Here is the start of the book:
I don’t really remember just when it happened, when I died. I know it wasn’t a long time ago, but it wasn’t recently either. I just knew after awhile that, although I felt pretty much as I always had, better actually, things were subtly different.
I mean, it’s not as if I really thought about life being a little odd; I mean we all kind of go about our lives as if on some sort of automatic pilot until something really important and different happens to us. And really, most lives just don’t have that much really different that comes up, at least nothing out of the ordinary. My extraordinary moment came about when I saw my old friend, my best friend really, Peter Hughes.
“Hi Pete,” I said happily. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him, but when we were really young I remember seeing and playing with him almost every day of my life. He had the same red hair and freckles that I remembered, and the same gap-toothed smile. He smiled back at me, and waved. That’s when I remembered that he was dead.
This was my “wake up moment” if you will. Up to then, I’d just been coasting right along, enjoying what I thought of as my life, in good health and wellness, happy to be alive, but really just taking it for granted. I was only 35, right? Almost everyone feels immortal at that age, since for God’s sake, your life is probably at most only one-half over. I knew who I was, what I liked and did not, who my friends were, what I’d make for supper- everything about my life!
I finished my conversation with Pete as if nothing was amiss, and finally he looked down at his watch and said he had to go, his brother Larry and him were having supper with their parents, and he had to go. “I’ll see ya real soon, Wade,” he said. He always had kind of a raspy voice, ever since we were little kids together on Harnew Road West. “Call me, huh?” he said as he walked away. “It’s been a while!” And he got on his bike, and rode away down the sidewalk.
Once again, I don’t really know why this moment shocked me into a sort of wakefulness, but it did. I started thinking about what I always thought of as my totally ordinary life:
I worked as a writer, and had ever since I could remember. I wrote novels, and books on exercise and nutrition, which were sold online as ebooks, and published into paperbacks. I have many, many friends, acquaintances and neighbors, a little church I love going to, lots of pets- I’d say my life is full indeed! Nothing to complain about, or unusual there.
Maybe I’d been working too hard- sometimes when I was writing, I would forget to eat, and just get so caught up in the discovery of the story of my characters that I’d just go on and on, in a fever of inspiration. It really is true that a fictional universe can seem just as compelling and real as the one all about us, I mean anyone who has been caught up in a really good book or movie has experienced that.
Perhaps my characters had become so real to me that I had not been paying full attention to my regular work-a-day life. But that still did not explain why I had suddenly thought that my good friend, whom I was talking to, was a dead person.
I went back to my house, a two story frame house that I had lived in for my whole adult life. I loved my house, having bought it from an elderly couple who had built a brand new house across the street, up a steep hill. My wife lived there too, or had until she disappeared, oh, a few years back. I never really thought about it, although I did miss Marie. Some things just worked out that way, I guess.
I remembered painting that house, how it had taken me my whole vacation, and most of a summer to do it. I had changed the color of that 100 plus year old farmhouse and changed it from dark, peeling brown to a deep green body, with light green trim, and a coral color for those gingerbread features from the Victorian age. Exhausting, but worth it in the end.
Opening the door, my cats swarmed all over me! My gosh, I must have six cats by now, all of them in their prime. ‘Kind of crazy,” I thought, as I passed through the kitchen to the cupboard where I kept their food. I opened can after can, and put out dry kibble as well, as the menagerie crowded around my legs, purring and pushing their heads against my legs.
I had never really been a cat person, my family had never had cats- that was all Marie’s doing. And so what was I doing with all of her cats? I shook my head, in kind of a fond bewilderment: I really had become very fond of the cats! I reached down to pet a big black tom cat that Marie had named Jack, and then petted the big white head of another named Ty. The male cats had always taken mostly to me, and I to them.
Now- to the Pete problem- but then, I saw the dogs! Oh, how could I have forgotten- they were all out in the fenced in yard where I had left them to roam. They had plenty of water from a stream that ran in the back, and I also had a big trough that filled automatically from a hose as they drank it. But they were clustered at the back door of the house, wagging and wiggling to get into where I would feed them!
I laughed, happy as always to see all of my dogs, knowing that the neighbors must think that I’m crazy to keep so many animals, but I also knew that I didn’t care- I loved all of my dogs and cats.
