Work Text:
April 1986
When he finally came back into himself, he floated up through a silence broken only by a low and insistent pinging. What was it…was it an alarm clock? Oh God, school, was he late?
Please, no, anything but that.
He struggled against waking, annoyed, with unconsciousness binding him wrist and ankle. It would be so easy to stay here in this dark place, it was warm and black and so eager to pull him back down. All he wanted was to sleep but everything hurt, everything, he felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and his first coherent thought was that his mouth tasted sweet and metallic, like pennies, like old blood.
His throat worked trying to swallow, he tried to bite the sides of his tongue, eager to summon up even a drop of saliva, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t swallow or lick past the thing in his mouth, hard and painful between his teeth and down his throat.
Panic.
Pain lanced through his middle when he tried to sit up, and the steady beeping he’d noted before rose to a penetrating crescendo as he coughed, gagged, pawed weakly at his mouth, desperate to have whatever it was gone, have it out, until soft hands gently seized his wrists and pulled them away. Soft hands, softer voice, a woman soothing him. It wasn’t difficult to stop fighting, he was exhausted, and didn’t understand why.
“Hang on, no, stop that now, shhhh,” she said softly, “we’ll get a doctor in to see you in a minute.”
The woman shifted into focus now, a nurse, older, motherly, lovely, leaning over him, stroking the back of his hand. His eyes filled at such gentle treatment, and when he relaxed visibly, so too did she. He looked past her, eyes still wild, wide and burning. White room, white curtains, the bitter medicinal smell of antiseptic and bleach. Hospital? Why was he in the hospital?
He met her eyes again and she read the fear and the question in his gaze.
“You’re in Bloomington at the University Hospital,” she whispered, “but don’t worry, we’re taking good care of you.”
She smiled, stroking his hand one last time before laying it back on the bed beside him, and before she could elaborate further, a doctor came in behind her. A murmured and indistinct conversation between them, a quick battery of little tests, warm powder dry fingers at his wrist and a light in his eyes, and with a warning to brace himself at last the awful tube was pulled from his throat.
He was then told as he sucked ice chips, the single most wonderful thing on the earth, he decided, that three weeks ago he’d been found lying beside Highway 37 outside Harrodsburg and brought in alone. He’d been in a coma since, no, they were sorry, no one had come looking for him, he hadn’t been carrying any ID, and could he please tell them his name?
He swallowed, frowned,
and thought,
and thought,
and thought,
but even if his voice had been more than a pitiful raven’s croak, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them, because he didn’t know.
oOo
He spent too long in the bathroom deep into the second night after waking.
A nurse’s firm hand on his shoulder shaking him awake lifted him from a nightmare just as he came face to face with something that evaporated as his eyes flew open. So he stayed awake, skin feeling too tight, and too afraid to succumb to sleep and possibly revisit that horror, his pain dulled to a distant roar by drugs that gave him the vague and sluggish sensation of being under water.
He couldn’t bear the taste in his mouth, so begged a toothbrush and, weak as a newborn and with wobbling knees, dragging his IV pole along beside him, leaned heavily on the sink and stared at his reflection so hard and for so long that he thought blood might spring up on his forehead.
He brushed his teeth in the lemon-yellow light, luxuriating in the fresh sweet taste of peppermint and listening to the mosquito whine of the fluorescent bulbs, willing himself to remember something, anything, but he couldn’t.
All the mirror was able to tell him was that he was thin, gaunt really, jaw too sharp and eyes too big and bruised looking in the wan oval of his face. His hair was closely trimmed, soft, deep brown and just beginning to curl. This pained him but he couldn’t have said why.
Earlier in the day, seeing him running his hand absently over this short crop one of the nurses told him his hair had been long when the ambulance brought him in, but it was so matted with dried blood and filth they hadn’t been able to save it, so they’d been forced to cut it off. He didn’t tell them he hated it, it left him feeling naked, the back of his neck vulnerable and cold.
