He doesn’t want her to leave, but she does. He stands naked at the window and watches her go, the pistol beside him unused. He was so certain he would use it.
Shooting her in the left tit while she knelt on the bed. Something like that. And then either putting the barrel to his own head or walking quickly to the pickup to go home to his family, to take them with him, and maybe not only Gary and his parents but maybe also Elizabeth and the kids. That was the decision he was facing. But now there is no beginning. He’s left by himself and will never see her again. An end and no beginning.
And he didn’t fuck her either. Limp-dick Jim, his new name in this western. Come to town to change nothing and fuck no one and never fire a shot.
He picks up the pistol, feels the cold weight, then tosses it on the bed, where it bounces and lands again. A bit of comedy, the bouncing gun. Here to play.
The heater’s not on, and he’s naked, so he gets under the covers to warm up. The possibility of shooting her on this bed still exists. Something in him can’t catch up to the fact that the opportunity has already passed. This is true generally of his mind. It has lagged, and this is the clearest sign that he doesn’t believe the world is real. According to his mind, what happens is only one version.
He still has this feeling that if he could say no in the right way the world would stop. Birds stuck in the sky, water no longer falling. Some refusal of our utter lack of control over our lives.
He would walk out naked and be the only movement. He would climb into the air if he felt like it, step by step, or sit on the lake or sink into solid ground. He would reshape mountains with one finger and knock stars out of the sky at night just by breathing. He would refuse to go back to Fairbanks and his small round brown folding card table. Because that is where he’s headed now. If there’s no shooting of Rhoda, and because of that no shooting of anyone else, then he’s going back to Alaska and there’s only one place to sit. Didn’t get around to shopping for more furniture, and look at the effect that will have now.
He smiles at the thought of it. Such a stupid joke, his life.
So exhausted. Rough feel of the cheap sheets, mildew smell of the old motel, pillow too firm, but somehow he sleeps, mercifully, wakes and it is dark outside. The disorientation of any afternoon nap, waking into an end, the feeling of having lost something. But calmer now with the rest, not feeling as desperate.
He has a boner and has to pee. Tries jacking off, but he can’t think of anything in particular and doesn’t have any porn and gives up. He wonders whether he will have sex again before he dies. Most likely not. Taken out of the game.
He flicks on the overhead light, which is harsh. Pees and then still feels so groggy from the nap he lies down and falls asleep. Wakes cold, not under the covers, and goes for a hot shower, which is not hot and has almost no pressure, towels off with something about as soft as razor wire, and lies down again.
“Time to go,” he says, but he feels comatose and cannot motivate, so he sleeps yet again, and now it must be well and truly the middle of the night. There’s no clock in here, but he grabs his watch from his bag and sees almost 1:00 a.m. “Nice one,” he says. He won’t be able to sleep now. He’ll be awake all through the night, and what will he do?
He’s starving, so he pulls on Gary’s oversized shirt and jeans, like a child playing grown-up. Gary’s boots too big also. He steps outside and wishes he had a jacket. Cold now. No one around, no lights on except at the motel office, where he drops his room key in the slot.
The pickup starts reluctantly, shivers to life, and Jim pulls onto the road its only traveler. Slow curves along the lake, the water black, a deeper black than the sky. Patches of tules grown larger in headlights, straining upward and falling to the side, dull green. A car passes, going the other way, leaving town so late. Must be some story there. No one’s awake at night in a small place without a story.
Throaty sound of the pickup at low revs, just easing along. Houses along the water all single story and old. More chain-link fences, new. Catalog of a place he should know well, but it comes together into nothing. Only the lake itself might be something.
He wonders whether the diner might be open. Wouldn’t be Donna or Jim on the night shift. Must be a McDonald’s, also, somewhere in town. In the past it was A&W they always went to, the drive-in, but that wasn’t twenty-four hours. Nothing was open in the middle of the night, not even a gas station. If you didn’t sleep at the same time as everyone else you were out of luck.
The darkness is impressive. Moon setting early these days, no stars, overcast black night and the lake refusing to reflect anything, only absorbing what little light there is from thinly spaced street lamps. Dead zones between the lamps, places you could stand invisible. And so little from any houses, only an occasional porch light, and no businesses along here.
He rolls down his window to listen, but it’s only his tires and a different tone from the engine. The tires a particularly lonely sound, and he wonders why that is. How does our mind make things like that happen?
What if he could start his mind over right now, just reenter the world and forget he has any problems and just have a normal night and day? Why is that so hard? Everyone else seems fine.
