Experimental Discourse (XP): Fiction
Short Story
Jim Meirose
The Lost Traveler’s Dream Under the Hill
Summer darkness came around Baron as he drove his ’63 Ford down the narrow road in the south Jersey Pine Barrens at midnight. His headlights cut through the clouds of mosquitoes and moths and other night-bugs swarming about. The night air hung hot and humid and the car cut through it and the bugs with a mild, low whine; a mild low whine that reminded Baron he was irrevocably, irretrievably lost. It had been a mistake to have that last glass of wine at the party. It had been a mistake to let the gas gauge nearly go to E without filling up on the way to the party. It had been a mistake to trust that rusted buckshot-peppered sign on the highway that the next exit would lead to an open gas station this late at night. And now he drove, in his midnight liquor stupor, through the tunnel of light cast before him not knowing where he would end up. He sought the highway, but now the gauge touched E. It struck him suddenly; he would pull over, before running completely out of gas. He would pull over in this wilderness, lock the car, and sleep until morning. In the morning at least someone might come by that he could flag down, to get help. How foolish he felt, and how helpless; but now he had a plan. He pulled over, cut the engine, locked all the doors, cut the lights and sat in the silent dark with his head back against the headrest and with his eyes closed down.
The night would go.
The night always goes.
His hands relaxed in his lap as the liquor stupor rose about him like water rising in some black chamber and at last it came over his head. Baron’s eyes opened and the car door opened and light washed over him—and the car sat parked in an enormous parlor milling with people. Baron stepped out into the light onto the plush carpet and stumbled forward, shielding his eyes. It is midnight—it is dark—where is this—where—
Better get that car out of here, said a voice—Kirk’s coming later and will not like it.
Baron turned and confronted a sallow-faced thin man in a black suit and red tie, holding held two cups of hot black coffee. He held one out to Baron. Here, he said. This will help you wake up. After a good night’s sleep as you have had, now you must wake up. Kirk will come later this afternoon. This is his place you know. Take the coffee—take it. Kirk will have big things to say to us—once he gets here—
But I’m not here, said Baron—I’m—I’m sitting in my car on the side of the road in the Pine Barrens—I’m almost out of gas, I—is it morning? Where am I? Who are you? Who is Kirk I don’t know any Kirk—
The man waved tossed back his head and laughed.
Kirk, he said—how foolish—everybody knows Kirk.
The man kept laughing and pointing at Baron and sipping at his coffee and Baron backed up, and his hand went on the hot fender of his Ford, and at once he pulled open the driver’s side door and jumped in and slammed the door, slamming in the blackness; out the front window he looked up and there was the moon, pale and cold, looking down on the black of the Pine Barrens. Like the image of the sun remains on the retinas when one glances at it and then away, the image of the laughing man’s eyes remained with Baron and they slowly faded, much too slowly faded away and he was alone.
God damned dream, he thought blearily. He clutched the wheel and shook his head.
Dammit.
Need to get some sleep.
Need it.
After making doubly sure the car doors were locked. Baron settled back down into the seat and leaned his head back on the headrest and laid his hands comfortably in his lap. The high gloss gleaming conference table in the plush boardroom stretched before him, lined with solemn men and women in business suits; and, out the floor to ceiling and wall to wall window past the head of the table, the New York skyline shimmered below the pitch black night sky. The man sitting to the right of Baron leaned over; his face was lean and unhealthy looking, pale as a ghost almost as white as his shirt; and he spoke low so only Baron could hear.
Why does Kirk have to call these midnight meetings? Big news, he says—big news when I get to the conference room—what kind of news could be big enough for Kirk to call for a midnight meeting—
God! blurted Baron, sitting up—who are you—where is this place—I am not here—
What? said the pale man, leaning back; and Baron instantly got the attention of the whole room by shouting more loudly.
I am not here! No! I am not here!
Looks of shock ringed the table as he sprang from his seat but before the looks of shock could register, his head slammed into a much too low ceiling and once more he sat in the Ford, in the dark, rubbing at his head which he had just slammed into the car’s roof giving him a massive headache and badly jamming his neck down between his shoulders; he rubbed his neck and head and cursed at the rapidly fogging-up windshield.
God damn—God damned dream. I could of broke my neck what the hell is wrong with me? I am not that drunk to be seeing things what the hell is wrong with me?
The moon looked down unchanged from earlier, though lower in the sky; a setting moon. It nearly touched the jagged darker shadows of the tall surrounding trees.
And Kirk, he thought—who the hell is Kirk I don’t know any Kirk.
He would have looked at his watch but he had no watch; he would have checked the car clock but the car had no clock. The car also had no air conditioning. The interior was steamy but he dare not open a window for fear of what horrid bug spawned in the barrens might come flying in. He settled down once more into his seat, consciously convinced that this would turn out to be the worst night of his life, stuck here in this horrible place. Baron half turned on his side, rubbed his neck one last time, laid his head against the headrest, and closed out the dark from his eyes. A name drifted softly through his mind as he once more lost consciousness.
Kirk.
Kirk—
Kirk! That God-damned Kirk, when will he get here?
The bar was jammed three deep with noisy revelers, each with a drink, all shouting, waving their drinks. Everyone was shouting excitedly to be heard over the heavy rock that was playing—the woman next to Baron kept on asking him the same question.
This is all for Kirk! That God-damned Kirk, when will he get here? Hey, do you know? You look like someone who would know—you know Kirk?
I don’t know anything! shouted Baron, suddenly realizing he had a full drink in his hand that he managed to spill all over himself and the woman; and he put the glass on the bar and struggled back through the layers of people and ran to escape the bar, for what looked like the exit. Where was this? Where was he? And he kept hearing it as he ran past each small group of people.