He spat, rinsed, set the toothbrush aside and slowly lifted his gown to see scattered bruises fading to yellow, purple, and green, and thought he’d seen quilts with fewer patches and stitches than his one slender body boasted.
He crept back to his bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.
Walking scarecrow or not, the nurses had all taken a shine to him, his wide dark eyes, warm, soft voice, and his dimples when they could coax them out, and so charmed, had taken up a collection, so he had one hundred and twenty-seven dollars to his name now, and that was something.
Expanding on what little information they knew told him that he looked like he’d been thrown from a moving car traveling at a high rate of speed, though more than one of the doctors who passed through his room, every last one of them looking him over like he was a curiosity, he supposed he was, seemed to share the idea that he’d been mauled.
It wasn’t helpful that none of them had any idea what sort of creature would leave bites that mimicked a very severe, if oddly placed, case of road rash.
He didn’t have any broken bones, and no obvious head trauma to account for the memory loss, one plus as he saw it, and his wounds were healing well, so after another week there was no reason to keep him any longer.
In the process of his discharge, they had to give him a name and settled on Joseph Deere, Joe for short, and carefully avoiding John Doe, because honestly that was a little too corpse-adjacent for everyone’s taste, and Deere because college town or not, this was farm country.
He’d been fingerprinted while he was unconscious in an effort to locate his name, or his people, or both, to no avail. He supposed he should feel relieved to know he didn’t have a criminal history. Social Services had gotten involved and given him paperwork regarding his circumstances and an ID, his age having been determined as an average by the small fleet of doctors, and the woman who helped him pressing her card into his hand while extracting a promise to call her if his circumstances changed, or he remembered anything.
A week after waking saw him released into the care of a local church shelter with a big bottle of antibiotics, a smaller bottle of ibuprofen, a supply of fresh bandages, and wearing clothes that weren’t his. His own things had been shredded, he was told, gory rags cut from his body in the emergency room, so there was nothing left of his own belongings but a pair of battered combat boots, a guitar pick on a chain, and four rings.
The clothes he wore had come from one of the nurses. Seeing his chunky rings, and the tattoos that survived whatever had happened to him, she said she thought he and her son would have the same taste. The jeans were a little bit too big, but the T-shirts fit. They were garishly adorned with skulls, crosses, and the names of bands that he couldn’t remember, if he’d ever known them at all.
He was staggered by everyone’s kindness, but it took exactly one night spent on a hard cot in the church’s musty basement, wide awake in the dark listening to the weeping, snoring, and farting of a dozen other men to tell him he couldn’t stay there. Surely someone needed the cot more than he did, and even downcast as he was, he couldn’t bear that much naked misery.
His mind had raced as he lay there. He ached in more ways than one. His body, still healing, his head, because he didn’t know who he was or what to do, and his heart, because he didn’t know if someone, anyone, was missing him.
They would’ve come searching for him if they were, right?
…right?!
So, awful thought, there mustn’t be anyone…
Next day he offered profuse thanks to the gentleman in charge, explaining that he had to go, didn’t feel he belonged there. He was directed to the YMCA, so at least a shower a day was guaranteed, and he could wash his clothes, but that left him spending his nights sleeping rough, in doorways or any suitably hidden nook he could find that didn’t smell of piss or spilled booze.
Some of the money he was given was spent at the Army Surplus and local Goodwill, on an old field jacket with a hood and a warm zip-out liner, a sleeping bag, backpack, and ballcap to cover his short hair. More was spent at a Dollar Store on socks and boxers.
He spent so much time drinking bottomless cups of coffee and enduring the stink-eye of the waitstaff at the local Denny’s that some nights he felt like his skin was going to vibrate off his bones. When he was finally so exhausted that he did have to find somewhere to lay his head, he thanked whatever powers that be that it was spring, and the weather was fine.
He haunted the main drag in Bloomington, asking at the restaurants and cafes if they had any work he could do for food or even some cash. Some took pity, but Bloomington was small and most of the jobs he might do were already filled by the college students from IU, so that only went so far.
