Genesis

Chapter 6 OR An Influx of Intricate Introductions Initiated by Imbecilic...

Chapter 6 OR An Influx of Intricate Introductions Initiated by Imbecilic Immorality

"'Hey," shouted a southern voice, yanking me from the darkness. "You want the res' o' dat?"

Haywood extended a half finished blunt, nearly making contact with my lips, "Sure. Where are we? Where did you go?"

He sort of chuckled at my line of questioning, "I decided to take you up-state, I got orders from the tippy top. You're just along for the ride, 'till we find your lil buddy, Ben."

After I heard that, the chuckle seemed sort of sinister, like... like he was going to kill me, bury me in the woods. Something the mafia would do.

"You're not going to..."

"Nah," he darted. "Nothin' like dat. Just gotta keep an eye on ya. Can't have you slipping away when all dis shit is hittin' the fan."

He made a very valid point, I just nodded in agreement and hit the blunt.

I began to get my bearings around this point, too, so I was taking in the scenery. I hadn't seen that many trees since I was Back Home. Of course, there was far more snow here, but it was kind of relieving to be surrounded by more trees than people for the first time in years. Enveloped on both sides of the road by these skyscrapers, just not made of concrete.

There was a kind of peace to it. You couldn't hear three different sirens going off at once, people weren't yelling profanities out the windows of their car. You could actually reach the speeds posted on the signs, instead of constantly stopping.

I leaned back in the seat of Haywood's truck, roaring down this single lane road. I realized I hadn't felt this relaxed in a while, regardless of essentially being a captive.

I think, maybe, I felt like, this far out, The Path couldn't touch me. Especially at the mercy of someone else, instead of calling all the shots. I could sit back, and let someone else pilot for a while.

After about fifteen more minutes of driving, in absolute silence, we arrived at this house perched atop what appeared to be a tree stump. It looked like something famous writers retire to, to finish their masterpiece, like maybe it had a wood stove and an outhouse. So one could get back to humanities roots.

"You ain't gonna run when we get out da car, are ya," inquired Haywood, hand nonchalantly already on some kind of revolver on his hip. "'Cause I know dese people and they are pretty good people. Don't need some street punk ruinin' my rep out here."

I shook my head, appearances matter so much to these people.

"Oh," he added. "And ya gotta talk, they'll think you're some kind of a weird fuck if ya don't. They already told me 'bout how you like to just watch an' shit." He made eye contact with me, giving me that some nonverbal confirmation.

The truck doors unlocked, and he gestured for me to follow him up the creaky wooden stairs that led to the cabin. As I stepped inside, the interior unfolded like scenes from a frontier movie, with Davy Crockett as the unlikely protagonist.

The single, expansive room resembled the rustic charm of an old frontier cabin, and a shower curtain discreetly hid what I assumed was a makeshift bathroom or shower area. The air inside was thick with smoke, so dense that it seemed impossible to breathe anything other than the unmistakable scent of cigarettes and blunt wrappers.

In the center of this vast, open space sat an older man, his appearance matching the rugged setting. His unshaven face and long brown hair framed a torso clad in a tattered white t-shirt, more hole than fabric. Stains adorned his denim jeans, a mix of what could be either oil or resin, evidence of years spent cleaning bowls. He was the epitome of the kind of person you'd expect to find in a place like this – a living embodiment of the rugged frontier spirit. I half-expected him to pull out a double-barrel shotgun at any moment, questioning the presence of an unexpected visitor in his smoky abode.