The next 20 minutes or so was a hectic, yet fun reacquaintance with all of my critters, mostly quietly since that is the kind of animal I like best, (no little noisy yappy dogs for me!), as I petted and stroked them all, squatting down to be more on their level as they all ate. I did have to keep the dogs in a hall off of the kitchen so that they would not eat the cats’ food, but the dogs were all respectful of each other’s food bowls. They were all beautiful golden retrievers, well trained, and with quiet and gentle natures. One female, Molly, and then Charlie, Ben, and August. I knew they were not from the same litter, but they certainly could have been, since they were all of an age.
I changed the cat litter boxes, all five of them, two upstairs and two down, and finally got myself a beer from the kitchen fridge and sat at the big wooden table. I enjoyed that nice old table, and it had been needed when our daughter Nel had been little and Marie and I had fed her there, and entertained when our various family members had come to visit.
I still used that table lots, since nowadays I hosted many visits, dinners, and get togethers with family members, like Marie’s parents, and her elder sister. They came by often, and seemingly bore me no grudge for my wife’s leaving, who was of course their relation. Well, as I’ve said, there had never been any ill will between any of us, my wife included. I guess it had just been time for her to leave.
“Hello, is Pete there?” I asked over the telephone.
I had to get to the bottom of all this. Pete, my good friend- he wasn’t dead! I’d just seen him, and he looked the same as always. The same jeans, the t-shirt; the same little bicycle…
“Hello, is this Wade?” asked Pete’s mom. I said that it was, and waited. The same bicycle!? That’s when it really hit me- my best friend was a little boy, about 9 or 10 years of age! And I was 35, grown up and independent- what was going on?
“Hi Wade!” said the boy-voice of my friend. “I’ll come by tomorrow, let’s ditch our little brothers and go by ourselves to the prairie- I want to start building that fort we’ve been talkin’ about- my dad says the carpenters doing those new houses will probably give us scrap lumber.”
He went on and on, but I could barely even listen. I knew for a fact that we were the exact same age! So why, all of a sudden, was he still just 10 years old, and I was grown up? And didn’t he notice the difference himself?
I let him rattle on, as kids will do, and agreed to “play” with him the next day. It was summer vacation, after all, as Pete had pointed out, so we were totally free to do anything we wanted! My mind said, ‘Sure, Pete old buddy- you can do whatever you want, after all, you’re DEAD!’ I felt sick.
I finally hung up the phone, saying “so long” to my long dead friend, and sat down in my easy chair. All of my animals clustered all around me- cats on my lap and shoulders, dogs at my feet- it was nuts, but I liked it. I stroked Charlie’s golden head, his soft red-gold fur shining in the light of my reading lamp. He looked up at me with his deep brown eyes, and, as only golden retrievers can do, I swear he smiled up at me. The cats just purred contentedly like little motors all around.
I was surrounded with vibrant life, all about me- but why was my long-dead childhood friend also still around?
I remembered, with an effort, when he had died. We had both been 10 years old, and had been building a fort next to my parents’ garage with scrap lumber. We had really put in a good day’s effort, using old bent nails we had scrounged up around the construction site on “the prairie”, which was a really big, totally flat piece of ground that was being developed to house the burgeoning families of the post-war baby boom generation.
The young men that built those houses seemed amused to see us kids coming around, asking for lumber and old nails, and really went out of their way to oblige us. Our fort was built of two by fours cut at an angle at one end, and straight on the other, and held roughly together with nails that we laboriously pounded out to be kind of straight on the sidewalk. We even had a big, crooked piece of plywood to serve as a roof, and to us that fort looked fantastic!
My brother Jeff, and Pete’s brother Larry helped us, and they were both just one year younger than us two “big kids”, as we called ourselves. We let them help, but made a point of ordering them around as much as possible. We really liked that fort, and thought we were amazing builders.
That evening, when Pete and Larry’s mom rang the big bell that signaled that supper was ready on their ranch-style 1950’s suburban home, I looked over at Pete and smiled. He really was my best friend, and I was so looking forward to going to 4th grade with him the next school year.
“We gotta go, Wade,” he said. He swung himself through the roughly triangular window of our fort, and turned to me with his gap-toothed grin. He put his hand under his chin, and waggled his fingers at me just as Curly from the Three Stooges did, saying “Soitenly!!”
Then he and brother Larry took off, running across the street towards home. That was the night they both died, both of them, along with their parents, and their sister, in a tragic car wreck as they drove out to the Dairy Queen after supper.
And now, somehow, they were back.
