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Thunder and heavy winds wake me around two a.m. I climb out of bed, alert and on edge. Storms and extreme weather make me nervous these days. Gradually, over the years out there in the wind, I have acquired the instincts of a wild beast. Or maybe they acquired me. Often the impulses go against reason, like in cases of weather. Sometimes I have to drink the primitive fears away. Just a few shots to dull the senses.
But many times these jacked-up instincts have saved me. If there’s trouble ahead, my internal sensors let me know somehow. I believe I have remained free and out of reach of the law because of these instincts that now occasionally overreact.
A windblown tree branch hits the thin motel wall and my heart skips a beat. I go over to my bag where it sits on the dresser and pull out a bottle of aged, dark rum, take a pull, and then another. I put the bottle back and a bolt of lightning flashbulbs the room and I see my reflection in the big oval mirror: a little bent over, but still strong. Not looking so young but not looking so old, either. Fake tattoos look real and are a good idea.
I go back to bed and doze fitfully until dawn. I get up and shower and make the complimentary coffee. I listen to the radio. At eight, I turn on the television and watch a little local news. Feeling again like I’ve never left the Twin Ports, I drive down into East Bay City and have breakfast at a family restaurant. Then I grab a local paper and head back to the motel. There’s a cold wind off Lake Superior and the sky is the color of gunmetal, with low hanging clouds resembling giant Polish sausages.
I read the paper and become fatigued, go back to bed and sleep until late afternoon.
Haven’t slept that much in months.
I have a need to walk around and get the feel of the town, just to see how things have changed—or stayed the same. For old times sake, you know. I’m too nervous about Carole and Mike to try and see them right away.
The best time to walk the streets is right at dark when the lights are coming on and the day is just another lousy memory.
I get in my car and start driving towards town. Rain is falling in a gray mist. Taillights send out sparks and headlights wrinkle. I don’t know where I’m going. I just let the car take me along.
Feeling cramped in the weekend traffic, I turn left at a sign announcing the East End Business District. Once off the highway, my heart settles down and I relax a little. A short drive and I come to the three-block-long business district and somehow I know this is the area where I’m going to settle. I can feel it.
I cruise the neighborhood and discover a brick one-story box of a house with a red-lettered “For Rent” sign in the yard. I write down the address and phone number and continue on.
Driving aimlessly, filled with thoughts of spring, I find myself in vaguely familiar territory and something in my brain jogs.
The rain and the road and the dark skies come together and I realize I’m almost to the spot where I took out Johnny Wells. The muddy Nemadji River, where I ended up sinking Wells’ Chevy with his body in the trunk, flows heavy and dark on my left. Up ahead of me, I see the intersection where I rammed Wells’ Impala with my rusty and trusty ’65 Olds.
The images flash in my brain and my heart speeds up like a trolley going down hill. Crushing regret comes on hard when I think of sweet Mary, my companion that night. How our foolishness resulted in her death. I was never the same after she died. There was always a hole that just kept getting bigger. God how I wish she were alive somewhere in this town, ready to greet me with that goofy half-smile of hers.
Now depressed, I drive over to the village of South Bay City and hit the bars—all four of them. By the time I leave I’m filled with alcoholic good cheer. Also the knowledge that I’m going to feel twice as bad later when I wake up in the middle of the night to piss and stand there in pain while only a trickle comes out.
Drinking isn’t much fun anymore. More of a necessity now. Drugs aren’t what they used to be either, and the same goes for sex. Although a hot little twenty-five-year-old stripper might change that dynamic.
I drive back to the motel and fall into an uneasy, feverish sleep.