I USED TO KNOW HIM

CHAPTER TWO

     It was getting light when he found the highway. It was small and narrow,

bedded with pebbly asphalt with a faded white line down the middle that

told him it was not a first class road. It stretched ahead of him,

dwindling among the thick hemlock forests and dwarfed by the steep,

wooded hills. He grinned, wondering vaguely which direction he should

travel to get to Everett. Finally, he pulled a quarter from his pocket

and flipped it into the air. He caught it deftly. Heads, I go to the

right; tails, I go to the left. Heads won and he started off toward the

right, the stiffness and the weariness dragging at him like a weight

tied to his legs.

     While he walked, he studied the pictures in his wallet, noting happily

that it also contained twenty dollars in bills. That was comforting.

In the daylight, the picture of Margret that had looked pretty in the flame

of the lighter, became beautiful. Although it was a black and white

photo, Nick decided that her hair was brown. It swept about a soft,

heart shaped face like a cloud. The image was smiling at him and he felt

that if she was not his wife, he hoped that she was his girl.

It was late in the morning when he found the service station. It was a

small, lonely, isolated place that sported two pumps and cramped looking

lube rack. Through the open door of the washroom, Nick could see the

shoes and coverall legs of the attendant as they stuck out from under a

Ford. Nick found a dime in his pocket and treated himself to a cold

drink, while he tried to figure out where he was.

Across the highway, a marker told him that he was on Route 87. He pulled

a Pennsylvania map - not entirely sure he was in Pennsylvania - from the

rack inside the door and, unfolding it, found Everett. The route 87 ran

through the town, but it was difficult to puzzle out whether he was

north or south of the place. He refolded the map and stuffed it into his

pocket for further reference, and glanced around. On the far side of the

office was a door marked "MEN", that was just what he wanted. His

clothes, his hair and his face needed a few emergency repairs before he

could confront the population of Everett.

He went in.

     In a mirror, with most of the backing peeling away, he discovered that

NickDanson was rather good looking, if you overlooked the damage. His

blocky, rugged face was smeared with dirt and dried blood, with a slight

stubble shadowing his lean cheeks. The mop of tangled black hair had a

lot of red splotches in it from the blood he'd lost. He filled the bowl

with tepid water and began soaping his face and hands vigorously, even

though it hurt. After washing most of the blood from his hair, he found

a comb in a pocket and whipped some order into the matted, dark mass.

The attendant was standing at the counter when Nick came out of the

restroom. He was an elderly man with receding grey hair, a hawk nose and

grizzled features set firmly into a face that looked like a dried apple.

He grinned and the gold cap on an eyetooth flashed dully.

"Thought I heard someone in here," he said around the chew that pouched

his cheek. "Car break down on ye?"

"I'm walking," Nick, told him.

"Yer a long way from any kind 'o town, son ... say," he said suddenly

noticing the scratch marks. "Y' been fightin' a bobcat?"

Nick shook his head and fished for a lie. "Got drunk last night and into

a brawl. My friends pitched me out of the car in a moment of

playfulness." He hoped he had put enough bitterness into the explanation

to make it ring true.

The old man chuckled softly. "Durned shame, son. Y'from around here?"

"New York," Nick lied. "I'm stayin' in Everett."

"Everett," the old man cackled. "Hell, that's fifteen miles south

o'here, or better." He paused, swivelled his bird-like head and spat a

jet of brown juice through the open door. "Tell y'what, son, seein's how

you'll have t'walk it down there. Ain't no one goin' that way, I know

of. S'pose y'could thumb it, but it'd be hard. Lonely road, y'see. If

y'don't mind waitin' till after supper, I'll run y'down to town. Drop

y'off where y'want to go."

"Hadn't thought of waiting so long," Nick told him. "What would I do?

Just sit here?"

"Hell no! In th' back room there's a cot. Been sleepin' there myself

sometimes, since m'wife passed along back in '53. December of '53 it

was. I'll wake ye, come supper."

"Thanks."

With the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Nick took a cellophane wrapped

pie from the counter and began eating it. He handed the old man a

quarter.

"S'funny," the old man said, ringing up the sale, "ye don't smell like a

drunk. Ought t'be some likker smell to y'son."

"I was drinking vodka," Nick countered, wondering how he had pulled that

from a mind that could not remember his past. He took another bite of

the pie as the old man gave him his change.

"Bad stuff, vodka. That's th' slop them Russian hassocks drink, ain't

it?"

"I think so."

"Well, it ain't for AndrewHocum. Those hassocks can have it."

Nick was saved from further conversation by a new station wagon pulling

into the pumps. A young woman, dressed in a suit, cut the engine and

honked the horn briefly. Andrew waved and headed for the door.

"Get some shut eye, son. I'll wake y' later."

"Thanks, Andrew."

He finished the last of the pie and watched Andrew stick a hose into the

wagon's gas tank, then go around front to wipe off the windshield.

Nick cleared the pie wrapper off the small counter and tossed it into a

box as he headed for the backroom. After closing the door, he fell onto

the bed and a moment later into the well of sleep.