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

Fifty Cents Will Get You Nowhere

Nearing the end of this sales trip, he ticked off the number of completed transactions in his mind. Not much to show for two hundred and fifty miles of hard-sale smiles and confederate joviality.

Probably get sacked, he thought, gritting his teeth at the notion of ten loyal years of service gone with the flush of the toilet. But it really wasn't his fault. Times were tough for everyone. Nobody was in a buying mood.

He heard the thunder booming over the smoothly running engine of his 1938 Ford sedan. He felt the heat rise beneath the starched collar of his white shirt. Loosening his necktie, he unbuttoned the top button and cracked the window.

"I should have changed the wipers," he muttered.

The rain was coming down in sheets. He felt cold droplets sting his face, but left the window cracked. The gas station attendant told him his wipers were dry rotted at the last little town filling station where he'd filled up his tank. He looked at his watch and knew he was running behind. At this rate, he'd never make BridgeTown by noon. It was the reason he'd forgone a good night's rest at a cheap motel and decided to drive straight through the night. He told the attendant the wipers were okay. He'd driven away from the station, and fifteen minutes later, the bottom dropped out.

He licked his lips and pressed his face closer to the blurry windshield. He looked at the speedometer, wondered if he should slow down, but kept his black leather lace-up firmly on the gas pedal.

He had to make this deadline. Had to. It was do or die. His Hail Mary chance. Celeste would leave him if he got fired. He knew it deep inside his gut. And his gut was never wrong.

He wiped his clammy forehead with the back of his hand. That was the instant that he saw her. The instant that he braked hard and swerved right to miss her. The instant that he felt the car loose traction and the sickening bump as his car collided with the pedestrian.

***

The sedan came to a stop. He flung the door open and jumped out. The rain hit him like a cold slap in the face. Strands of wet hair drained down his forehead. He caught the faint odor of a doctor's office from the Vitalis hair tonic he's splashed on a few hours ago.

The beams of his headlights lit the ditch beside the road. It was there he spied her, lying face down in the overgrown weeds. He felt like he'd been kicked in the chest. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.

"Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god."

He looked up and down the deserted road. Streaks of jagged lightning angrily lit the sky. He forced his body to move toward the still figure. His leaden steps slowly made their way to the muddy ditch.

The slick soles of his shoes provided little traction, and he slipped and fell on his knees. He crawled the remaining few feet to where she lay, raising a shaky finger to feel her neck for a pulse.

A frightened whimper escaped him. He rose to his feet, searching frantically for a passing vehicle on this lonely two-lane highway. Nothing but the storm, fields, and trees. Nothing he could do for her now either.

He balled his fists and turned his face to the crying sky. His scream was lost in the violent rumble of thunder overhead. The veins in his neck felt like corded hemp. His feet took a few staggering steps toward his car, and before he realized what he was doing, he was running as fast as possible.

He fumbled for the key, releasing a relieved 'yes' when the grinding starter engaged, and the motor started. He righted the car in his lane. The little red tail lights, like the flicker of bleeding candlelight, disappeared in the blackness.

He was shaking, as much from the fear and panic of what had just happened as from the dripping clothes he sat in. The heater was on high, the windows closed, but it did little to warm the chill that had seeped into his soul. Somehow, his shaking hands kept the car in its lane.

***

A few miles down the road, he saw a service station. He must have hit the next little town. Still too early to be opened for business, he pulled under the roof covering the single gas pump out front. He switched off the car.

Flinging open the door, he ran behind a pile of old tires and wretched violently. He had just come out from behind the tires when a voice floated out of the darkness.

"Bad chili does me that way every time."

His taut nerves were at the breaking point. He felt like he literally jumped out of his skin.

"Didn't mean to give you such a fright."

"No harm done," he said. "Just didn't see you in the dark."

He heard a low chuckle in the doorway.

"Name's Jack," said a grizzled old man sitting on the step of the station's front door.

The old man rose from his seat and stepped into the light of his car's low beams.

"Do say," he said. "Pleased to meet you. You live here?"

"Naw," said Jack. "Just passing through. You?"

"Same here. Just passing through. Wipers are shot. Thought I'd try to sit out this storm. See if the rain might lighten up a bit."

"Good plan," Jack said.

The old man went back to his seat. The salesman jumped a little at the sound of a harmonica.

Jack sat in the shadows, pulling one tune after another out of the little silver box. The salesman recognized some of the songs from the old blues records he had at home.

"You're good," he said.

"Naw. I just play around with this thing. Good comp'ny though," he said, looking at the harmonica and smiling. "Fifty cents will get you nowhere. But this little baby can take you anywhere you can imagine. Best friend I ever had. And best of all, she don't talk back unless I make her."

"I know what you're saying," he said.

"Looks like the rain's lettin' up," Jack said.

For an instant, the gravity of what he'd done hit the salesman like a twelve story concrete wall. He scratched his palm, nervously shifting his feet from side to side.

"Where you headed?" he asked.

"Wherever the winds of Fate blow," said Jack.

"Hop in," he said. "It's still hours till dawn. Too nasty to be out here until morning. Besides, I could use the company."

"Don't mind if I do," said Jack, grunting as he rose from the stoop. "You don't mind if I play while you drive?"

"Nah," said the man, climbing behind the wheel.

He did not know how many hours passed. When the salesman woke up, his head was resting on the steering wheel. The car was parked in the weeds on the side of a lonely two-lane road.

"A dream," he muttered. "It was all a dream."

His face washed gray.

A ray of sunlight through the car's windshield turned the little silver instrument blinding white. The harmonica lay in the crease of the front seat, silent and lonely, and as cold as the hand of Death.