Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories

That Nagging Itch

It started as a nagging itch in the back of his brain, an irritating uneasiness that persistently noodled around in his subconscious. He probably should have pulled off hours ago, stopping at one of the many roadside inns that promoted sleep as a commodity purchased like milk, bread, or any other ordinary staple.

Motels. They were strewn along the highway like litter. Cubicles for the weary traveler. Hide-aways for horny lovers searching for their hotbed of release, that once-in-a-lifetime experience of over-the-top ecstasy. Rooms saturated with disappointment.

Major plastic accepted. No questions asked.

The broken and solid lines blurred past him in a mesmerizing pattern that stretched out infinitely. He had long left the city and its night-shattering glare behind. He no longer passed the cracker box motels. He was hopelessly lost – alone in the middle of nowhere.

The road took a steep ascent, winding and turning, and he pressed the accelerator harder, maintaining a steady rate of speed. It would be smarter to turn around and head back.

But that was part of his dilemma.

Head back where?

He'd spent a lifetime burning bridges, living only for himself. Unencumbered by the chains of family or friends, he treated the people in his life like unwanted garbage. His path was strewn with relationships carelessly tossed aside in the name of freedom.

Most of the guys he'd run into had long been married or were, at the very least, shacked up with someone. Many had gone through several partners, and it seemed to him an exercise they practiced over and over in the vain hope that one day they would finally get it right. These men were like ex-cons, pulling their time, freeing themselves of their shackles, only to meet another woman and reenter the prison they'd fought so hard to break free from.

He'd almost fallen into that slave trap of matrimony a time or two but escaped by the skin of his teeth.

Skin of his teeth. Where did they come up with such expressions?

His train of thought was too easily derailed. He was sure he needed sleep. That had to be the reason. He'd never allowed himself to get this lost before. He needed sleep.

How long had he driven? He had no idea. The hours melted away as inconspicuously as the miles.

There were no road signs, no markers of orientation, nothing that permitted you to place your finger upon the map and say, 'I am here at this spot.'

He heard the engine cough, sputter, and abruptly die. The gauge read empty. Out of luck. Out of gas. He smacked the steering wheel with the palms of his hands.

There was nothing to do but wait until morning. At first light, he'd retrace his route and try to find help. There must be a gas station somewhere or a person who could point him toward civilization.

He pulled up the collar of his jacket and scrunched down into the seat. He closed his eyes and let his body fall into the relaxing arms of sleep.

He awoke to the cold metallic click of a pistol's cock. The door on the driver's side was opened. The dark hole of the barrel's end stared him squarely in the face, and the alarm on the steering column pinged its alert that his keys dangled in the ignition.

"Turn that confounded thing off," the voice commanded. "But do it slowly less you want your hair parted a new way."

He carefully pulled the keys from the ignition.

The man with the gun was about his age, maybe a little older. One strap of his overalls was fastened, the other swung limply behind him. There was a ragged scar that began above the middle of his eyebrows and ran beneath his eye. It cut a crescent trail across his cheek and disappeared into his wild, untamed beard. His teeth were stained a muddy brown, and his clothes and body reeked of unwashed odors. His breath was hot and sour as he moved in closely to the stranger's face.

"You trespassin.' You know that? What you doin' up here anyways?"

"Lost," said the man behind the wheel. "Lost and out of gas."

There was a snort of laughter from the other man.

"Zat all?" he said, dropping the pistol into one of the cavernous pockets on the side of his pants.

He reached into another pocket and pulled out tobacco and paper. As he rolled the cigarette, he looked down at the man.

"No thanks, man. Got my own," the driver stated.

The driver reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roach and a lighter. He lit his and offered the lighter to the hillbilly. The bearded man accepted it and lit his own. He inhaled deeply and looked toward the horizon.

"Twern't loaded, ya' know," he said. "Carry it to scare folks off. Cain't be none too careful."

Before handing the lighter back to the driver of the car, he studied the engraving on the side.

"Your name Michael?" he asked.

"Yeah," Michael answered. "Look, is there a gas station around here anywhere? I need to fill my tank. I want to be in Memphis tonight."

"Memphis," the bearded man said. "That's a real big place."

"Yeah," Michael said. "Is there a town nearby? I really need to get going."

"Naw. Last town's way back yonder," he said taking one last draw on the butt.

The ash end glowed dangerously close to his beard. He spit the small stub upon the ground where it smoldered in the dew-dampened grass.

"Might as well come with me home for a bite. Awful long way back. Never make it without sumpin' in your belly."

Michael got out of the car, his back and legs stiffly protesting, and extended his hand to the bearded man.

"It's this way," the man said and pointed a dirty finger toward a path the led into the woods.

Michael let his hand drop to his side. There was something about the bearded man's face that caused Michael to turn silently towards the woods. As he walked along the trail, he began to imagine the different horrors that awaited him in terms of "food" that the country bumpkin would be offering. He silently cursed himself for not stopping last night, for not gassing up, for failing to load up on grub, and for his bottom-of-the-barrel bad luck.

He was at the mercy of this pig-sty smelling yokel behind him. A twig snapped, and the hairs on the back of Michael's neck stood at attention.

"You been gone a frightful length of time," the woman's voice said as the door of the cabin creaked open.

She was dressed in filthy rags, and the swell of her stomach warned the time was short till her delivery. She placed a wooden bowl of watery stew before the man who sat on a bench at the hand-hewn table.

There was no other furniture in the room. A pile of rags and straw in the corner served as a bed. The dying fire in the fireplace popped and snapped, echoing in the empty room.

He finished the meal and pushed the bowl aside. His grimy hands reached into a pocket and retrieved tobacco and paper. He silently rolled a cigarette and placed it to his lips.

"Where in tarnation did you get that?"

He grunted, leaving the unanswered question floating in the bare room.

She lumbered to the corner, kneeling slowly, painfully, and straightened the mound of rags. She fluffed the flatten straw. Ponderously, she lay down in the nest that she had fashioned.

He sat at the table in silence. As he rubbed the small wheel with his thick, callused thumb, a

flame shot forth in the darkening gloom. Its glow lit the bearded face, highlighting the crescent scar so that it appeared angry and enflamed. It threw a halo of light across his hand. Between the wide blunt fingertips you could just make out the delicately engraved word – Michael.