Highway 113

4–7 minutes

graphix: spwilcen

MA: language, foreboding death, gender slurs, scatology, and hell

I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.  Maybe just before I stopped to squeeze my turtle at that diner.  As many times as I’ve traveled this way, I’m sure I never saw the place before. The kind of place you’re instantly and completely convinced you should be more than a little leery of the establishment itself and anyone who would willingly spend time there. Sleazy-looking.  Last-chance kind of joint.  Whelp, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.

I remember seeing a pack of fifteen or so Hawgs parked out front.  Knew better than to stop, but the old bladder doesn’t futch around; when it’s ready, I’d best be too. Maybe coulda driven on a mile or so, pulled over and watered a cactus, but I’d already crunched the gravel off the highway, so what the hell?

Surly bunch of dudes. Real bikers, not wannabes. Pretty sure they were itching to wrinkle a civilian from the get-go. Once they smelled blood there was no putting them off.  When I came out of the can, the big one, the one with Popeye arms just wouldn’t let me be on my way. Him and his, what’d he call her, “Princess”?  Hell, she wouldn’t let it go either. Don’t recall saying anything offensive.  Maybe they read my mind, knew I’d figgered I’d seen prettier Holsteins. I mean there comes a point, man. No reason for him to get all pissy. She could have thumped my noggin all by herself if she’d really been offended.

Come to think of it, the last thing… Oh, there’s a sign up ahead in the headlights.  Figger out what highway this is and then how to get back to Route Forty-six.

Ah, nertz!  One of those ‘Repent, the time is near’ things.   Haven’t seen a route marker in a long time. What?  Half an hour?  Whoa!  A car off on the shoulder. Trunk’s up.  Could be someone in trouble.  Best give a look.

Classic old Buick Roadster.  ’52?  Don’t see them very often. Hmm. Don’t see anyone here at the car. Yup, a ‘52. One hellova flat.  Spare is flatter’n yesterday’s beer, too.

“Hey!  Anyone here?  Need a hand?  Phone for a tow?”  Fat lotta good that – phone hasn’t shown a single bar since the diner.  Maybe before? What was it “Princess” said…  “Hey!  Anyone!  You need help?”

Well, can’t spend forever here. Gotta figger out where in hell I am.  Don’t see a moon. Why no moon?

Seems I been driving for hours.  Gas gauge still reads quarter-tank.  Must be busted. Add that to the repair list.  Broke-ass GPS. One more thing to do when I get home – call the dealer. Damned electronics. 

Cactus, cactus, tumbleweed, cactus.  Sign!  “Eat at Mo’s. Bikers Welcome.”  Hmmpf.  Fat chance I’ll stop there again.

Somebody walking along the road.  Hmm. Small. Old. Hunched-over. Wearing a what? A hoodie? What’s the harm? Pull over.

“You need help?”

“Beyond help, actually.”

Hmm. Sense of humor. Izzat a twinkle in his eyes?  Reflection of the moon?  Unh, no moon. Not really a twinkle. More like sparks from a grinding wheel or Fourth of July fizzle-sticks. “That your car back there?”  Old dude. Real old. Face is wrinkled and cracked like a long-dry arroyo. Gotta be harmless. So old if he got up to any mischief he’d hurt himself.

“Where?”

“Back the road a way.”

“Buick?”

“Yup.”

“Yeah.”

“Got help on the way?”

“No point in it.”

“Want a lift?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Geeze, the dude’s so old his bones creak. “Where ya headed?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Whadda ya mean?”

“Used to. Matter. Not no more.”

“Well, you settle back.  Gotta stop soon, though. Soon as I find a gas station.”

“None here.”

“How many miles ahead, maybe?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Just doesn’t.”

Queer man. “Been walking out here long?”

“Since August thirteenth.”

“Geeze man, this is September!”

“August thirteenth, 1954.”

“You’re a little confused. This is twenty-twenty-three, man! That makes no sense.”

“No. It doesn’t. That’s just how it is.”

Geeze. His voice crackles like a campfire. Breath like a campfire too. “That can’t be right.”

“You’ll see.”

“Maybe a bite to eat will set us both right. Is there a restaurant up ahead maybe?”

“No.”

“Gotta be.”

“You’d think so, but no.”

“Why not?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Aha!  Another sign!

“Finally.  Here it is, a route marker.  Aha. Route one-thirteen.”

“Coulda told you that.”

“Well now, are we headed north or south?” Frackkin GPS.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Will when another highway crosses. So’s I know which way is east.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No moon either, see?”

“Never is.”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

This dude is just full of doom and gloom. Won’t hurt if I sneak a hard look at him. Yipes! His face is just dried up skin and bone.  Eyes look like, well, empty sockets where eyes should be.

“Where’d you say you were from?”

“Didn’t.”

“Well, where you headed?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What are you doing on this highway?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Well, you wanted to be on this highway. At least at first, right?”

“Nobody wants to be on this highway. Ever.”

“Well, I certainly don’t. I’m getting off as soon as I know where I am.”

“Looking for a turn-off?”

“Yes sir!”

“Everyone is.”

“How long before I find one?”

“You won’t.”

Best steal another look at this guy. He’s messing with my head big time.  And I think he just passed gas, too.  Sulpher?

“Lemme ask you a question.”

“Yeah?”

Aha!  His hoodie fell down around his neck. At last, I get a good look at his face. Zooks!  His empty eye sockets are on fire. Smoking. He hasn’t got wrinkled skin. He hasn’t any skin.  Bone, just cracked bones, teeth and glowing red eye sockets. Geeze, I’m staring!

“Your question, Sir?”

“Where the hell are we?”

“Precisely.”

Bullshit!  I’m being had!

“I mean, I need to get off this infernal highway.”

“We all do. I see by your look you’re worried.”

“Bet your ass!”

“You asked. I told you. Where we are.”

This cannot be. I am speechless.

“No need to worry. It doesn’t matter.  Nothing does. Not anymore.”

© spwilcenski 2023
Exposed by spwilcenwrites “Heebie Jeebies – September 20, 2023”