I went to my typewriter. That may seem strange, but writing is my job, and when I am putting words down on paper, my thoughts seem to become orderly and logical. At least, more so than when I’m just thinking to myself, when my conscious mind just seems to become more and more confused the more that I tax it. The writing forces structure.
So, I began writing things down, a chronology of my life; trying to make sense of what was obviously just one strange aberration in an otherwise completely normal life. I wrote about my early childhood, all that I could remember, of my parents, and my many brothers and sole sister.
I wrote about my grandparents on my father’s side, and my grandmother on my mom’s, since her father had died quite young. All of my aunts and uncles, my cousins: it was as if I was affirming my own place in the natural, real world, since if I was seeing an old dead friend from my childhood maybe I was not… well, altogether sane.
The writing calmed me, made me see that I was part of the real world; I had a history, just like anybody. I had been planning to write a novel about my parents in their youth, and this would be a nice start- I estimated I had written about 4 pages, which was a good evening’s work, actually a good day’s work. Your average person has no idea how much sheer work and determination goes into writing 1,000 words, which is about 3 pages in a book. I had written about 2,000, which was double my usual daily quota.
I got up, stretched, and fetched another beer from the fridge. Those cats and dogs were everywhere underfoot, swarming along with me as we all went from the study into the kitchen.
I popped the top on a long neck, and then went over to the counter to open more cans of cat food, and pour more dog kibble into bowls- those animals were always hungry! But then again, they always made me smile. And smiling, I thought of my brothers.
I picked up the handle of the telephone, and started spinning the rotary dial. I remembered Jeff’s number like it was yesterday, although I couldn’t recall the last time I’d talked to him, or even seen him. Only one year apart, we had always been close, even though he still lived in suburban Chicagoland, where we had grown up with Pete and Larry. I dialed, and then took a long pull of beer as I waited.
“That call cannot be completed as dialed at the present time. Please try again later,” said a tinny sounding female voice recording.
Now that struck me as odd. “Cannot be completed?” Oh, well, I did live in the rural wilds of Wisconsin, after all. Technology was always a little dated- why, just a few years ago we’d still had a party line!
I took the telephone receiver handle from the wall mounted brown phone in the kitchen, and dialed Marie’s parents instead: Duke answered the phone. “There’s nobody here,” he said. Duke was always a kidder.
I heard my mother-in-law Marge in the background. “Oh, Duke, who is it?” she said, laughing.
Always, I was amazed at how these two never aged! I could have sworn that they were both about my age, although of course they couldn’t be. Both had really dark hair, thick and full, and were as healthy and vital as could be. Mine was just beginning to show a little gray, like my mom’s.
“Aw, it’s just Wade,” said Duke, and then continued talking. “How’s it goin’ there in the wilderness, boy-o? We are just watching the golf, and then the Cubs- whooo-eeee, that’s gonna be fun times!”
I could just imagine the scene; the two of them in their snug ranch house in downstate Illinois, a fire in the fireplace, the sports on television, and having just finished a meal of steak, salad, and baked potato. Some things never changed, thank God.
“Hi Duke”, I said. “I’m thinking I might come down and visit your way, if that’s alright?”
“All right? It’s G-r-e-a-T!!” said my father-in-law, imitating the Tony the Tiger commercial from TV. I heard my mother-in-law giggling in the background over the television sounds. I had always gotten along great with them both, even after their daughter Marie was no longer living with me. How good natured could you get?
I said my goodbyes, and hung up. I really liked my in-laws, and would enjoy seeing them. Maybe they would have some insights about that crazy little kid, my old best friend Pete, showing up as a kid. I thought I could stop and see my family on the way down, too, and query them about it.
I was feeling more normal and grounded by the moment. I’d figure this out. I always figured stuff out, I just needed to sound off to other reasonable people from my life. The trip would do me good!
Only one more thing: I’d need to call my neighbor Jerilyn tomorrow- she would love to take care of my animals. Just about my age, she lived alone, just down our shared rural road a ways with her dog. I’d leave all my cats and dogs with her confidently, but I’d take Charlie along with me- for company.
My alarm clock radio went off early the next morning, the dulcet tones of Bob Edwards of Wisconsin Public radio going off at 4:30 AM. Those days that I purposely got up at that early time were always my most productive, by far. Whether I needed to write, or if I was doing anything demanding, I always set my alarm for 4:30.