“Come back in June, the kids all go home mid-June,” he heard again and again. It was early May now; another month and a half would be a long time to be hungry.
As he walked his eyes roved over everything and everyone, praying for something familiar, anything that might dredge up some buried memory, but he never saw anything, and every face belonged to a stranger.
oOo
The one time he gave in to desperation and decided to knock on the door of someone’s home to see if they had any yardwork, in exchange for whatever little money they might spare him, went south so fast he swore to never do it again.
He’d knocked and stepped back off the little covered porch, smiled and widened his eyes, trying to look as innocuous as possible.
She’d looked so nice when she opened the door, a picture-perfect Mimi. A cap of tightly permed pale lavender curls, bejeweled cats-eye glasses over drooping jowls carefully powdered, faded flowered housedress, and soft white slippers. She’d smiled so sweetly, leaning in as he explained with his soft husky voice what he wanted, needed, then she’d told him to wait a minute and gone back in and closed the door.
He’d wondered later how he’d known it was time to go. Perhaps it was the determined knock of the deadbolt sliding home when she went in, but even if he hadn’t been standing close enough to her open window to hear her give someone on the phone his description, something had told him he had to get the fuck out of Dodge. So go he did, stung, heart aching and belly growling.
He’d walked casually away, shedding his jacket and ballcap as he went, stuffing them both into his backpack. He cut through an alley, where he stowed the sleeping bag that was too bulky to hide. Returning to the street, and lucky enough to be the same age as an enormous part of the local community, he looked like just another student on their way somewhere, so when the police cruiser rolled past, he ignored them.
Nothing to see here…
He didn’t understand, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Did he look like he’d hurt anyone? Did he look like a thief?
He stroked his chin, wondering what about him had been so off-putting, found the raised still-healing and tender scar along his jaw, along with a thin bit of patchy beard. He thought bitterly that he’d never had much luck with whiskers, and more bitterly still that he’d remember something as inconsequential as that, and why not something important, like HIS NAME, for fuck’s sake?
A closer look in the window of a car told him he didn’t look much better than when they’d sprung him from the hospital two weeks ago. Bad food and little sleep had not helped the healing process, so he was still pale, hollow eyed, and scruffy. If he was honest with himself, he thought he might be put off by him, too.
Fuck.
That afternoon some of the last of his precious stash of money was spent on cheap razors and shaving cream.
That night, sleeping bag safely retrieved, despairing and hungry, he settled into the sheltered back door of an ancient garage, partially hidden by a dumpster, thankful it didn’t smell like old grease. He usually woke with the dawn and the noise of people starting their day, so he thought for sure he’d be gone before anyone came in to open, but it rained in the night, and he was more tired than he realized.
The rain lulled him, and he slept like the dead, until the toe of someone’s boot nudged him awake in the pale violet light of early morning.
oOo
“C’mon kid, wake up!”
He jerked awake at the man’s voice, shoving the sleeping bag down and trying to scramble backwards, but he was cornered, there was nowhere for him to go.
“Wait, I’m not gonna hurt you-”
What he was saying didn’t register immediately in Joe’s head, because the man seemed enormous, looming over him. He was older, in his late forties, he guessed, he had thinning, short grey hair, a grey beard and mustache neatly trimmed, green plaid flannel shirt tucked into ancient Levi’s, ending with the offending steel toed work boots.
He was familiar, but Joe knew by now that that was deceptive, you probably couldn’t throw a rock without hitting ten good ol’ boys just like him. But it felt like…more than that.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Joe babbled, still trying to stand and failing, legs still tangled up in the sleeping bag, and feeling a little sick from the rush of adrenaline, “I’ll go, just-please just give me a minute.”
If he’d had anything to eat in the last 24 hours, right then he thought he’d probably lose it. With this awful churning, his stomach growled, long and loud.
The man’s deep blue eyes took him in, looked hard, saw him, and he raised both his hands, one of which held a substantial travel mug of what smelled like coffee with generous amounts of cream and sugar. It smelled so good, and Joe’s stomach gurgled insistently, this time with hunger.
