The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ used to feel that way, Bill; it’s part of being young. It’s also a question of recklessness. I looked up the word “reck” once to see if there really was such a word. It means worry or care. As people get older they get more “reck”. Bad experiences, accidents, near misses – seeing things like we just saw – pile up, accumulate in the brain. A person becomes more “recky” every year; continuity, survival, gets bigger and bigger.

      ‘Also, the brain itself is changing. Certain kinds of mental and physical skills begin declining as early as seventeen.

      ‘I’ve watched myself becoming less sure, Bill, less capable of making decisions. When I’m driving, I feel caught between the reckless, the twenty-year-old, and the inept, the fifty- or sixty-year-old, who might not have the skills to cope with an emergency. And I can’t help projecting my limitations onto others, like you, Bill. I can’t be comfortable when you drive in ways I couldn’t handle.’

      It goes dark fast and then the first big raindrops start. The road here outside Indianapolis is packed with giant semi-trailer trucks. I pass one about every quarter mile. Thank God Dad’s all cranked up on the decline and fall of the human animal. He’d be a raving lunatic helping me get around these big bastards.

      When I turn on the windshield wiper, there’s only a humming sound. I look at the dash to check I’ve pushed the right switch. I joggle it on and off a few times.

      Man, this is going to be fun with the dark, the rain, the trucks and the voice of doom beside me. He leans forward, leaving the chair back. He fiddles with the switch; it’s kaput all right. I’m sure glad this bucket of bolts isn’t mine; I’d need to work full time just keeping it running.

      The rain is coming down in sheets now; I aim on the taillight of the truck in front of me; it’s the only thing I can actually see. I can’t pick up the white lines or the edge of the road. I’ve only got the two red lights repeated about a hundred times by each water splash on the windshield; and I’m afraid to stop.

      ‘Can you see at all, Bill? I can’t see a thing. Maybe we’d better pull over!’

      ‘I can see OK, Dad; I’ll just stay behind this truck. Long’s I see those taillights we’re all right.’

      He’s quiet. I know he doesn’t want to go on but what the hell else can we do? There’s no real shoulder on this road and it’s beginning to go under water already.

      ‘Look, Dad, you keep watch for a turnoff. If you see one, yell.’

      He rolls the window down two inches on his side so he can see out. The rain comes pouring in and swishes around the inside of the car. Even with the window open he can’t see; and with that big truck in front of us, there’s no way to pick up signs till they’re almost behind us.

      I’m tailing my truck at less than fifty feet; if I get farther behind I lose him. I’m going to get wet anyway so I roll down my window. It pours in like a boat sinking in a catastrophe movie; in one minute I’m soaking wet. I hang my head out to see if it’s any better, but the rain whips in my eyes so it’s worse than with the smeared windshield. I pull in my head and roll up the window.

      I catch some blinking lights coming up behind. I hold on to the wheel and hope for the best. It’s another semi who’s impatient with this big Lincoln tailgating one of his buddies. He steams by, and I lose whatever vision I had. The semi is throwing up dirty water and mud faster than clean water is coming down. I hold the wheel tight, keep up my speed and wait till I can see the taillights again. Our whole car gets a tug in the semi’s slipstream. I’m doing forty-five and he must be doing sixty. It’s almost a half minute of absolute blind driving, the windshield tinted brown mud, before I pick up the taillight again.

      But I’m getting the hang of it. If he puts on his brakes, the brake lights come on and I put on mine. The problem is I’m getting hypnotized by those two lights. They shimmer on the road and on the windshield; no hypnotist could think up a better gimmick.

      Just then, Dad hollers; more like yelps. There’s an exit coming in one mile. I put on the direction signal and ease to the right. I hope to hell I can pick up the turnoff. It’s pouring horse and elephant piss now. The roof of this crate’s howling with sound.

      Dad sees the turnoff arrow just in time and I turn. There are no lights behind so I slow to fifteen. There’s a dim marking along the edge of the exit road; we curve off and down to a stop. There’s a sign across the road. I kick up the highs and roll out till we read ‘BROWNVILLE FIVE MILES’. I swing hard right and start that way.

      It’s a high-crown, narrow road, and the white line’s almost invisible. I ride the crown; if anybody comes speeding along without headlights, we’ve had it.

      We cruise into town looking out of blurry windows for a motel sign. I’m hoping the cops or sheriffs or whatever they use for law here are inside. They’d never appreciate this Lincoln with no wipers nosing blind up and down the main street. We’re about to give up when we spot a sign, ‘HOTEL’, at the other edge of town. God, I hope there’s a room; spending the night wrapped in a wet blanket for two doesn’t exactly turn me on.

      This place is brick with a colonial porch. There are coach lamps with yellow bulbs on both sides of the door. Dad jumps out and dashes through the rain. He can’t get any wetter than he is, but people run hunched over in the rain as a natural thing. I know if they have a room he’ll take it even at fifty dollars a night.

      In about five minutes he comes out; he opens the door and smiles in.

      ‘I’ve got us a great room. The manager’s convinced I’m a bank robber just off the job and we’ve got the trunk filled with gold bullion, so let’s live up the part; at least put your shoes on.’

      He’s hyped again. Maybe he’s only glad to be alive, with a warm bath and dryness waiting inside. I give him the keys. He opens the trunk and struggles out his suitcase with my duffel bag. He hauls our bags onto the porch while I back the car into a parking area behind.

      I walk slowly through that warm rain. I’m smiling as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to walk through teeming rain in the night. There are hydrangea bushes off the edge of the porch and I lean over to sniff the flowers, no smell. Dad’s rocking back and forth squishing in his shoes. But he’s laughing.

      ‘Come on, Bill, you don’t have to overdo it. I’m sure this pussy’s already alerted the sheriffs in three counties.’

      We sashay into the lobby, dripping genuine Indiana or Ohio rain-water all over maroon rugs. We carry our own bags up to the room and it looks beautiful, two gigantic double beds.

      We take turns wringing clothes and taking showers. I’m completely out of dry things, so I borrow a shirt and trousers from Dad. I even borrow a pair of his jockey shorts and tennis shoes. Going down we look halfway presentable; I’m loose in his clothes and my feet are cramped in his size 8 sneakers, but we’re clean.

      Would you believe it, the manager comes over and casually introduces a gentleman who’s wearing a half-Stetson white hat. It really is, it’s the marshal for the town. He must have jumped up from dinner to come see the masked bandits without their masks. He starts polite conversation about where we’re coming from and where we’re going to; and, of course, about the car. Even if we’d gotten out of that car clean-shaven and in tuxes, this hotel manager would’ve called his friend the marshal.

      Dad looks him in the eye and asks if there’s a Colonel Sanders in town. A sheer stroke of genius. The СКАЧАТЬ