Today was the day of my journey, and since I am not a traveler, preferring by far to “travel” in my armchair within the pages of a book, or by following a really good movie, I knew this would be taxing on me. Some folks just can’t wait to plan their next trip afar, wanting to check off every far-off place on their “bucket list”- but I just preferred little day trips of maybe an hour or so away at most. That’s what Marie, Nel and I had always done, and now was what I did myself.
Part of it was the animals- cats are not badly traumatized, although they don’t like it if you are gone for more than a day or two. Dogs are different. Dogs are like little children that never grow up, and they need to be walked, and fed, and watered, and petted, and talked to, and otherwise be made to feel they are part of a pack.
My own dogs were doubly fortunate here, since Jerilyn would care for them along with her own dogs, and she’d feed my cats too, and even pet them all. Jerilyn is a treasure. I remember she too used to have a husband, but he’s gone, along with my wife Marie. Life is so full of changes and unexpected turns.
I worked out for about 30 minutes, making sure to stretch thoroughly on my floor yoga mat, and also do my strength work of pushups, sit-ups, chins, and self-resisted moves. Truly, if I do not get out and do some physical exercise on a daily, or near daily basis, I feel physically and mentally awful! When you are used to doing something, anything really, on a daily basis for most of your life, to do without it is traumatic. It throws you off your stride.
The cats all liked to watch me as I did my exercises, their heads moving in exact unison to my movements, as they all looked invariably at the very same things. Only the Siamese, Zeke, liked to get on the floor and “copy” me, often getting in my way, and becoming irritated when I gently moved him aside.
Then, it was the dogs’ turn. We went out for a combination run/walk through my woods, me using my ski poles to add more resistance as I walked, and to add more speed and stability when I ran. Those dogs loved this early morning jaunt through the woods! We would startle deer and turkeys, and squirrels chattered at us in irritation from the tall pine branches, through which the summertime sun was just beginning to glow.
What I liked best was simply the incredible oxygenation of the air, redolent with piney odor. That, and the energizing feel of my body working, the dogs all around me. I think the dogs relish the dead things they find the most, and the comradely freedom of moving together in a pack.
After feeding all the dogs and cats again, then showering, I packed my single bag, loaded the truck, and went back in for breakfast. There we all were- me eating my eggs and drinking my green smoothie, (another daily habit), the dogs lying on the floor, having eaten their food in about 10 seconds, and the many cats slowly eating a bit from this bowl and that, picky as always. But they did like the big bowl of cream I put down each morning, bought weekly from a farm just down the road.
And so, I was at last ready to go, to leave my “fastness”, my Fortress of Solitude, my Bat Cave- I just needed a few things more. I got my concealed carry holster, my Ruger SP101
.357 revolver, and three boxes of ammunition.
Why three? Well, my theory is that my first chambered load of the five shots in this small stainless steel pistol should be a plain-Jane .38 bullet. If I need to shoot again, I have a .38 special ready next in the chamber with some extra power. The last is a .357 magnum round- anything that round does not stop, or the two more .357 rounds behind it- well, it has to be bigger than a bear!
I like to be prepared. Walk softly, but carry a big stick, and all of that.
If I have to drive anywhere, I prefer the very early morning. The sun just up, birds chirping, traffic at a minimum. I had the windows down in my old truck, and Charlie by my side, looking out the other window.
I liked my old truck, a 1962 green Ford F100, pretty as an old dog, mechanically perfect, if altogether basic, and somewhat primitive by modern standards. I had always told Marie, back when we were together, that I liked old things: old trucks, old houses, and old women. Although she had been young at the time, she never really seemed to like this much…
Tried and true, like my old pistol. It would never jam, I could keep the same loads in it for years, pick it up, and it would fire right away, just like my truck. Modern automatic pistols and rifles routinely jam, and need lots of upkeep and cleaning. Just like young women.
Then, I thought I’d stop by Pete’s house, see him and Larry and their parents before I left. ‘Wait a minute!’ I thought. ‘His parents are dead- and so is he!’ Besides which, I realized that I had no idea where he lived now. So, how did he come riding up on his little kid’s bike to my house, miles out in the Wisconsin countryside? Where did he come from?
‘Heck’, I thought, ‘I’ll figure that out later.’ I would just head south to Illinois, check on my relations, and get my bearings. Maybe I’d been living in my old farmhouse so long that I was just out of touch with reality.
