The Excess Road Read online

Chapter Three: Flash forward, flashback

  The cops are cardboard cutouts until the dog finishes searching. No rights are read. I step out into the bright hall and give the dog space to exit my room. The letter was address side down.

  The tall cop slips a piece of folded paper out of his pant’s pocket and gives it to me. My hands shudder as I unfold and read. He eyes me the whole time. On the paper are my home address, phone number and my mother’s name. I hand it back with a nod.

  “It is all correct,” I say.

  The cop yanks the leash. The dog’s nails scrape and clack the floor as they trot off. As they reach the stairs, the tall cop looks over his shoulder. I spin my ring.

  “You fit the description of a person spotted with Mr. Baumgarten entering a know drug factory. Keep your nose clean boy. I’ll be seeing ya,” he says and points.

  He disappears into the shadow filled stairwell.

  I hear van doors slam and engines rev. Through a dusting of yellow pollen on the glass, I witness the vans trail behind the unmarked police car. That was why they were here. Cops tipped them off. They wanted to capture a cuff and stuff. Am I a suspect? No, I have an alibi. Maybe they found something else?

  Down the squiggle of a hillside road, one white van drives up against the traffic of the fleeing circus caravan. The new comer pulls in right below the window.

  “Must have got the time mixed up,” I say and exhale a patch of fog onto the window.

  A three person crew exits. Leading the group is a statuesque woman in a power suit and hooker heels. Her light weight charcoal skirt accented by cement colored pinstripes swings as a silent bell ringing the rhythm of her steps. The camera man lugs a shoulder mount video camera as he squints in the furious light. Bringing up the rear is a shaggy guy toting a silver lighting reflector. Electrical cords drag behind him. I rub the rough sandpaper stubble on my chin and go grab a plastic cup, fill it at the water fountain, descend the stairs and propel myself into the curious day.

  I step out into a laser beam. My chest rises and falls in the rubbery hot air. I slide my way to the corner and watch them set up. The shaggy guy wipes his face with his collar as he pants. He doesn’t see me. The sidewalk is a skillet.

  “Bro, you want some water?” I ask. He twists around and drops a cable.

  “Shit. Uh, no thank’s man.”

  He looks at the cup as if it was covered in herpes.

  He bends down to pick up a black cable.

  “Sure? Hot as hell out here.”

  “No, thanks. Didn’t think I’d see any students around today. I thought ya’ll left.”

  “Most did.”

  “Hey, you know the students involved?”

  “Thought I did,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Sorry to bother you.”

  After tossing the water on the sloping sidewalk between my dorm and Whitney Hall, I pat the corner of the brick building as I round it and walk to the side entrance. With a click, I wrench the heavy fire door open but I don’t go through. The door crashes into the frame. Creeping back on tip toes, hidden by the shade of the building, I slip back to listen to the reporter perform her report. Above, two ravens call to each other and hop along the tops of the old growth trees bordering access road. The reporter uses her hand as a visor while rotating up to look at the canopy.

  “Fucking scavengers,” the cameraman says.

  The birds go silent. She snaps back into place with a toss of her hair. She stares directly into the lens of the camera as her forehead begins to perspire and they begin to shoot.

  “I’m Elizabeth Hundley. The tragedy that changed the landscape of this quiet Appalachian community comes to an end as drugs and violence claim more victims.”

  “Comes to an end? Not even close,” I whisper.

  “Caw, caw, caw,” cascades down from the periwinkle sky. I cover my eyes, peer to the heavens and see the ravens circling above. The crew pays them no mind as a glimmer of silver on the ground garners my attention. A foil wrapper with a half-eaten granola bar lies next to their gear.

  “Stop,” Elizabeth says and she looks up.

  As if on cue, the ravens dive bomb her and then rise with swift wing beats. She recoils as white liquid feces splatters on her shoulder. The shaggy guy and the cameraman jump back and muffle their laughter as she whisks off her jacket and flees into the van.

  That was funny. I should be laughing.

  Back in my hallway, I stare at the “It’ll be okay” graffiti messages on my door. The hinges grind and squeal. The room feel strange empty and looks like the jail cell but with a built in wall desk and two closets.

  “Please God, no flashbacks in the car,” I say.

  I stuff the letter into my pocket and check my wallet to see if I have any cash left over. The brown leather wallet sticks in my back pocket and I pull out the only thing that never leaves me with a tug. The edges are worn to a light tan and the colors of the inlaid sun are gone but it held up pretty well considering it’s been in my back pocket since I was twelve. Three dollars left, makes sense, and the photo in the credit card sleeve is there. It takes two sturdy tugs to slip out.

  My family is still visible in the creased photo but the background shot of the Grand Canyon faded. Mother is posing with her Farrah Fawcett haircut and Hunter, chubbier than I remember, looks like he just cried and there is father with his hands on my shoulders peering off into the distance. I must be five in this picture. My baby boy blonde hair hadn’t darkened yet.

