in a lingering study of Gunther. He looked like road kill. Or maybe a particularly down-trodden hitcher. Looked like I'd just scraped him off the side of the road, exhausted and defeated. He was peering back at me with haunted eyes, filled with such desperation. I was overcome. A cat smile was spreading across my face. I wanted to squeeze him, but I stayed where I was. He said, ‘That smile…that smile is…like a blanket.' He sounded like Brad Pitt in True Romance. He sounded stoned. Which wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary, except Gunther never acts stoned, even when he is. His diction is always perfect.

I stopped for gas and scanned the magazine stand for tales of the heartland. It looked like our story had stopped spreading. Hadn't felt like it ever would, felt like it would just keep growing like a wild fire. But it had thankfully been eclipsed by a genuine tragedy: a proper rape, a girl murdered. Her face was plastered everywhere. Our little incident was all but forgotten. When I got back to the car I tossed a magazine onto Gunther's lap and said, ‘They're not interested in us anymore.'

He glanced down at the cover and droned, ‘Stupid fucking world.'

I imagine it would be, if you'd lived through several different eras. I guess this one would look pretty ridiculous.

On the third day of me driving, he curled up in the backseat. He moved a bunch of stuff up to the front and stretched out as best he could. He said there'd been a change of course. We had been driving almost dead south. Now he directed me northeast.

I drove for a few hours with the radio on, eating corn chips. Gunther eventually poked his head up. I told him I was kind of tired, and asked if we could stop early today. He draped a hand heavily on my shoulder and said, ‘You're not used to driving, I'm sorry.'

We agreed to stop in the next decent-sized town. His eyes looked weird. I put this down to a shortage of prey, a departure from his vital, secretive habits. He's been with me nearly all the time.

The approach to a ‘decent-sized town' was heralded by a marked increase in doughnut signs. The number of pizza signs escalated, then fast food outlets of all description. We got stuck behind a funeral procession, making its way down the main street, then pulled into a motel.

We got to the check-in counter. We always pay up front. It was fifty dollars a night. Gunther took two wrinkled twenty dollar notes out and stared at them for a while. He held one in each palm, like he was comparing them. Then he said, ‘Be a dear and pay the man, will you?'

I took each twenty from him, added a ten, and handed it to the clerk, who looked too bored to judge us. He was watching The Young and the Restless, and had a pink sweaty half-eaten burger sitting on his desk in a styrofoam container, which he was also using as an ashtray. Surely any distraction was a good distraction, but he seemed eager to get back to it; gave the distinct impression we were bothering him. Of course there were flies, buzzing around him in slow motion. They didn't seem to be bothering him. One even landed on his greasy forehead. He didn't bother to brush it off. I felt like swatting it for him. Felt like swatting him.

‘Thanks,' I said.

‘Um hmmm,' was his reply. He couldn't even manage an ‘Enjoy your stay', but when I got to the room I could see that would have been a stupid thing to say. It was a musty shit hole. We may as well have slept in his burger container.

‘Gunther,' I said, ‘I'm so tired and hungry.'

‘Yeah', he smiled, and we ventured out.

The funeral procession was still crawling along when we got onto Main Street. We were traveling in the opposite direction, so passed each creeping car. We were passing a metallic blue American rustbucket. The driver shouted, ‘Well, what do you fuckin' know!'

It was Football Shirt. I said, ‘Gunther, that's…' I didn't know how to put it, so I just said, ‘That's the guy who crammed his dick in my ass.'

Gunther snapped out of his lethargy, or rather he incorporated the following actions into his lethargy, somehow: he glided smoothly over to the driver's door and with one graceful sweep of his arm, opened it and pulled Football Shirt out by his… football shirt. (Yes, he was wearing a football shirt to a funeral. But it looked like it had been pressed. And he was wearing what he probably considered dress jeans.) It was a shock to see this asshole again, full stop. We must have been a thousand miles from that fucking town. I was practically healed.

The guy in the passenger seat yelled, ‘Hey, what the fuck!' and lunged across in a tardy attempt to play tug-of-war with Football Shirt. He jumped out and crossed to our side of the car, to the aid of his friend, who now had Gunther's knee in his balls.

I shouted, ‘Gunther, no!' He was so clearly out-numbered. There were these two horrible creatures, and then there was the rest of the procession behind us, peeling out of their cars, rolling up their sleeves.

I've never known Gunther to resort to violence. I've only known him to string a lot of long words together. He was doing all right for himself, I must say. There was something very ninja-like about it all. I guess I could add martial arts to his bag of tricks. But I was too petrified to be impressed. These guys were trying to hurt Gunther. And they were encroaching on us like Dawn of the Dead zombies. Any second now, they would hurt Gunther, I just knew it.

Someone grabbed his hair, and pulled him backwards. I was on that guy in a second. I swung my leg up and kicked him in the balls. Like I say, I was nearly healed, and I only had one stitch anyway. But a high kick was ambitious, and I felt something tear. My jeans started filling with blood. Nothing major, just like I'd forgotten to insert a tampon.