One other habit of mine was quite quixotic ( it seems to me now that most of my propensities fall into that category): I like to take back roads, “blue highways”, two lane blacktop roads instead of the bland, too-fast-to-even-look-around interstates. Just as in my daily life, I prefer to look around and enjoy the journey, not just get there as fast as possible and then have more time to watch TV and eat bonbons.
So, I headed straight southwards, into La Crosse, Wisconsin just below me. Passing under the Interstate, I noticed there was no new construction going on, which was wonderful- I also don’t like change!
I saw the Harter’s gas station to my right as I headed south on Rose street. A narrow, two lane road- someday, I thought, they should widen it. I thought of turning left on Clinton St., and then go south on Caledonia to the Sweet Shop, the pre-eminent candy and ice cream store in town, and in my opinion the entire world.
I wasn’t that big on candy, but if dark, wonderful, home made chocolate candies are anywhere on your list of “likes”, well then this would be your dream come true! I could envision the store, unchanged since the 1930’s, with the counters loaded on one side with endless varieties of chocolates and hard candies and nuts, and on the other, big tubs of home made ice cream just waiting to be scooped out into cones, dishes, or made into elaborate sundaes for your pleasure. My mouth watered, and I thought ‘Hey, I don’t really have a timetable- and they do open really early!’ And so I turned left onto Clinton, and then right on Caledonia.
I haven’t mentioned yet that I had been a mailman in La Crosse for years and years. I had transferred up from Illinois, and it had been a wonderful move, both for Marie and myself. The “Driftless Region” in Wisconsin is a magical place, where the scenery is as beautiful as the work ethic and basic decency of the folks that live there.
Think of it as Lake Woebegone of the Prairie Home Companion without the liberal moralizing, and out-of-tune singing of its long-time host…
The real deal, in other words! My first mail route in La Crosse had been this same one, route #33 on the north side of La Crosse, which encompassed all of the businesses of Caledonia Street on the north side of the city. Downtown North they called it. I had gotten to know them all, delivering the mail to them six days of the week, for many years.
There was the Maid Rite, where I had usually eaten lunch, with great milk shakes and “loose meat” sandwiches. Mark’s Jewelers, where Mark himself greeted me each day, his magnifier attached to his eyeglasses, as he labored on the inner workings of old clocks and jewelry repair. The whole family was there, and friendly as could be.
There was (and is!) a lawyers’ office, an insurance office, pet store, used furniture store, a hobby shop, and a drug store. Even a bank on the corner, The Exchange State Bank. Of course, there was also the obligatory Wisconsin town bar, just next to a shoe store. Small town Americana, just north of Small City Americana, La Crosse. It was ideal.
I smiled broadly as I drove past them all; they were old friends. It was too bad that nowadays I rarely got down here, even though it was just a few miles away from my home. I pulled over in front of the Sweet Shop, just across from St. James church. Luckily, there was no wedding or service that day, and no holiday was coming up where people would be buying chocolates, so there was plenty of parking.
Leaving the two truck windows wide open for Charlie, I walked under the green awning with Sweet Shop emblazoned on it, and pushed open the old wooden door to the tinkle of an old-fashioned bell announcing my entrance.
“Can I help you?” asked a youngish man with dark hair.
I was surprised, normally Bill was always here; the owner, who followed after his father and grandfather in the family business. Bill was about my age, but this was just a kid. “Where’s Bill?” I asked, since I’d never seen this youngster, and knew all of his help, who were mainly high school kids from nearby Logan High.
There was a silence. Then- “I’m Bill! Who are you??”
It was my turn to be silent. Then, I asked “Bill Grossklaus? Of the Sweet Shop?” I thought he was joshing me. I knew Bill didn’t have any kids, or I would have assumed-
“Of course I’m Bill Grossklaus. And how DO I KNOW YOU??” He seemed angry, and looked at me like I was someone who had never crossed over into the path of the North Side of La Crosse in my life. He was clutching a tray of candy he had been sorting into the glass case before him, and looking up at me incredulously.
Last I’d seen Bill, he had been a middle aged man, friendly and talkative, but somewhat worn down with the constant interaction with people. Very nice, but with traces of gray in his hair from a long life of running a small business. About my age- 35 or so. This was a kid in his early twenties at most.
“Well, Bill,” I said, humoring him, “why then you must know me as the mailman to this store for umpteen years. Anyway, all I want is some of your excellent dark chocolate walnut bark, and a couple of your Maple nut goodies- oh, and a small box of the Old Fashioned’s.”