  I can’t believe this picture held up for so long.

  My feet slide as I make my way on the tile floor to the window and put the photo back in the sleeve. The wallet weighs down my pocket. The lot is empty now.

  For some reason, I feel like I should say something to this tomb like I owe it an apology. I start pacing and the hard footsteps echo in spirals down the hall.

  “I tried. Sorry.”

  Goosebumps rise on my arms but the mute hall isn’t chilly. I spin my guitar string ring.

  “What am I going to do Tim? What the fuck am I going to do?”

  My numb fingers rub my temples as I pace faster and scuff the floors as I walk back over to the window. The yellow streams of sun are calming as they crisp my skin.

  I wait.

  I spin my ring.

  Over the serpentine slope of the college’s access roads the same type of sedan my mother always rents pulls into view. As the car pulls into a space below, I see my mother’s young boyfriend William in the passenger seat.

  “Fuck a duck!”

  Why is he here? Damn, now I have to talk to him. Hustling down the stairs, jumping every few steps, I fall into the fire door and tumble out into the thick light. With hands in my pockets, I saunter over to greet them.

  William, an ex-country club tennis pro who let himself go, pops out of the car. He flips back his curly blonde hair and says with a half-grin, “Hey hey there sport, how’s it hanging?”

  “Fine,” I reply.

  My mother exits the car and scans the grounds as if she was on a Secret Service detail but wearing a Channel suit. She walks to me and a thin smile forms as she runs her fingernails through her hair and says, “How are you? You’re face is so lean and ashen.” She sighs. I snicker and say, “Better.”

  A brief lean in hug is all either of us can muster and I lead them inside. The loading of brown boxes and garbage bags into the car is swift with few words said. My guitar fits in the trunk.

  The air outside is suffocating and alive with flies. The heat of the searing southern sun steals my strength. I’m drenched with sweat.

  The sound of insects buzzing by starts to annoy me. I can feel another attack crouching in the shadows of my mind. It’s a strong one ready to pounce into the light of day at any moment.

  I feel it.

  It’s restless and waiting to jump out.

  The chore is completed and I stuff myself in the back seat. The reluctant journey begins in a muddy sile
nce. The college entrance falls away as I glance back and soon we are on rural roads.

  Every ten miles or so in the flatlands, there are rows of broken down weathered shanties with rotting carcasses of metallic mules up on cinder blocks oxidizing in the fragrant humidity of the midday. My eyes don’t blink as the blur of trees and grasses growing wildly on the roadside smears through the car window but soon it is gone as the strip malls rise in the horizon. My guitar string ring feels tight. It bites in as it spins.

  The air conditioning putters out. Sweat pours over my eyes. Huge droplets cling to the tips of my eyelashes as the car gets punched underneath by a pothole. Everything is tossed in the air. The boxes fall across me and the shocks squeal beneath.

  The car bounces and dips.

  The little red dots are conjured and cover the interior of the car. I force a skittish breath. They pulse but then vanish. I stack the small boxes and pretend to sleep.

  After an hour of intense quiet, I open my eyes and witness quick glances between my mother and William. Something bad is going to happen any second. William adjusts his collar and whips his head around. His brow folds and his lips curl up in a tight smile.

  Nausea bubbles up.

  He speaks softly to the clutter, “Joaquin, I know there’s been some unpleasant business you’ve dealt with this past semester and I want you to know if you need anything just ask. I had a friend die at college too.”

  William, with a few bounces, twists his thick torso around and says, “I have some great news. You won’t have to worry about your mother anymore. We’re getting married in August.”

  “Lovely. Any new siblings I should be aware of?” I ask.

  William sits forward as a hue of anger comes across the reflection of my mother’s face in the rearview mirror.

  My mother clears her throat, clenches the steering wheel, and in a subdued voice says, “I’m sorry that we had to surprise you with this news but when things settle down you’ll see this is for the best.”

  I nod a few times, shift in my seat and cause the boxes to collapse across my lap again. I wonder if she will invite Hunter to the wedding?

  Doubt it.

  After a few hours, we get to the same motel we used when she drove me down to school and check in. I get my own room and have a bathroom to myself. I open the rickety red door of the first floor room that has a view of the parking lot. I’m scared to put my luggage down.

  As I scan the puke green room for a place to put my bags, the red dots return and cover the floor. My eyes close and I will them away but an attack is brewing. It could boil over anytime and I can’t take much more of this.

  My mind is going bye bye.

  I pull out the letter from my pocket and toss it on the bed, set down the suitcase below the window, close the door and flick on the ancient television. The room reminds me of the day I moved into the dorm; the day when it all began slipping away.