Beyond this noisy intestinal conflict, he was still reeling under the impression that this man reminded him of someone. A familiar face at last, and who it was felt like it was right on the tip of his horrible faulty brain, but he couldn’t drag it into the light. Damn it!
“Just hang on now, STOP!” The man said more loudly this time, arresting Joe’s bid for escape, but he was smiling now, Joe saw, eyes folding up into kindly weathered pleats, and speaking lightly, like you’d talk to a spooked animal.
“That belly sounds like it has an echo, when was the last time you ate?”
oOo
Half an hour later Joe was sitting in a diner in a booth across from this kindly and frustratingly familiar personage, drinking coffee you could tar a roof with and slowly eating chocolate chip pancakes with sausage and eggs on the side, savoring every single bite.
The food was richer than anything he’d eaten in a while and he knew he’d probably pay for it later, but oh God, it would be worth it!
He’d haltingly shared his story when asked, “Call it paying toll to the troll,” the man had said, nodding to his food, so Joe explained what little he knew, sure to include that it wasn’t drugs or booze that lead to his being a man without home or people, and in return Joe found his companion and benevolent host owned the garage in whose doorway he’d passed the night.
His name was Allan Greer, and it turned out that he needed help around the garage, as a watchman or apprentice mechanic, or both, if Joe was willing and had the knowledge. If he didn’t, he could be taught.
Better still, the watchman gig came with an old 1970 Airstream Overlander that Joe could live in, if he wanted. All the amenities and no strings. Good honest work was all he asked for, and if Allan found him worth his salt, he’d pay him, too.
It felt like nothing short of a miracle, and even though Joe’s skin prickled with apprehension at accepting this from a stranger, he wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass him by. Beggars and choosers and all that.
“But if you fuck around, or try to steal from me, you’ll be out on your ass, got it?”
This was said with a smile and the most perfect cordiality, but his eyes had been steely, so Joe believed him, and nodded.
When Joe mentioned the story he’d been told at the hospital, and the lack of friend or family to look in on him or take him in, Allan expressed his sorrow that Joe had no one, said he sympathized, the only family he had was his wife.
“She doesn’t have any family she’ll own to,” a grin and a wink here, “and we were never blessed with any kids.” For a moment he stared down into his coffee cup, “If I didn’t have her, I don’t know what I’d do.”
Joe wasn’t able to say he understood, because for all intents and purposes, he felt like a newborn. He’d been wandering around for two weeks without the first idea how to get his life back, with no idea where to start, and no idea what said life had been like. Now he could only quietly marvel at his good fortune, finding yet another person who was so kind, and accepted the jobs and the trailer on the spot, extending his hand to shake.
“I’d be happy, grateful, to come work for you, and the trailer sounds perfect.”
“I’m glad to hear it!” Allan beamed, took Joe’s hand in a rough grip and squeezed it briefly.
“Thank God for people who take in strays,” Joe said softly, eyes shining as he tried to joke around the ache in his throat.
“I always try to live by the Golden Rule. Maybe you had some good karma stored up, huh?”
“I wish I knew.”
oOo
Allan spent the morning showing Joe around the garage and yard.
The garage had been there since the 1950s, an ancient Quonset hut that held more than you thought it would when you saw it from the outside. It had belonged to Allan’s father, and when he passed, the garage came to him. He did a good business and was comfortable, but the last young man to work for him had recently taken up with some girl and started a family, not necessarily in that order, and gone to work for the Ford Plant away down in Louisville.
The Airstream was parked in a corner of the yard, mostly surrounded by cars waiting to be seen to. A little striped awning shaded a 8x10 patch of Astroturf, a battered grey Adirondack chair and a cable spool table with a potted silk flower on it, that constituted an improvised lawn.
The sleek silver shell was a little bit dulled with age, but the inside was in good shape. It was perfectly snug, clean, warm, and comfortable. There was a small bathroom with a shower, a tiny built-in sink and stove top with two burners constituted the kitchen, and a small bedroom in the back. All it lacked was dishes, sheets, and towels, which Allan said he could provide ASAP.
