The Rules of the Road, page 23
Ha! Blissful ignorance. They oughta sell that in bottles. I’d buy some for a dollar. Might even give Buck’s Sassy Sasparilla a run for its money.
Do you know what it cost me to obtain these answers? More than you could ever know. You could’ve left well enough alone. Gone about your own business and not tried to stir things up, but ya didn’t. So here I am. What exactly is it you want, ol’ buddy?
* * *
I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t speak. Did he want me to respond? Could he hear me here in the car? Of course, he could. He was Buck Motherfuckin’ Hensley.
* * *
“Why?” I asked.
He laughed long and hard at that.
* * *
Why not? There is no answer to this “why” question, amigo. There may have been at one time, but I can’t seem to recall at this moment. I told you, I ain’t giving you no answers. So if all you’ve got is a bunch of questions, you best be getting along little doggy.
* * *
I don’t know where the spark of bravery came from, but I suddenly felt angry. He couldn’t just blow me off like this. I shouted, there in my empty car, screaming to the blank radio speakers to something that I wasn’t even sure was actually there.
“People are dying, Buck. How can you sit back and be responsible for it? How can it be so bad for some people and just fine for others? Who are you? What are you? Can you just stop with the broadcast? Leave us alone? We’ve got enough shit to deal with here without you coming along and fucking things up further.”
* * *
How do you know I’m responsible for these so-called atrocities? Maybe I’m just a warning signal. Did ya ever think about that? That these terrible things always existed and I’m trying to provide a way out? Sure, it can end badly for some folk, but maybe it was always going to. Just because I’m the messenger, doesn’t mean I’m the one to punch the card.
Hell, I’m doing my best buddy. I may be omnipotent, but I’m only human after all.
With that said, that’s gotten me thinking about a “Rule of the Road” that I better warn you about. You’re gonna wanna turn your ears on for this one. Make sure you got your calculators handy, too. This one is almost as hard as my math homework. By the way, you got that answer sheet yet? But I digress . . . on to tonight’s rule!
If at any point in your journey, you find yourself in a thunderstorm, use the old trick you learned in Cub Scouts to try and find how far away the lightning is. You know, you see the flash of white and then count one Mississippi, two Mississippi until you hear that thunder. Once you hear that thunder, count the number of seconds you have and divide by five. That number you get is how many miles away the storm is.
Now listen closely, because this is where the Rule comes into play. Once you see that the lightning is less than a mile away, then get out of your car. Get out of your car and run. Run toward that lightning. Embrace the lightning. You will not get struck. You trust me, don’tcha? When has Ol’ Buck ever steered you wrong?
Hold on a second, I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna say, “Buck! You want me to run out in the middle of a bleeping lightning storm. Do you think I’m crazy? Everybody knows the safest place to be in a lightning storm is in your car. Why I like to sit in my car during any type of storm. Bottle of wine. A couple good books. That’s what I call a nice little night. I’m not about to get out of my car during this storm and miss my leisure time.”
And to that I say, “Fair enough.” But if you don’t get out of your car, then you and your car will be completely obliterated. If you don’t get out of your car, you won’t get to see what’s at the end of the rainbow—pardon me—the end of the lightning bolt! Believe me, you wouldn’t want to miss that!
Welp. I guess that’s all I’ve got for tonight. Don’t beat yourself up too bad over not finding out more information. Sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful. I hope you stop and smell the roses from time to time and don’t bother your little head with these questions you won’t find the answers to. You stay safe out there. Stay alert. Stay lively. Stay lonely. I’m Buck Hensley and these are “The Rules of the Road.”
* * *
I pounded my fist into the steering wheel in anger. Over and over again. The staccato beeps of the honk echoed across the frozen plains, my furious cries of frustration following after.
It was miles down the road when I saw the flashes of lightning on the dark horizon, photo flashbulbs that briefly illuminated the dark wall of clouds that hung in the night sky. I started counting.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Fuck this.
No. You know it’s real.
Five Mississippi.
Six Mississippi.
I am not about to run around in a thunderstorm and get struck by lightning.
Then turn around and drive the other way. If it doesn’t get within a mile of you, then you’re fine. That’s five seconds until you hear the sound.
Nine Mississippi.
Ten Mississippi.
I heard the low rumble of thunder. Rain pelted my car. Two miles away. I pulled over and made a U-turn, pointed away from the storm. I stayed parked on the shoulder.
Another brilliant flash of lightning, this time in my rearview mirror.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
What do you think’s at the end of the lightning bolt?
You’re kidding. You don’t actually trust him, do you?
Five Mississippi.
Six Mississippi.
The rain turned torrential. My wipers beat futilely against the onslaught of water. Gale force winds whipped the water sideways and tumbleweeds skittered down the road, fleeing the storm behind them.
Eight Mississippi.
Thunder, louder.
Another flash.
The rain let up, and then instantly stopped. An eerie silence followed, and then I heard something that sounded like a train, back toward the storm.
Five Mississippi.
Thunderclap.