“Bill” set down his tray, and reached behind the counter for the candies I had ordered. He sorted them carefully into white paper bags, separated by small waxed paper dividers, and rang up the total on the old metal cash register that I remembered so well.
He gave me the total, which of course was far less than it was worth, anywhere else in the country. I handed him a ten dollar bill, and he began peeling dollars out of the drawer for my change, licking his fingers as he did so.
“You know our best candy, sir,” he said, handing me my change, “but, no offense, I have never seen you before in my life!”
I left the store, stunned. I had been better known on this street than anywhere else in my life! Something, I had no idea what, had changed.
I took my candy, and I left the Sweet Shop. I had no idea what was going on- you have heard of the notion of ‘Comfort Food’? Well, that is what anything from the Sweet Shop was to me- I always ate healthy, almost “Nazi-like Food-ism” healthy according to Marie, but sometimes- heck, I patronized the home made, wholesome candy and ice cream maker on my mail route. Anything else would seem, well, unpatriotic.
But this was anything but comforting, and patriotic. I had gone into a place where, like in the old Cheers tv show: “Everybody knows your name…” And I had been their real life Cliff!
My experience had been anything other than that: even the person most likely to know my name had NOT! I had planned to eat the chocolate walnut bark right away, since it was dark chocolate with the walnuts impressed within it, rich and crunchy all together, and completely irresistible. But now, I just felt vaguely- sick. I was like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life- ‘don’t you know me, Bert?’
It’s no fun to be an invisible man! What if I went to the Caledonia Street Bar next, and ordered a flaming run punch from Nick, the bartender I saw daily for years? (Actually, his name was Andrew, but I didn’t plan on risking a visit).
I just kept on driving south through the city, planning to catch highway 33 going east on the far south end of town. Like I said, I like two-lane highways, not interstates. I like to see the landscape as I go through it, not just other speeding cars and concrete dividers designed to maximize speed and nothing else. And so, little highway 33 was absolutely perfect- twisty, scenic beyond belief in the views of endless bluffs and coulees, and completely rural after I left La Crosse. Not that La Crosse is a big city, thank God!
I drove along in my old truck, other cars speeding past me in the left lane. I was still a little shaken, but my mood was improving by the moment, as I passed through little towns like Coon Valley, and Ontario, Wisconsin. As I chugged up the road just east of Ontario, the little six cylinder engine of my aged truck working hard, I turned on my radio.
Since the old tube radio was only AM, I had just a couple of stations to choose from: a sports channel I never listened to, and a polka channel that I only listened to sometimes. (I am quite a cornball, now you know)! But usually, I listened to 1410, WIZM out of La Crosse, and now one of my favorite announcers was on:
“This is Paul Harvey- Stand By for News!!”
I never tired of old Paul. I had listened to him on the mail route for many years, and even before that, when I had been a youngster back in Illinois. I listened happily, as I ascended the winding blacktop into Wildcat Mountain State Park, enjoying the gradual change in elevation along with the improved radio reception.
This park is truly a jewel among parks, as not only is it rather unknown, and so rarely visited by the crowds that overwhelm more mainstream parks, but it is also so rural and thus protected that it seems truly wild. The term “mountain” might seem extreme for Wisconsin, but even if it is no Rocky Mountain High, it is high enough, and grand enough, for me!
I was nearing the highest point of the park, just past the overlook point, and was getting ready to descend. Now, in an old truck with manual brakes, and no backup system in place in case that one single brake line should fail, I was well used to using the four-on-the-floor gear shift as a braking aid. This is similar to what those those No Engine Braking signs you see as you pass into a community are about, since they don’t want the noise of a real “engine brake” on heavy trucks; but, in my case, it is just a silent downshifting achieved by my pushing down on my ancient clutch pedal, and slowly downshifting through the gears.
It was smooth, and steady, but most of all- it kept me under control on steep descents.
No sooner had I peaked on the top of Wildcat Mountain, and begun my slow, controlled descent, than I heard a loud “HOOOONNNNNKKKK!” right behind me!
It was an eighteen wheeler, a “semi-trailer”, a Big Rig- and it was right on my tail!
Now I have always been of the opinion that so far as driving goes, I will do what I deem is safe, and if you don’t agree, why then, you can just pass me by. Since I am always one of the slower vehicles on the road, this is a philosophy that I live and love.