It felt like a palace, and Joe was so grateful he shook Allan’s hand until the man gently brushed him off.
“None of that, we can’t have you sleeping rough anymore,” he’d said. He smiled, his eyes were sympathetic and somber.
“Never again, if I can help it.” Joe said, smiling too.
“You get settled, stretch out and get some rest. I close up at 6:30, I’ll knock, take you home to meet the missus. We’ll feed you, and get you set up with some better bedding.”
“I’d like that.”
The door closed with a quiet click, and when he heard Allan’s footsteps fade away, and knew that at last he was really alone, he sat down on the bed and did the one thing he hadn’t yet allowed himself to do. Not in the darkest hour of the night, not even when he felt so full of anger and desperation that he thought he might explode. He cried.
He cried for what happened to him, whatever that had been, he cried for his hurts, and he cried because he was alone, because deep down, he knew that couldn’t be right. There had to be someone, there had to be.
He cried until he was exhausted, till his throat ached, his eyes burned, and he didn’t want to move, but he managed to shed his jacket and boots, unroll his sleeping bag on the bare mattress. He crawled into it, burrowing in as much as he was able, till he could pull the top up to cover the tip of his nose. His rolled-up jacket made a pillow, and he was as warm and comfortable as he could remember being.
He didn’t know the last time he’d been able to sleep without his boots on and rubbed his stockinged feet against the nylon, like a cat kneading, his entire body settling, wrung out at last. It felt so good to be able to melt into unguarded relaxation.
Before he let sleep draw him in and down, the thought occurred that, assuming these people of his weren’t a complete delusion, and seeing as he couldn’t remember who they may have been, ultimately, they hadn’t come to look for him, so he guessed alone was something he’d better get used to.
oOo
He slept most of the day away but managed to wake in time to wash his face and pull his boots on, then Allan knocked, as promised. After a short drive, Joe saw that Allan lived in an older original part of Bloomington, in a neat little white house with black trim and pink and red dogwood trees in the front.
The inside of the house was as pretty as the outside, comfortable, lived in and tidy, doilies on the arms of the couch, a well-loved recliner pointed at the TV, and as he took it in a plump grey tiger cat wound enticingly around his ankles, looking up at him with hopeful green eyes.
“That’s Mousie,” Allan explained, and the cat offered a little squeak at hearing her name, “and that’s why.”
Joe laughed and followed Allan deeper into the house. Allan’s wife was moving swiftly around their tidy butter-yellow kitchen, putting the finishing touches on something that smelled so good Joe’s mouth immediately started to water.
“Pot roast for supper,” she sang when she saw them come in, and Joe couldn’t help but smile.
Allan made cursory introductions, “Sam, Joe, Joe, Sam.”
“Al’s told me all about you, welcome,” she said warmly, pulling out a chair for him at the kitchen table.
Sam was a curvy little woman with green eyes and dark auburn hair, who clucked and fussed over Joe the minute he sat down at their table. He wondered if he’d ever been made to feel so welcome anywhere.
She kept his glass full of iced sweet tea and heaped up his plate with seconds almost immediately after he eaten the first plateful, tender pot roast cooked with mushrooms and onions. He swore the pat of butter on his mashed potatoes was half an inch thick, and somehow, no matter how slowly he ate a buttered roll, a new one instantly appeared on the side of his plate when it was gone.
“Go easy on him, Sam,” Allan scolded gently, and looked to Joe, “No one goes hungry here, as you can see. She’s such a good cook, and now I’ve got the Dunlap disease,” he patted his own belly gravely for emphasis.
“Dunlap disease?” Joe asked, eyes round with instant concern.
“Uh huh,” Sam scoffed, and now she was patting Allan’s belly, “His belly done lapped over his belt.”