A strong wind blew so fiercely that my car swayed. The door caught the wind like a sail, yanking it open and it felt like it would rip my doors from their hinges. My ears popped as the train sound grew louder. The air felt hollow, void of resistance, a vacuum.
I stepped out into the night, the car alert chiming as the wind continued to yank my door ajar. I turned toward the storm and ran. The lightning was more frequent now, bright piercing flashes that illuminated my steps every few seconds. Before me, revealed by the flashes of lightning, I could see the silhouette of a giant, swirling behemoth of cloud, something my mind could not quite comprehend. The blue explosions of power transformers appeared at its base, gobbled up by the unfathomable beast as it barreled down the road.
I was really going to run into the middle of a tornado, wasn’t I? There didn’t seem to be another option. I had to play by the rules. If I were to run in the opposite direction, I knew I wouldn’t make it.
Just then, there was another bolt of lightning, a jagged and branching arc that shot down from the heavens. But what was strange about this bolt of lightning was that it didn’t disappear as soon as it struck. It remained frozen in place, sprouting from the ground and jutting toward the sky, a great monument of light that filled the air with a bluish white haze. I’d say that it was about 500 yards away from me, this beacon of pure electricity. It wasn’t completely blinding; I only had to squint to stare at it.
I could no longer hear the roaring train of the tornado as my ears now rang with a constant melodic hum. I continued to run forward.
Embrace the lightning.
The frozen lightning bolt illuminated the road and grass and fields with its brilliant light. As I neared, I could see that it ended at some sort of structure, a triangular tower that conducted energy and light all the way to the ground.
A radio tower.
I stopped and stood in awe at everything that I was seeing. It was just pure marvel and astonishment, the tallest thing ever jutting toward the heavens in an electric white that tinged the air in a light I had never seen.
I had read somewhere that a lightning bolt could reach temperatures greater than the surface of the sun. I had no idea if this was true, but I do know I didn’t feel an immense heat radiating from the lightning. There was only a comforting warmth. Next to the radio tower was a squat and square one-story building, made of cinder blocks and painted white. There was a main entrance at its center. Above the entrance was a large sign that read: ROTR RADIO.
I approached the building. The door was open. I stepped inside.
I found myself in a waiting area of sorts. Chairs and little end tables with old magazines on them and a couple of fake potted plants. There was an empty receptionist window and a long hall that led past it. I thought I could hear music playing somewhere softly toward the back. The building had the lights on, but the lightning still provided a glare of light through the windows of the building. I made my way down the hall.
There was a sound booth with an open door. Above the door, an ON AIR sign flashed red. I couldn’t tell you what kept me walking forward. It was like a dream where I didn’t have any free will, like I was a passive observer in my own body. A calmness washed over me.
In the sound booth was a chair and a large microphone on a long swivel neck. A control panel was lit up. Needles danced in instrument meters. I sat, pulled the microphone toward me, and took a deep breath.
15
“Greatest Hits”
A surge of electricity raced through my fingers and hand. There was a flash. A searing whiteness.
And then there was only darkness.
My face is pressed hard on the ground, and drool is on my cheek. There is cotton in my brain. My eyes focus on the closeup view of the floor, the flat gray carpet that I lie upon. I become aware of my body contorted in space, a pain in my neck and shoulder. Legs still mobile.
I can hear a gentle and repetitive tapping, the shuffling of papers, a feminine voice singing softly. The scene slowly reveals itself to me, the minute details. A yard or two in front of my face there’s a foot in a woman’s loafer tapping out a rhythm on the floor, its counterpart dangling above it, the owner’s crossed legs under a desk.
A ragged breath escapes my lips, and I roll onto my hands and knees and rise. I’m inside the radio station. But it’s not the same radio station. It’s alive now and in the here and now, fluorescent lights illuminated overhead. The woman sits at a desk with an adding machine, face buried in her work, punching the buttons of the machine and writing numbers in a ledger. There’s a stack of checks and envelopes by her. To my left is the sound booth I had previously occupied. The ON AIR sign is shining red.
Before I can speak out to the woman, she’s pushing away from the desk on her rolling chair, rising and leaving the room. Out the door and into the hall, skirt swishing.
“But . . .” I say, and my voice is hoarse and dry.
There’s the faint sound of classic rock, a guitar solo. I look into the window of the booth and see a grungy-looking guy with headphones around his neck leaned back behind the microphone. A cigarette smokes like incense in the ashtray next to him. His hair is long and dandruff flakes are sprinkled throughout the shoulders of his black T-shirt and beard.
“Hey!” I yell and wave my arms. I’m a castaway on an island waving down a passing ship.
He can’t hear me. Duh. It’s a soundproof booth. But he should be able to see me. Is it a two-way mirror? No. That wouldn’t make sense.
I hear a voice in the hallway, the woman’s. Another voice responds. Kind of familiar. Twangy. My stomach turns. I hesitate to follow the voices into the hall. For an instant, I want to cower under the desk. But no, I push forward.