But in this case, there was a giant truck right behind me, almost pounding into my tailgate, and he was honking his stupid horn as if he was possessed. His rig outweighed my own vintage truck by maybe 50 to 1, meaning he would absolutely crush me totally if he even grazed my bumper.
“This is Paul Harvey- Good Day!” I heard as I bumped my shifter up to 3. I had planned to stay in 2 until the bottom of the hill, but this big rig nightmare bastard was right behind me, and unrelenting. I mean, if there had been anywhere, anywhere at all that I could have pulled over, I would have. But there was nowhere- only steep drop-offs from the narrow road, leading into deep coulees and valleys that would result in my old Ford becoming a flaming wreck when it hit bottom- not a good option.
Just my luck: heading south, well- east right now, but ultimately south to check on my relations and their welfare, and some Braker- Braker 1-9 idiot is all of a sudden on my tail. I fingered the Ruger in my pocket, feeling vaguely reassured by the weighty presence of its stainless steel body, but still just as scared as ever of that rolling juggernaut right behind me- what could a bullet, however well aimed, really do against all of that weight and momentum?
Not much- take out the driver, who I could see in my rear view mirror as an almost demonic presence, with a long black beard, and eyes of gleaming hate- that is really all that I could see in my brief glimpse. His arms were covered with tattoos, and his face looked as if it was permanently screaming invectives, undoubtedly at me- it was not an inspiring view. Really, what did he expect me to do?
All at once, I felt a “Whump!” on the backend of my truck. Charlie, who had sat up awhile ago, sensing my unease, suddenly barked. He whimpered a little too, and then looked back at the truck behind us, and curled back his lips from his muzzle, baring his teeth. The truck shimmied, and with an effort I yanked on the hard-turning manual steering wheel, that fortunately was far bigger than those in modern vehicles, just for instances like this when more leverage was called for.
I looked over at my sweet natured Charlie, still baring his teeth viciously. Since a golden is an extremely unaggressive type of dog from an already very tranquil, people-loving breed- why, for him to behave this way, almost as if he was sensing a ferret or a coyote- it was unheard of. Suddenly, he started snarling and barking in a fury, as if he sensed a more than human, or perhaps a less than human threat right behind us.
I was in a quandary! Tons of rolling metal were right behind me, and ready to smash again into my back bumper. Charlie was literally throwing himself against the large plate glass rear window of the old Ford, as if he wanted to smash through and throw himself at the windshield of the truck! I could almost feel the hatred he felt for the Peterbilt, or perhaps at the driver behind us- then, looking again into the rear view mirror and through the back glass into the front of the big rig, I got it. I saw what my dog saw.
Behind the wheel of that rig was a face and aspect of demonic lunacy. The beard, the tattoos; all of that was true to type, no surprise there. But the eyes: this driver had eyes of gleaming red coals, as if lit by the fires of hell, and his big semi-truck was no real truck after all. It had no wheels! Underneath, where the 18 wheels should have been, was- nothing, nothing at all! The thing was suspended on thin air. And it was coming after me.
“Whump!!!” This time, I could barely get my truck back on the road. It took all of my strength, and I think if it wasn’t for Charlie snarling and literally screaming his hate in dog-language, I would not have found the strength, and gone crashing down with the two of us to an early death in the flames and screaming metal.
But get back on the road I did, and then I did the only thing I could think of. I slammed on the brakes, and instantly after that I came to a brief stop despite the pushing behind me. I put the truck in park, set the brake, and leaped out, Charlie right behind me. With the driver’s side door hanging open, and the truck being pushed inevitably down and veering to the side of the road down which lay a steep, pine covered canyon, I ran with my pistol, my dog snarling viciously as he ran beside me.
Now, the truck from hell was right beside me, inevitably forcing my little Ford before it, grinding it along- even in park and with the brakes on-and I heard the shearing of metal as it went, my old truck gradually turning sideways as it was pushed inexorably to the canyon’s edge.
As it was pushed slowly by, lurching along with shrieks of tortured gears and squealing brake pads, my anger reached at least the level of my dog’s rage. I held my Ruger before me, two handed, and aimed at the driver of the hell-truck. He was leering, and laughing, with rows of teeth filed to points, (or was he just born that way?), and he held up a strange crystal-shaped object of a deep emerald green color. His side window was down, and he held the crystal in his hand, or maybe it was a paw, with talons instead of nails, and he seemed to seek a certain angle. Then- the crystal shot out a jet of green flame! Charlie leaped at that same instant, and I fired three shots in rapid succession.
