Chapter Five

Morning came before I knew it. Rosa wasn’t far behind. When she walked through the door, she was practically singing. “Good morning, Jack!”

“Morning, Rosa.”

She circled around to my side of the counter and gently placed the book—the finale of the space-cowboy series—in front of me.

“Well,” she said. “You were right. This one was pretty out there. But you know what? I really loved it anyway. And now that it’s over, I feel a little… what’s that word, when you’re sad that a story you’ve invested so much time in has ended and you’ll never get to know what the characters do next?”

“I call it the book hangover.”

“I thought there might be a slightly more poetic word for it, like desiderium or something.”

“Nope. ‘Book-hangover.’” 

“Well I’m hungover like crazy. How does one treat a book hangover?”

I shrugged. “I guess another book.”

“Okay! What are we reading next?”

The question was so unexpected that I didn’t understand her at first. “We?” I asked.

“Well, yeah. You’re the expert. What’s next for our book club?”

“This is a book club now?”

“If you want. I know I’m not as fast a reader as you, but I like being able to talk about stuff, and you’re the only other reader I know. Well, except for my gran, but she only reads the Left Behind series and werewolf erotica. Not really my jam. So, what do you say? Wanna join my book club?” She rocked back and forth on her heels and tiptoes, waiting for my answer.

Neither of us noticed we weren’t alone until we heard the sound of someone clearing his throat on the other side of the counter. I looked up to see Travis giving me a strange look.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Rosa said politely. “I didn’t see you there.”

He smiled and responded, “That must mean the camo’s working.”

“What are you doing back again?” I asked, hoping my tone would do enough of the heavy lifting. Somehow, Travis didn’t get the message.

“On my way in from the hunt. Had to call it on account of the sun coming up. Ain’t no point being out there now when the bat dog only comes out at night.”

“Bat… dog?” Rosa asked. I missed my chance to Casper Van Dien her, and now it was too late. She was in friendly clerk mode.

Travis still had the rifle in his left arm. He used his free hand to fish out a cell phone, explaining, “Yeah, it’s still out there somewhere. I’m pretty sure we’ll get it tomorrow night. Sumbitch thinks it’s smart, but I know where its hunting grounds are.”

I hated being the voice of reason. Hell, I hate being the voice of anything, but no one else had pointed out the obvious. “Are you sure this thing is even real? I mean, are there any non-alcoholic eyewitnesses? Couldn’t this be the work of a pack of coyotes? Or a meth head? Or a pack of meth coyotes?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Travis said confidently. “Because I saw it with my own two eyes. Spotted it just a few hours ago on the other side of Goose Creek. Couldn’t line up a clean shot ‘causa the GCTP right on the other side.” 

“The what?” Rosa asked.

“Goose Creek Trailer Park,” I explained as Travis tapped away at his phone. He then turned it around to show off the photo on the screen.

“I didn’t wanna shoot at him and get sued by some redneck if I missed and knocked out a window or somethin’. You know how litigious them Goosers get. So, I took me a picture. See?” He handed the phone to Rosa with a quick warning, “You can zoom but don’t go scrolling unless you wanna see pics of my pork cork.”

“Your what?” she asked innocently.

“You know, my pants lance? My plaster blaster? My tonsil tickler? The ole drizzly bear?”

I jumped in with, “Please stop.” Once he’d quit euphemizing all over the place, I leaned over to take a look for myself. There was definitely something there, right at the tree line. Something big, too far away to make out any clean details. But this creature—whatever it was—appeared to be glowing. Green like foxfire and eerily familiar.

Rosa suddenly flinched like a bird had flown into her face. She jerked back, looked at me, then at Travis, then at the phone. Her reaction was clearly more than just a response to the bat dog.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Do you guys…” She cut her volume in half before finishing the sentence. “...smell something?”

I smelled a lot of things. Most of them bad, but life at the gas station had trained me to ignore my nose when necessary. Travis and I both shook our heads. Rosa put the phone down, took a delicate whiff of her hand, and nearly gagged.

“Is that… and I don’t mean any offense, but... did somebody pee on your phone?”

“Oh that?” Travis said with a soft chuckle. “Nah, you’re probably just smelling the doe urine. I douse myself before I go hunting.”

“Why?” she asked.

He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

She abandoned her question for another. “Would you like me to get you some wet wipes?”

He looked even more confused. “Naw. Why?”

“I’ll... be right back.” With that, she headed towards the supply closet. Travis watched her walk away with a sly grin that made me want to punch him.

“Two visits in one day,” I said. “You’re really not taking this ‘banned for life’ thing very seriously, are you?”

He donned an expression of mock indignation. “Well excuse the hell out of me! I just thought I’d do you a favor, drop in here real quick, grab a snack or two—”

“That’s not a ‘favor’! I don’t get paid on commission. That’s literally just more work for me.”