Then she wrapped her arms around him as they both laughed. Joe laughed too, even as his heart gave a pang. How nice it must be, how unspeakably wonderful, he thought, to belong to someone.
They were enjoying coffee afterwards; after protestations that there was no room for dessert, his ribs were creaking as it was, and Sam had bustled off to gather some of the things she said he needed. She returned with a duffle bag so full she hadn’t been able to zip it.
“Here are sheets, a few pillows and blankets, towels, and some of Al’s clothes that he’s outgrown. What size are you? What size are your boots?”
“I don’t know,” Joe admitted self-consciously.
She held up a pair of Levi’s, and then another, both faded and soft with many washings, and a little thin at the knee, but still serviceable.
“Stand up,” she commanded briskly, and he did, happy in that moment to let himself be taken care of.
“Too skinny,” she huffed softly, seeing his narrow waist, and feeling the hard jut of his hipbones when she held the denim up to him, “We’ll have to fix that, but till then, I’ll find you a belt.”
Joe loved them both, he decided then. Allan was warm and giving, and Sam was like a little bird, small and quick, bright-eyed, and so eager to help him. He’d go a long way to make this up to them.
When Allan took him back to the trailer that evening, he was full and happy, with new friends, a foil wrapped pie-plate of leftovers (“Just in case,” Sam said as she handed it to him), a small new supply of clothes and general things for living, and he was also very, very tired.
“Rest, and I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Mrs. Campbell needs new head gaskets and I want us to get started first thing.”
Joe worked slowly through making his bed, which was challenging as it required a deal of stretching, a thing his body wasn’t yet ready for, but when at last he was able to take a leisurely shower and slide into a freshly made bed, he fell down into sleep like he’d been clubbed.
He slept hard, and deeper than he had since he’d woken up in the hospital, and he dreamed.
He dreamed of faceless children who, regardless of their blankness, still looked to him, leaning close, eager as he spoke, telling them what he couldn’t have said upon waking. There was excitement, joy, and laughter, then their laughter turned to shrieks, the children disappeared and the warm, dimly lit room they’d been in morphed into a midnight landscape overhung with a sullen, blood red sky.
He dreamed of agony, a merciless tearing in his guts, and of his own complete and undiluted terror. Of what, he had no idea, but he woke bathed in sweat and with his every tender scar tight with pain.
It wouldn’t be the last time.
oOo
He started slow working with Allan, and Allan assured him that was okay, because regardless of all Joe’s healing hurts, he tried to do everything asked of him and made himself as useful as he was able. Turns out he did have some knowledge of cars, enough muscle memory that he could perform basic maintenance while Allan did the bigger jobs he would later work up to.
The nightwatchman gig was more just his being there on the property, so that part was easy and allowed him to try to get used to having a home, learning new things, and healing.
There were deep divots raked into the dip between his neck and collarbone, at his waist and the insides of his arms, into his torso, places where whatever muscle and tissue had been beneath the skin there was simply gone, leaving pits and dents that he had little hope of ever completely filling in. He worked his body daily, in an effort to build up the muscle he’d lost, whilst simultaneously trying to stretch and soothe all the tight spots.
There was a long, jagged mark down the left side of his face that pulled a bit when he smiled, so his smile turned into something shy and a little crooked. It didn’t detract from the fact that he had a sweet mouth, full and soft-looking, perfect for kissing, perfect for laughing, which he did more and more often, as the months passed.
Little realizations about himself started to take shape too, now that he was losing his hypervigilance and didn’t feel like he was living on the edge of something ever ready to swallow him whole.
He thought that he must not have been a morning person Before, because with an actual schedule in place he could see that he certainly wasn’t one now. He struggled to offer anything but monosyllabic grunts until at least his second cup of strong coffee, and Allan accepted that with only a little teasing.
He rested, worked, ate Sam’s delicious dinners, laughed at all Allan’s horrible jokes, and regained his strength. He felt like he’d been unofficially adopted, but there were still nights loneliness and pain kept him awake. He wondered if the pain would ever go away, or if it would just become something easier to carry, a part of him, like another limb.