Charlie had been before me, even more anxious than I to get at this fiend from hell, for that is what we both had now concluded that he was. The beam shot directly at him, as the hell-trucker laughed in a voice like that of a torturer gloating over a screaming victim, and Charlie leaped in a rage at the open window.
Fortunate it was indeed that he leaped at that moment, for the green stream of light hit the earth where he had been, and a huge chasm opened up, rocks and soil disintegrating before it, smoking and smelling of brimstone and sulphur. The fiend driver scowled, and started to readjust his crystal in his unhuman hands, and it started again to glow-
But my dog, my old friend Charlie, gentlest animal I had ever known- up ’til then- had leapt high, higher than ever I thought he could leap, to fix his teeth on the very arm that held that sorcerous crystal. This gave me the brief chance I needed!
I pulled on the trigger; once (.38), twice (.38 Special), and thrice: .357 magnum.
The crystal had been quickly aimed at Charlie, the more immediate threat, but Charlie was airborne as the beam struck where he had been. As he flew up towards the open window of the hell-truck, the nightmare trucker’s twisted face disintegrated in a welter of blood and brains. The first two shots slowed his movements down, but did not stop them. The thing had incredible powers of vitality, far beyond those of a normal man, but also could clearly be harmed by mortal weapons!
With the .357 magnum round, not only did the red eyes dim and go out- they exploded- as did the entire hideous head of the monster driver. Charlie, who had reached the trucker, let go of the unnatural arm of the creature, looking as if the taste disgusted him, and dropped down beside me. The green crystal also fell from the trucker’s misshapen taloned hand, and lay there spinning on the pavement, gleaming like an emerald top from a nightmare.
And the huge, unnatural, floating, Peterbilt wheel-less big rig from hell, just slowly… faded away. It simply- gradually dissipated, as if it’s very essence and being were intertwined with that of its fiendish driver, who also just slowly- disappeared.
And then, there we were- me and my good dog Charlie, limping a little from his unnatural exertion, by leaping so high and attacking. I knelt down and clasped him to my side. “Good boy, Charlie,” I said, although at that moment it certainly did not feel like enough. I had absolutely no idea what was going on, but I did know that my dog had saved my life, and I was grateful. Without him there, that shot of hellish power from the crystal would have been aimed at me.
My dog was sniffing the green crystal stone, which really was rather beautiful in an otherworldly sort of way. Hesitant, I kicked it lightly with my foot. Nothing. I bent and picked it up, and gazed into its intricately cut, faintly luminous depths. ‘It must be worth a fortune,’ I thought dully.
It was Charlie’s barking that brought me around. It was as if he was barking at the green stone, and it was obvious he did not like it. And how long had I been standing there, gazing into its depths? Nervously, I stuck the stone, which was about as big as my fist, into the side pocket of my jeans. As soon as it was out of my sight, its influence immediately went away, and I felt normal- at least as normal as I could feel after destroying a rolling, wheel-less fiend from hell, or worse.
I beckoned to Charlie, and we both got back into my truck, and got it started. Amazingly, there was very little damage- just a badly creased rear bumper, which also seemed to have been subjected to extreme heat, since it was sagging and misshapen, as if it had been melted.
Shaking my head wonderingly, I slowly backed away from the precipice upon which we were precariously balanced, and wondered just what we were up against. It almost seemed as if hellish fiends, and some kind of strange force overall was trying to prevent this inconsequential man and his dog from traveling to visit their friends and relations.
Why this should be the case, I had no idea. What we were up against- similar conclusion. But I was heartened by one fact:
Mortal weapons worked!
No matter what we were up against, at least we had a fighting chance. I took a moment to reload.
Charlie seemed none the worse for his encounter, and jumped into the truck when I opened the passenger door. He looked up at me with a big golden’s smile, as if he had just retrieved a mallard duck for me, and now we could be on be our way. In spite of myself, I smiled, wishing I could be more like a golden retriever, happy and content, and in the moment, despite things that only humans are capable of worrying about.
And so, with Charlie smiling contentedly beside me, I resumed my journey down the side of Wildcat Mountain on highway 33, heading south. I knew it would be no ordinary journey.
My Afterlife at 99 cents til June 19, 2018
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