“You didn’t let me finish!” He went to cross his arms, but must have forgotten about the rifle. As he moved, so did his weapon. My subconscious didn’t wait once I saw what looked like a gun being raised into kill position. Super defense mode kicked in. The next thing I knew, I had the space-cowboy book in my hand, cocked back and ready to smash against Travis’s face. He froze. So did I.

He slowly relaxed his arms and lowered the rifle. “Jeez, Jack. Anybody ever tell you that you got a real temper problem?”

Part of me resented his assessment. But as hypocritical as he was, I had to face facts. I’d been suffering from an awful lot of close-call violent overreactions ever since I put a bullet into Spencer Middleton. That might be worth mentioning to my shrink, I thought. If she were to ever schedule another appointment.

I took a breath, set the book onto the counter, and said, “I apologize. Please, continue.”

“As. I. Was. Saying...” he chewed on that phrase like it was part of his audition for the Real Housewives of East Jesus. “I just wanted to drop in, grab a snackie or two, and then give you a warning.”

“What warning?”

He looked left, then right, like he was about to tell a racist joke. Then he whispered, “It’s about Brylock.”

I had to assume that he meant Brian Locke, one of the other vigilantes with a lifetime ban. Brian was several years younger than me. Brown hair, square jaw, super popular (you know the type). From what I gathered, he was this town’s version of Mister Perfect. Former captain of the football team. Son of the church’s favorite preacher. Everyone knew Brian’s truck had the biggest nuts (and sadly, that is not a metaphor). His and my social circles didn’t overlap, but we did have a single friend in common once.

“What about ‘Brylock’?” I asked.

“We got to chinwaggin’ tonight and, well, he still thinks you and Jerry had something to do with what happened to Vanessa. Look, I tried talking to him for you. I know you’re innocent. But some people make a mistake and it’s like they can’t admit when they’re wrong. But not me. I’m not like that, see?”

Great, another person to add to my watch-out-for list.

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“Yeah man. So, does this mean you’ve forgiven me?”

“No. We’re not there yet.” I should have picked my words more carefully, but Travis was very good at wearing down my defenses.

“Cool, cool, but we are gonna get there. Right? Good. I honestly feel better already. I don’t care what they say about you, Jack. You’re alright.”

Rosa came back to the counter with a box of wet wipes right as I finished ringing up Travis’s order. I saw him off, then went to wash my own hands while Rosa deep-cleaned and resterilized the counter.

 

***

 

I turned the sink’s hot water to full blast and stood back, searching for that Goldilocks zone of least uncomfortable weight distribution between my leg and crutch as I waited for the stream to come up to temperature. It was strange how something as mundane as washing my own two hands had transformed into such a difficult chore ever since I lost my leg. With one arm always tied to a crutch, even the simplest tasks—showering, sweeping, peeing standing up—had to be reevaluated on a daily basis. Do I sacrifice right hand mobility and lean into the massive perpetual bruise under my armpit? Or do I risk balancing on a single leg until the job is done?

I’d learned better than to get my hopes up, but at the back of my mind, there was a promise of a less crappy future. It came to pass the day after I rebooted my blog (although I’m sure the timing was just a coincidence) that I received an unexpected phone call at the store.

The voice on the other end of the line was soft and pleasant, charming yet disconcerting, not unlike Hannibal Lecter reciting a lullaby. The man introduced himself as “Sawyer,” and explained to me that he represented a certain anonymous client who had taken an interest in my case. This client had hired Sawyer to orchestrate the transference of a gift—a fancy new prosthetic leg, top-of-the-line, with all the bells and whistles.

When I asked why someone would do such a thing, Sawyer explained that he didn’t know, but suggested that some people simply have too much money.

The offer felt more suspicious than airport sushi, but as long as I never had to meet the person footing the bill, I wasn’t too proud to turn down free medical assistance. All I had to do was come down to their office at the abandoned strip mall so I could sign some papers and answer a questionnaire, let them conduct a series of measurements and tests—both physical and psychiatric—and give some samples of my blood, hair, and saliva. I was surprised by the thoroughness of the process, but I’m not a medical expert so I didn’t think too hard about it. The prosthesis production would take some time, they explained. Anywhere from a couple of months to a couple of years.

I knew the whole thing was probably a waste of time, but at least I wasn’t any worse off than before. Plus, having something other than insanity and death to look forward to certainly helps pass the time a little easier.

I felt the water stream. Still tap cold. 

That’s annoying. It should be hot by now.

I looked up to see my reflection, and suddenly... I felt very confused. I was... staring at the mirror directly above the sink. I looked… stared… aimed my eyes… and got lost.

I looked back down at the water and felt the world spin.

Hang on. That wasn’t right. Let’s try this again.

I attempted to look at my own reflection, but somehow it didn’t work. This was probably the simplest task I’d ever failed to complete. I closed my eyes and shook my head hoping to force a reset, but when I reopened them, the problem was still there.

I don’t have a reflection anymore! The mirror was in front of me, but when I looked into it, I saw only the wall of the bathroom on the opposite side. Well that can’t be good. Did I turn into a vampire without noticing? I gave the theory more thought than it deserved. While it would have explained certain things, it also would have raised more questions than it answered. No, I decided. I can’t be a vampire. There must be something wrong with the mirror!