He still caught himself looking at Allan, determined to figure out who he reminded him of. It never worked, never helped.
Within a month Allan said it was settled, and Joe had his first ‘paycheck’, in the form of cash under the table, and he felt things were looking up. On his day off he wandered into a pawn shop, looking for what, he wasn’t sure, but he had time to kill and a little spending money burning a hole in his pocket, so why not?
He wandered the aisles, looking at out of fashion clothing, television sets, old jewelry, handguns, and long guns, none of which he had any use for. He picked out a small combination TV radio and a Mr. Coffee, Allan would surely be grateful for his getting a jump on that morning coffee consumption, but the instruments appealed to him the most. It made sense, the guitar pick he wore had to have meant something.
He asked to see the cheapest acoustic they had. When the man put the guitar in his hands and he put the strap round his neck, the hair stood up on his forearms. He knew this, his body knew this.
He let muscle memory take over, grateful that it worked even if his brain didn’t, and strummed tender fingertips over the strings. He chuckled, wincing at the flat sound he’d produced.
“Looks good on you,” the man behind the counter said, “how about this, today only, 25% off. What do you say?”
Some quick mental math told him it, the coffee maker, and the TV radio would eat up most of what was in his pocket, but he had to have it.
“Sold.”
oOo
This became how he rebuilt himself, finding himself in little bits and pieces, and sometimes by accident.
A trip to the Goodwill for dishes found him leaving with dishes and a bag of paperback books that piqued his interest, the covers mostly bearing dragons, wizards, mad demi-gods, and sword-wielding kings. Vengeful demons preying on mankind, a small group of unlikely friends on a mission to save the world resonated with him, he let himself fall wholeheartedly into all their adventures.
He devoured them, and soon Tanith Lee, Michael Moorcock, Tim Powers, and Terry Brooks were amongst his favorites.
Reading kept him from spiraling in the evenings after work, when the stillness and quiet was such that not even the radio or his tiny TV could keep intrusive thoughts at bay.
A typical day found him so tired he could fall asleep immediately, but he couldn’t always stay asleep, and here reading saved him, too, his light could often be seen burning deep into the night. There were also nights he was so exhausted he fell asleep and found himself trapped in all his now-familiar nightmares, aware he was dreaming and none of this misery was real, but too weary to claw his way back to wakefulness and safety.
He would always turn to reading when he was able, knowing sleep was out of reach, reading until the letters turned to Cyrillic and he couldn’t see straight anymore, and if that didn’t do the trick, there was music.
He hadn’t yet shared with Allan that he’d bought the guitar. He was shy about playing it, even in private, but found he did indeed have a little talent for it. He thought he must have been pretty proficient at it, Before. He started a small notebook of lyrics, something to soothe his bruised soul, purge some of his sadness and try to heal his heart.
It worked, for the most part, he enjoyed it, and after a one a.m. writing session he could usually crawl back into his bed for a little more sleep. Externalizing his sorrow usually helped.
The radio that played endless top forty over the sounds of the garage showed him his musical taste, and it was not nicely packaged and easily digestible. Allan saw him wince when something particularly saccharine came on and asked him about it.
“Allan,” Joe puckered, looking pained, then admitted sheepishly, “I’m sorry if you like it, but there isn’t enough insulin in the world to make my body tolerate this music.”
Allan stared at him for a beat and started laughing. He laughed, in fact, until he was teary-eyed and holding his ribs.
“Oh kid,” he finally wheezed, “I should have known you’d hate this crap. I’m so sorry, why didn’t you say something?”
Joe shrugged, “It’s your shop, you can listen to whatever you want.”
“Johnny chose this station, and I never changed it when he left, didn’t occur to me. Look, when we break for lunch, spin the dial, see if we can find something more to your taste. No screaming though, please.”
They settled on LRS102 out of Louisville. Rusty Rodgers played enough rock to make the days a little more bearable to Joe’s ears, even if he didn’t play quite enough metal for Joe’s particular taste.
oOo
Food was another thing he had to make a study of, as he had no real idea what he liked.