Some of the people coming over were trying to stop the trouble. But most were joining in. I wanted to run away, but we were surrounded. So we just had to claw our way around this circle of hicks, like a couple of alley cats. Then a really hefty fellow arrived and put Gunther in a headlock.

You always picture yourself in situations like this and wonder what you'll do. I picked up something flimsy (a cardboard poster roll, I think) and I tapped him over the head with it. All it did was amuse him. When he turned around and smirked at me it made me so mad I picked up a free-standing traffic barricade and just about brained him.

He had a grotesque look of shock on his face, as he raised his hands to his head and looked for all practical purposes like he was trying to hold his brain in. Then he dropped to the ground and started to ooze blood onto the asphalt, B-horror movie style.

A shocked hush followed, which Gunther and I used as an opportunity to dart away. Some people looked up and shouted ‘hey'. Some started to follow us, but we outran them. We ran in a big circle that led us back to the motel. We threw our stuff in the car and sped out of there, Gunther drove. Fuck the fifty dollars. We heard the scream of an ambulance. Three cop cars sped past us.

‘God, Gunther,' I said, ‘this is so twilight zone.'

He didn't say anything.

We drove a long way. And he was really speeding. I told him to slow down, or we'd attract attention. He slowed it down to the speed limit. We finally got to a caravan park. It was the middle of the night, and pitch black. I didn't know where we were, Gunther probably didn't either. He told me to stay in the car, and headed up to the reception cabin. He had to buzz for a while before someone came to check us in. She was an old lady in her bathrobe. Very matronly.

We were in the caravan when Gunther finally saw the blood on my jeans. He just stared at it, like it was a tarantula climbing up my leg, and he didn't know what to do.

Then he spluttered, ‘Oh! Are you OK?'

‘Yeah, I'm fine. Are you?'

‘Uh, yeah. I'm fine, too.' Then he added, ‘I think I broke my wrist.' After about twenty seconds he said, ‘Hang on, I think it's just sprained,' and after twenty more, ‘Are you sure you're OK?'

‘I think so. I'm…I'm going to go take a shower.'

‘OK.'

The shower was in a room that could barely contain it. And they'd managed to squeeze a sink and toilet in there, too. They were all on top of each other. The water pressure was what you'd expect from a caravan: a trickle, but I don't think I could have withstood anything stronger. Gunther came in and stood there, watching a thin trickle of watery pink run down my legs.

I said, ‘Gunther, it's OK.'

He wandered back out again. I toweled myself off and joined him in the dank main section of the caravan. He was sitting on the bed, atop a stained orange plasticky bedspread. I curled up in my towel, facing the wall. He curled up next to me, and put his arms around me. Spoons, they call it. Eventually we got under the covers. I fell asleep and woke up with Gunther still clutching my naked body to him for dear life. His lips were on my shoulder. I could feel one of his fangs, just resting. If ever there was a time to bite me, this was it.

Once we were out in the daylight again, the feeling only got worse. I prayed he would bite me for real, not one of those flirty little nips. Gunther was driving. There was all manner of stuff littered about—fast-food billboards and people and cars and animals. My head was spinning, the world looked like a seething carnival. People were laughing, smoking cigarettes, and wearing bold patterned clothes, pushing strollers, chasing Frisbees, walking dogs, riding bikes, holding hands. It was all so bright in comparison to our darkness. I wanted to burrow. I wanted to dig a hole for us to hide. Hell, a grave.

I've started dreaming again, and remembering what I dream. Usually when I'm stoned I just get zonked right out and don't remember a thing. But last night I dreamed about the big funeral party brawl. Only this time, there was no funeral procession. There weren't even any cars. They were the zombies they appeared to be, swarming over the hills, converging on a single point, which was us. Zombie Football Shirt got there first. He was huge. He grunted. I said, ‘Uh…small world.'

He said, mechanically, ‘Not. Small. Enough.' Which didn't make much sense. It was very Arnold Schwarzenegger, though.

Gunther made the slow motion grab, as per real life.

The next zombie came up beside Football Shirt and said, ‘Aw…He's. Just. Mad. Cuz. We. Broke. His. Toy.'

I remember thinking. ‘Hey, they must mean me.' Then, ‘I'm not a toy.'

As if he read my mind, Zombie #2 nodded pointedly in the direction of my ass. I spun my head around. I had a wind-up string poking out of my butt.

‘I say: head for the coast, one more friend, then New York City.' It was the new, slightly revived Gunther, driving again with proper gusto, with me on map detail.

I said, ‘OK.'

I was still thinking about my dream. If only I'd slept a little longer. Maybe I could have found out what I say when someone pulls my string. But we got off to a very early start today.

We had burgers for breakfast. I guess you'd call that brunch. We sat across from each other at a tiny round plastic table, not saying much. But Gunther was looking at me steadily, with what I would classify as a beam, albeit muted. That sufficed, and well compensated for the lack of conversation. I was perfectly happy to sit there chewing, soaking up his silent approval.

He gave the waitress an extremely large tip, especially considering she looked and acted like oatmeal. She couldn't have been more unenthused, basically slapped the food onto the table, and slumped away. Slumped back over after a while, slapped something else onto the table. And when I asked for the bill she said, ‘Pay at the counter,' listlessly.