Read Online 300 Miles to Galveston by Rick Wiedeman - Free Book Online
Authors: Rick Wiedeman
Ads: Link
writing. Got a couple of short stories published, but nothing fancy.”
“Cool. What did you write about?”
“The angst of the educated white man.”
Bane guffawed. “How’d that sell?”
“Surprisingly there wasn’t much of a market. Hell, I was just imitating what I’d seen. Fitzgerald, Joyce, Faulkner, TC Boyle... I was trying to be them.”
“I always thought that little whiney fella was funny... Sedaris. David Sedaris.”
“Oh yeah, loved his stuff.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“His French lover covered his bed in rancid duck fat and set him on fire.”
“No kidding?”
“He was drunk, didn’t wake up in time. Got all wrapped up in it. When they found him, he was a blackened mummy, sealed in a twist of Alexandre Turpault scorched linen, like Satan’s cigar.”
Bane stared at him, then gestured him to come closer. When Kurt came over, Bane gave him his pencil. “I have another spiral pad in that grey canvas bag over there. You need to write that down.”
“Nah,” Kurt said, handing him back the pencil. “Thanks, but that time is past.”
Bane took the pencil, and scribbled quickly. “...like …Satan’s …cigar. How do you spell that French name?”
“Does it matter?”
Bane shrugged, and put the pencil behind his ear.
* * *
At nightfall, Sophie was moaning.
“Crap,” Kurt whispered. “She’s got a fever.”
“I’ve got some aspirin,” Bane said.
Kurt shook his head. “No aspirin. Ever.”
“OK.”
Kurt wet a rag and laid it across her forehead. “Stay with her. I’m going to see if that gas station near the bridge has anything left in it. Maybe there’ll be some Tylenol or something.”
Kurt pumped his flashlight and thumbed it on, then checked that he had his knife, the extendable baton, and a plastic bag folded into his back pocket.
When he got to the bridge he saw one of the mountain lion kittens, scrawny and big-eared, sniffing the asphalt where they had crossed. Sophie had been dripping blood, leaving brown splotches every five feet.
Kurt waved his arms and drove it off, and then it lurched into the sky with a sharp kitten growl. He couldn’t tell the color, but from the silhouette it appeared to be an eagle that had snatched it, the six foot wingspan making the dead lion kitten look like a doll with a floppy neck.
He walked across the parking lot, avoiding the humps with steel plates where the old underground gasoline tanks were refilled. The LNG tanks that had replaced them were tall, white cylinders, shaped like toilet paper spring tubes standing on their ends. Kurt circled the store. No broken glass. No recent signs of entry in the dust.
Popping the door open, he saw two empty wire racks that had once held chips and crackers. The fridges were likewise empty. Walking behind the counter, he found a yellow pack of American Spirit cigarettes from the Res in Oklahoma. He didn’t smoke much, but when he did, these were his favorites. They were still in the plastic.
There were small plastic packs of energy pills, hangover powders, key chains with rebel flags and playboy bunny heads and empty photo frames. No real medicine.
He went to the storage room, which was locked, but after a few minutes of looking, found the key on a hook beneath the counter.
Inside were a mop and bucket, and two shelves with light bulbs, toilet paper, a small metal marijuana pipe, and a huge bottle of Advil. He tapped it, and the gel pills inside broke free from each other and rattled. Unscrewing the lid, he could see it was half full of blue gel caps – about 100 of them. He closed his eyes and said, “Thank you.”
Something cold flailed down onto his head, splitting his ears and turning his vision a sparkled red and blue. He collapsed.
* * *
As he came to, the first thing he noticed was the smell, a combination of weed and unwashed blue jeans. Then he noticed the sounds. Two young men, probably white, not educated. He blinked, but saw
“Cool. What did you write about?”
“The angst of the educated white man.”
Bane guffawed. “How’d that sell?”
“Surprisingly there wasn’t much of a market. Hell, I was just imitating what I’d seen. Fitzgerald, Joyce, Faulkner, TC Boyle... I was trying to be them.”
“I always thought that little whiney fella was funny... Sedaris. David Sedaris.”
“Oh yeah, loved his stuff.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“His French lover covered his bed in rancid duck fat and set him on fire.”
“No kidding?”
“He was drunk, didn’t wake up in time. Got all wrapped up in it. When they found him, he was a blackened mummy, sealed in a twist of Alexandre Turpault scorched linen, like Satan’s cigar.”
Bane stared at him, then gestured him to come closer. When Kurt came over, Bane gave him his pencil. “I have another spiral pad in that grey canvas bag over there. You need to write that down.”
“Nah,” Kurt said, handing him back the pencil. “Thanks, but that time is past.”
Bane took the pencil, and scribbled quickly. “...like …Satan’s …cigar. How do you spell that French name?”
“Does it matter?”
Bane shrugged, and put the pencil behind his ear.
* * *
At nightfall, Sophie was moaning.
“Crap,” Kurt whispered. “She’s got a fever.”
“I’ve got some aspirin,” Bane said.
Kurt shook his head. “No aspirin. Ever.”
“OK.”
Kurt wet a rag and laid it across her forehead. “Stay with her. I’m going to see if that gas station near the bridge has anything left in it. Maybe there’ll be some Tylenol or something.”
Kurt pumped his flashlight and thumbed it on, then checked that he had his knife, the extendable baton, and a plastic bag folded into his back pocket.
When he got to the bridge he saw one of the mountain lion kittens, scrawny and big-eared, sniffing the asphalt where they had crossed. Sophie had been dripping blood, leaving brown splotches every five feet.
Kurt waved his arms and drove it off, and then it lurched into the sky with a sharp kitten growl. He couldn’t tell the color, but from the silhouette it appeared to be an eagle that had snatched it, the six foot wingspan making the dead lion kitten look like a doll with a floppy neck.
He walked across the parking lot, avoiding the humps with steel plates where the old underground gasoline tanks were refilled. The LNG tanks that had replaced them were tall, white cylinders, shaped like toilet paper spring tubes standing on their ends. Kurt circled the store. No broken glass. No recent signs of entry in the dust.
Popping the door open, he saw two empty wire racks that had once held chips and crackers. The fridges were likewise empty. Walking behind the counter, he found a yellow pack of American Spirit cigarettes from the Res in Oklahoma. He didn’t smoke much, but when he did, these were his favorites. They were still in the plastic.
There were small plastic packs of energy pills, hangover powders, key chains with rebel flags and playboy bunny heads and empty photo frames. No real medicine.
He went to the storage room, which was locked, but after a few minutes of looking, found the key on a hook beneath the counter.
Inside were a mop and bucket, and two shelves with light bulbs, toilet paper, a small metal marijuana pipe, and a huge bottle of Advil. He tapped it, and the gel pills inside broke free from each other and rattled. Unscrewing the lid, he could see it was half full of blue gel caps – about 100 of them. He closed his eyes and said, “Thank you.”
Something cold flailed down onto his head, splitting his ears and turning his vision a sparkled red and blue. He collapsed.
* * *
As he came to, the first thing he noticed was the smell, a combination of weed and unwashed blue jeans. Then he noticed the sounds. Two young men, probably white, not educated. He blinked, but saw
Similar Books