Kirk!
Where’s Kirk?
He ran through the exit and found himself in a restaurant, all dark and dark paneled and the front door was there—the front door to the outside and he threw it open and darted into the night just as a tremendous cheer erupted from the bar area he had just fled.
Kirk!
Kirk! Kirk—
The restaurant door closing behind him cut off the cheering; his car sat parked at the curb. Why was he out of his car? He rushed around to the driver’s side and leapt in. The door slammed shut—dark. He grabbed the wheel, pulled himself straight. Reaching out, he wiped the fogged windshield; dark all around, with the moon gone down behind the trees, showing through the gaps in the tree line, headed for the unseen horizon. My God, thought Baron. The driver’s window rolled down a crack. Woods, dark, all around; my God these dreams; I have never had dreams like this before. He rolled up the window. Settling down into the seat, he gripped the wheel and leaned back his head. More sober than before, he felt a faint chill run up his spine. Deep in the night; deep in the night there is always a chill, up behind his closed eyes; what time is it? What time is it? What time is it—if only, if only he had brought his watch.
After turning his head to see out the window, he stepped through the door of a discount mattress retailer’s store. A flabby-cheeked salesman rushed up, saying, Greetings! This is your lucky day, you got here just in time. We close at eight. Ten minutes enough time to make a deal?
Baron looked over the wide deep bright lit showroom with hundreds of beds and bare mattresses stretched from left to right. Come in, said the salesman, gripping the lapel of the brown suit that stretched around him tight like a girdle. His small mustache bristled as he said come in—what can I show you? What are you after? What do you need?
A good night’s rest said Baron. I want a good night’s rest. He shifted in the seat of the Ford as he stepped forward and pointed to the far corner of the showroom. I want to start over there, said Baron—I want to start over there.
Ah, good choice, said the salesman. Those are our best. Go try one—go try one—
Baron walked between the rows of mattresses, the neon lights glaring down from above and he reached the corner and immediately sat down and stretched out and let himself sink into the mattress and clasped his hands over his stomach. Comfort, pure comfort, said the salesman. This is our best model.
Baron closed his eyes and rolled on his side and felt sleep drifting up from inside the mattress as the salesman went on.
I can give you a good deal on this one. They fly out of here like hotcakes!
The safety of the locked car—the chill up his back; just right to lull him to sleep.
We sell a lot of these, oozed the salesman. Take your time, try it. Take your time.
Just right; a smile formed inside Baron’s face and surfaced across his lips. His grip on the wheel loosened. He sank down, the mattress came up.
—why as a matter of fact just last week I sold one of these to Mister Kirk—
Who?
—Mister Kirk—you know Mister Kirk? Everybody knows Mr. Kirk—you know Mister Kirk, don’t you? He’s a big man around here—
A sudden sharp tapping came over the words and cut through Baron.
Fella! said a hard voice. The salesroom dropped away. The nightstick tapped against the driver’s window.
Fella—roll down the window; wake up; you okay?
Baron’s eyes opened; light flooded in; morning light all around. Dawn had come, thank God. A man outside the car, tapping the window. A man in blue. A state trooper.
Fella! Open up!
The patrol car sat pulled up behind the Ford. STATE POLICE it said on the side. Baron rolled down the window and sat up straight.
Fella, said the officer—you okay? Step out of the car please—step out of the car.
Baron began to step out of the car, saying Oh my God thank you thank God you’re here I was at a party last night and I got lost out here trying to find a gas station and my gauge is on E and I need help—
As Baron went on, the officer straightened, nodding. Baron stood outside the car grateful, so grateful—grateful for the dawn—shaking off sleep.
Well first let me see your license and registration, said the officer.
Barron’s eyes worked their way down the officer’s chest.
KIRK said the officer’s name plate above his pocket.
—you say you’re empty? I can call someone—
KIRK.
Oh my God, breathed Baron—
KIRK.
Baron broke, and ran, around the back of the car and plunged into the brush leading up the hill he was parked beside—the hill that loomed over where he’d been parked, the hill he hadn’t seen in the dark last night—the morning dew splashed around, the bugs came up—he struggled through, up the hill.
Fella! boomed a voice. Fella! Fella! Stop right there!
—he has to be evil he just has to be evil this is another dream isn’t it let me wake up let me—
The vines underfoot dragged at his ankles—he struggled up the hill. He clawed his way up, up, out of the dream with Kirk in hot pursuit.
—he has to be evil he just has to be—
—got to get this guy he’s up to no good catch him—
Fella! Police! Stop!
—evil—
—catch him—
The brush grabbed at them, clawed at them, as they struggled up the hill, toward the dawn, the dreamer blazing the trail, the officer scrambling, closing in, reaching for his handcuffs—and something told Baron, and actually, the both of them, that Baron’d be with Kirk a long time—they ran and kept running, Kirk gaining on Baron by increments, before disappearing over the crest of the hill. The sunlight rose silently, arcing above; the Ford remained forever on the side of the seldom if ever traveled lonely dirt road, rusting slowly gone through the days ever since, being slowly engulfed by the wild overgrowth. The tank was forever empty.
About the writer:
In addition to having appeared in O:JA&L several times, Jim Meirose’s short work is widely published, and his novels include Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional Books), Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), No and Maybe – Maybe and No (Pski’s Porch), Audio Bookies (LJMcD Communications), Et Tu (C22 press), and Game 5 (Soyos Books). info: www.jimmeirose.com, X id @jwmeirose https://www.instagram.com/jimmeirose/
Image: Forest and Sea by Pierre Cherbit
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