The Blue

4. Stop

 I'm not sure why the heat wave surprises me. We were in a heat wave before my coma, so it makes sense there's one after. Guess I thought everything would have reset after my dip in the black lagoon.

World doesn't stop for me. The razor's edge horizon of Lake Charles, Louisiana spins by the taxi-cab window instead.

Everything is dead grass. The leaves disintegrate underfoot. The world is steamed then baked every day. Hot, humid, hell. Buildings are squat and flat, like boats, like they'll float when it floods. They won't.

During the summer, no one goes outside if they can help it, so the town feels deserted. Those bold enough to be outdoors trudge under the heavy heat on their shoulders, every movement burdened by the sun.

"Dickwad drivers," the cab driver mumbles.

I twist in my seat; a green truck is tailgating us, just a few inches from touching bumpers. I can actually hear the sound of his engine; the grill feels like it's in the back seat with me. 

I look at the driver: red-faced white guy. Looks pissed. Don't recognize him.

We cross a cemetery, old tombstones crooked, covered in brown mold and chipped like rows of rotting teeth, splotchy grass stubbling up out of the ground where it's been freshly planted.

A housing project with a pale brick face looms behind it—windows filthy, smashed, or open to box fans pumping stale air out the building. The building has eyes, cataract and crazy.

Then I see the liquor store approaching. Know I shouldn't, know I shouldn't. But.

"You know what, could you stop right here?" I ask the cab driver, pointing at the corner store. "Just for one second, I want to pick something up."

"Yup," he says, and jams on the brakes.The truck who has been tailgating us swerves around the cab and takes the next right turn.

I escape into the heat, sweat rolling down my scalp under the bandages that wrap my skull. Smells like a rusty pot of boiling tap water out here. Just wet heat smashing me.

Thunder Hill Liquor tries to be an upscale, modern building, but Lake Charles isn't having it. Was a nice building, to start—big, plastic walls displaying the hundreds of beautiful liquor bottles, like big gems in the sunlight, every conceivable color pressed into cut glass. Then the store got broken into a few times, and now the whole building is wrapped in big white bars. Can't have nice things here.

Kinda like it that way.

Irish whiskey looks nice. I take it to the counter.

"You okay?" the Indian cashier asks.

I touch the bandage around my head. "Car accident," I say. "Where's Dale?"

The clerk looks at me, puzzled. He hands me the change. "I'm Dale. You okay?" he repeats.

"Probably not." I point at the bandage on my head and chuckle.

Still. I know Dale, and that wasn't him. Must be a new guy. Maybe there are two Dales. I don't understand Indian families.

Whatever. Back in the cab. "Thanks, man. On with the show."

I turn and look out the rear window. The green truck is behind us again, this time a block back.

One more mile and the cab rolls to a stop outside a three-story red brick building. I pay him and step out in front of the apartment complex. Drapes of kudzu used to climb the walls in green triumph, but after the drought they're skeletal remains, dried dead bangs down the sunken face of the building.

Air conditioning units groan stank breath into my nose as I put one foot on the fire escape I normally climb to get home. Except, trying to climb brings jagged pain to my ribs, so I turn back to the front entrance.

On my way back around, I see the green truck again. It reaches the end of my block, then makes a U-Turn and drives back by the front of my apartment. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, staring to see the driver. He must be following me.

Thin white guy, angular head like he’s been carved from wood by a high school shop student. The truck creeps by at walking pace. The driver put his left arm out the window. In his hand, a black pistol, pointed at the ground. He displays the weapon proudly.

I freeze. He looks at me. I'm watching the gun.

I don't know who this is, or why he is threatening me. I just stare at the gun, which droops downward, flaccid.

Go ahead and shoot me. The week I've had.

The truck passes. Shady neighborhood; who knows what he's after. Lots of drug deals around here. Maybe some sort of gang shit, claiming territory. Try not to get involved.

Five-minute wait for the elevator, even though the complex is only half-rented. So humid, the aluminum walls of the little cabin seem to be sweating. Smells that way.

Third floor. Hobble down the red carpet. 304. Home, finally. What a weekend.