He can feel the wetness of the air, cooled by the lake. Holds his arm out the window with his hand cupped to catch it. Drives on the wrong side of the road to be closer to the water. Closes his eyes in the straight sections to feel what the movement is like, to be transported.
But he’s so hungry that’s all he can really think of. He wants a chocolate shake. And a big burger with barbeque sauce and bacon. Our last comfort, food. When nothing else is available. Rhoda gone.
He slows to a crawl at his parents’ house. All lights off. All sleeping soundly it seems, without a worry about Jim. The oak in the front yard seems enormous right now, dwarfing the house. The hedge too short, barrier to nothing.
He continues on, slows again near Safeway and his old office, his other zone. A few stray cars forgotten and left in the parking lot. More lights and a private security car, someone staying awake to guard groceries. That has to feel worthless, a fake uniform and no gun, and no one interested in what you’re guarding. At least at the cash register he was doing something.
Jim tries to appear menacing, idling the pickup and staring, but at a couple hundred yards staring of course doesn’t mean anything. Jim could be a tourist lost on his way to Konocti or Lucerne or some other fascinating local destination.
So Jim moves on, stomach grumbling, thinking of going back and stealing the guy’s sandwich. He has no gun, so Jim could just beat him down and take the sandwich and even wear the guy’s hat and official shirt.
Nothing is open. He’ll have to come to terms with starvation. He passes the diner, which is out cold. A&W also dark. Gas stations closed. The entire center of town a void, not even a bar open.
But as he gets to the new section, toward the highway, there are a few lights and other cars, late-night wanderers, and the golden arches do in fact appear. Disgusting compared even to crap places like A&W or Fosters Freeze, and the enormous delicious bacon burger he imagines cannot exist here, but at least he will not starve. In Alaska the most improbable burgers, just to keep up with the idea of the place. As wide as a plate. No clue where they find the buns. And always offering some exotic meat: Caribou! Moose! Lynx! Lynx not really likely, of course, but who is ever going to check?
He pulls up beside several other pickups to join men with tattoos and baseball caps, which would seem to make them belong, because Lakeport has become such a shitty place, but Jim is the one who belongs here, grew up here. He is the native son, born on these shores.
“Mornin’,” he says to the person offering to take his order. A throwback to show who he is. The magnum tucked under his shirt again. He’d like an excuse to use it, so he’s not quiet. Speaks in a full voice. Let one of the tattooed fucks notice.
But of course they don’t. He orders two fish filet sandwiches, as if they’re really going to use a filet for each one instead of mashed up baitfish rammed into a square and deep-fried. Looking forward to the small spooge of tartar sauce and the square of American cheese left on top like a thing forgotten.
He stands at the counter waiting. Only three employees, all wearing hairnets as if they belong in a gang, all fat and soft and greasy, shaped by the food here. The empty heating tray, each sandwich actually made to order this late at night. He should personalize in some way, think of something to ask for, but his mind’s a blank.
“Order fifty-one,” the woman says when she hands him the tray, as if there might be confusion.
“Let me check the receipt,” he says. “Just to make sure I’m fifty-one.” He holds it up to the light, examines it, sees a fifty-one. Meanwhile she’s holding the tray in the air. “Yep,” he says. “I see fifty-one. Two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches and a chocolate shake. Is that what you have there?”
“Yes sir,” she says, and she doesn’t seem upset. Her job is so fucked that this fits in as a normal interaction. Mouth slightly open because of the extra oxygen needed for all that fat. Cheeks glistening.
“May I have a glass of water?” he asks, taking the tray finally.
“Yes sir,” she says and dutifully grabs a paper cup. “Ice?”
“No thanks.”
She fills the cup from a dispenser with a perfect small stream, water expertly controlled, and hands it to him with “Enjoy your meal sir.” All perfectly performed, the way he performed perfectly all those years as a checker. How many years was it? Maybe seven? Wishing everyone a good day no matter how unfair and insulting they were. Handling how many thousands of cans of soup and beans and cartons of milk. A large portion of his life spent that way. More time doing that than just about anything else except dentistry. Sleep has claimed the most hours probably, back when he was able to sleep, but after that standing beside a patient and after that standing beside groceries. Varicose veins now in both calves.
He sits by one of the front windows, lit up for all passers to see, and consoles himself with the chocolate shake, which is more like clay slush with a memory of Hershey’s. Feeling of an impending stomachache even with the first mouthful, some pukey foreknowledge built into the taste.
And this is only the beginning of the night. The night will be long.