In the little waiting area at the end of the hall, he’s there. At least I think it’s him. All I can see is the back of his western plaid shirt, giant leather billfold sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. He’s going for the front door, his boots clomping on the floor, gray hair sticking out of the back of the cap on his head. He pushes the door open into daylight, steps outside. I rush after him, manage to catch the door right before it closes.
Outside, the sun is glaring. So bright, in fact, that I can only squint into the blinding light, a halogen flashbulb filling my entire visual field.
I’m confused when my vision returns a few moments later. Somebody brushes past me. Then another. I’m no longer standing outside the radio station. I’m standing on a grassy incline in the middle of crowds of people. There are blankets on the ground, little ice chests. The buzzed chatter of people waiting excitedly for something. That’s when I see the stage that the crowds congregate around. There are people pressed up close near the front of the stage, but the further back you get—where I am standing—people are more relaxed and spread out.
The people though, there’s something not right about them. It’s their clothes. It’s their hairstyles. It’s the old-school logos on the cans of beer they drink, and those glass bottles of soda. There are bell bottoms and cutoff denim shorts and men with mustaches and giant glasses. There are women in flowing summer dresses and tank tops and their hair is all feathery. I catch whiffs of cannabis in the sweltering air.
Nobody responds to me, no matter how loud I get or how hard I yell. I tap on shoulders and squeeze arms and am only ignored. I slap a man’s face and the effect is a little more than a stiff breeze, his shaggy hair barely moving. It’s like I’m not even here. Maybe I’m not.
Above the stage is a banner that reads 9th ANNUAL JUNEBUG JUBILEE and there are rock and roll instruments set up, waiting for a band to play them. Further behind the stage is a river, its sandy banks transitioning to the lush green grass, wherein the crowd lounges. I must be in some kind of park, a summer concert series, which doesn’t make any sense because it was winter when I entered that radio station on those Texas panhandle plains.
What am I doing here?
What’s going on?
All I can do is wait.
It’s a shame I can’t buy a beer, sit back and relax on the soft grass and listen to some tunes. The tunes are about to start, too, judging by the sudden increase in the crowd’s volume, the hoots and hollers. But no band has appeared. There’s just a lone figure in a loose paisley shirt and bellbottoms walking across the stage toward the center mic.
“How y’all doing tonight?” he asks. There’s a drawl in his voice.
The crowd cheers.
“I don’t think y’all heard me. I said, how y’all doing tonight?”
The crowd cheers even louder. A girl screams loudly right next to my ear, deafening me.
“I’m Buck Hensley, midnight voice of WLVD and we are so grateful that y’all have come out tonight. We’re mighty happy to be sponsors for the JUNEBUG JUBILEE and we’ve got quite the show for you folks on this fine summer night. First up is a little group outta Jacksonville. Ladies and gents, I give you The One Percent!”
I can’t believe it. It’s really him. He’s younger, and he has a full head of hair and a mustache. His voice differs from the one I heard through those car speakers, but it’s really him.
I make my way through the roaring crowd, keeping my eyes glued to him. Bluesy chords and riffs fill the air, backed by a pounding drum beat while the crowd gets even louder. Bodies and shoulders and heads crowd my vision. I squirm through the throngs of people. He’s disappearing from my sight.
I spot him to the left of the stage. Or is it stage right? No matter. I still have to cross the masses to get to him. He’s a hundred yards away.
There’s a scuffle of sorts in my path. A man shoves another man who loses his balance. A flailing hand slaps me right across the bridge of my nose. My eyes instantly water. My head swims. The world goes black.
A radio booth hovers in the darkness, the viewing window bright with a figure behind it. I’m back at the station, perhaps the one I was in before. Perhaps not. I can’t move, can’t walk. A voice cuts through the dark, his voice.
“Howdy folks, Buck Hensley here and that was ZZ Top at the top of the hour. Stay tuned for more tunes here on KOTR radio after a quick break.”
A chorus from nowhere sings the station identification, their voices echoing the call letters into the dark.
“K-O-T-R-r-r-r-r-r.”
I can see, I can touch, I can smell, I can hear, but I cannot change. Can’t alter the course of anything that’s happened here. I can speak but cannot be heard. Doors move under my push when needed. Curtains flutter when I move past them. But that’s it.
I am an observer.
I observe.
They run through fields of goldenrod in the golden hour of late evening. The slower of the two wields a stick, swings it at the tall stalks of the flowers as he passes, showering pollen into hazy clouds that hover in the air momentarily.
In their jeans and faded T-shirts and boots they dart toward the tree line. They are equal in stature and size. It’s hard to keep up with them, the piss and vinegar and energy in their veins. Also, it’s hard to keep them apart. They are almost like twins, yet if they are they’re not identical. One’s hair is shorter and lighter. There are subtle differences in their facial structure.
Finally, they stop at a muddy clearing in the forest, hands on their knees and sucking air. In the middle of the area is a wire basket of sorts, knee-high. It’s a cage. At one end of the cage is a bloody and matted mitten made of fur. No, not a mitten. A dead rabbit. One of the boys inspects it.