I had to wonder, if my reflection wasn’t there anymore, what would happen if I were to touch the glass? I carefully raised my hand and extended my pointer finger. Is this a good idea? I moved my hand closer. Probably not. I was inches away from contact when I heard what sounded like coconut halves banging together.

ClipClip ClopClop, ClipClip ClopClop, ClipClip.

I spun around, and the noise ceased. I took that as my sign to get out of there and leave curiosity to braver folk. I quickly turned off the water and left the bathroom.

As the door swung shut behind me, I realized that—once again—I’d failed at what should have been an unfailable task. I had not actually left the bathroom at all. 

Or had I?

I looked around. I saw the dirty floor and walls. The stall. The sink. The mirror. This was definitely our bathroom… except different… except backwards. Everything was still here, but on the wrong side, down to the inverted graffiti on the wall. And perhaps the strangest realization, I felt wrong. I looked down at my bottom half.

Yep. My right leg appeared to have spontaneously grown back without my noticing. That would have been great news if not for the fact that my left leg was now amputated in its place. Some movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Something was happening on the wall by the sink. Inside the wall. The mirror held an image of me, and in that wrong reflection, I was leaning forward. My reflection went through the same movements that I had gone through seconds ago. My reflection lifted his finger, moved his hand towards the glass, and then, just as before, we both heard it:

ClipClip ClopClop, ClipClip ClopClop, ClipClip.

This time when I turned around, I wasn’t alone. I had to retreat all the way to the sink in order to take in the entire magnificent figure of a solid black horse. Sitting on its back sans saddle was a tall, familiar man wearing boots, a black hat, a dark leather duster, and nothing else.

The Bathroom Cowboy looked at me, winked, and dismounted his steed, landing loudly on the floor. The room was already cramped, but between the three of us, we were now in “forced friendliness” territory.

I didn’t know what else to say but, “Hi.”

He spoke the way Johnny Cash sings—lazily, yet beautifully. “It’s a world out there, partner. You need to watch the edges or you might fall into the gloom.”

His eyes were deadly serious. His junk was hanging out on full display. His mouth contained the faintest evidence of a smirk.

“What are you trying to say to me?” His words were, as usual, too cryptic for me to understand.

He looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath, then focused on me. “The collector and the puppeteer are warring like alley cats, but things are about to change. If either side starts to win, we all lose. Be that as it may, if someone offers you gum, it would be foolish not to accept.”

“What about the collector? And gum? Are you trying to tell me I have bad breath?”

He put his hands on his hips and raised one eyebrow impressively high. “That would be a metaphor. Thought you gremlins loved metaphors.”

“I’m not a gremlin. Or… was that also a metaphor?”

The Bathroom Cowboy stood up tall, smiled proudly, and tapped his nose with the tip of his left pointer finger while rubbing his stomach vigorously with his right hand. Then he made the rolling dice gesture with both hands and raised the opposite eyebrow.

“I have no idea what that means. You’re being too far out this time. Can you dumb it down for me a couple notches? Or is this one of those Face-On-Mars deals where I’m looking for patterns in entropic nonsense?”

He relaxed his arms and leaned in closer. So close our noses nearly touched. “Your problem is that you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”

My back was pressed against the sink. I had nowhere to go. The only thing I could see was what was right in front of me. The Bathroom Cowboy’s face, covered in beard stubble and tan, smelling like Old Spice Original and tobacco.

He leaned back just in time for me to notice the horse defecating onto the tile floor. The Bathroom Cowboy actually looked surprised.

I pointed at the pile of horse plop and said, “I’m not cleaning that up, you know.” 

Bang Bang Bang.

I turned my head in the direction of the noise. Someone was standing just outside of the bathroom. Someone very impatient.

“Just a second!” I called out.

When I looked back, the Bathroom Cowboy had vanished, along with the horse. His mysterious message lingered in my brain. Your problem is that you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Surely, it wasn’t as simple as that... Right?

The room was back to normal. The graffiti all faced the correct way. My right leg was gone again, but my left was back. I turned around to check on the mirror and noticed that I still couldn’t see my reflection, but now there was a reasonable explanation. The glass was completely fogged over. The steam from the sink—which was still gushing hot water at full blast—had filled the air.

I turned the water off (again). When I opened the door a moment later, I was surprised to see who was standing there.

“Deputy Love? What are you doing here? Did you... miss me?”

He snorted. “Of course not. Clyde’s got O’Brien tied up on crop circles today, so I’m doing her a favor. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“She’s not going to give me a ride home? But, she’s the gas station deputy!”

“I don’t like it any more than you. Now, do you mind?”

I stepped aside as he brushed past. One step in, he froze and made a sound like a dog about to barf. I quickly realized that the horse pie was still sitting on the ground by the wall.

“Oh,” I said as I stepped away. “Just so you know… That was already there when I came in.”

I shut the door before he could say anything else.