Until Allan found him, eating had been a very simple exercise consisting of the cheapest things he could get his hands on. Most of it was memorable only for its sheer badness, gas station hotdogs and cup noodle.
Sam started cooking for him specifically after she’d asked what his favorite foods were, and he replied he couldn’t remember. Her cheeks had turned rosy with embarrassment, but then she recovered and smiled sweetly at him, saying they’d just have to try everything and find out.
This led to many, many after-work dinners, and Sam was good as her word. He had several favorites in no time.
Pinto beans cooked with smoked salt pork, served with tender cornbread (never the sweet kind, thank you very much), boiled potatoes, and trimmed green onions in a glass of ice water, garnished with lots of black pepper and Louisiana Hot Sauce.
S.O.S. was a huge hit, the meat browned and seasoned to perfection, the cream gravy rich and salty, bread toasted to a point that the gravy softened it just enough to cut with your fork. Served with fat slices of beefsteak tomatoes from Sam’s backyard garden on the side, Joe ate till he was almost uncomfortable.
Thick stews, all sorts of soup, meatloaf, chili, waffles, cheesy scrambled eggs with sausage grits and fried bread, savory roast chicken, potatoes mashed with cream cheese and garlic, yeasty homemade rolls, Sam’s pork chops were an absolute poem, and Joe was happy to be treated to whatever she could dream up.
It was all beyond delicious, and after a while they determined he couldn’t have been too fussy an eater because so far, he’d only drawn the line at calf’s liver and onions and chicken gizzards.
Texture issues, he said, and frankly, he wasn’t wild about the earthy taste, either. All the ketchup in the world wouldn’t ever, ever make that taste okay.
When he shopped for himself, and had good money to do so, experimentation quickly told him he was a secret junk food junkie.
He loved fried garlic bologna sandwiches with sliced onion and Miracle Whip on white bread, with Chili-Cheese Fritos on the side. Thousand Island dressing on shredded carrot and plain iceberg lettuce was salad as far as he was concerned, and he had to have plenty of A-1 on his steak. He always put barbecue chips on his tuna salad sandwiches, wanted ketchup on his hotdogs, and salivated over the very mention of that tried-and-true Hoosier staple, the humble chicken casserole, in any and all of its myriad variations.
He didn’t care for Kentucky bourbon but enjoyed Canadian whiskey, hated tequila, and wasn’t super picky about his beer, but if he had his preference, cold MGD went down a treat. He kept a few Snickers bars and packets of peanut M&Ms in the freezer, only liked brown sugar and cinnamon pop-tarts, and always ate them cold with an icy cold can of Dr Pepper. He swore the resulting sugar rush couldn’t be beat.
Any little piece of personality he could hammer into this restoration of himself was welcome, held close, and this was by far one of the more enjoyable explorations he’d made.
oOo
April 1987
It no time at all his days had assumed a comfortable rhythm, and before he knew it a year had passed.
Get up, stumble through the morning’s ablutions, have coffee, eat a bowl of sugary cereal for breakfast, work like a dog till lunch, feast on whatever Sam had sent along with Allan, there was always enough for the two of them, work till quitting time, shower off the grease, eat dinner, read, or watch TV, and sleep, hopefully. Night terrors were never far off, so sleep became something precious.
Routine was good. Making his days make sense and knowing what he had to look forward to was so much better than spending his time looking back into a life that to him had only started a short time ago.
He let his hair grow out, it curled against his neck now, the curls turning into soft waves the longer it got. He mostly kept it tucked up underneath a ballcap, it wouldn’t do to have it falling in his face all the time.
He traded the ancient combat boots, probably ancient when he got them, in for a pair of steel toed work boots, got used to the fact that no amount of the rough orange cleaner they bought by the bucket would ever get the grease completely out of his hands, and had been named Allan’s second in command as far as the garage went.
“I see it like this,” Allan confided one afternoon over Sam’s fat and savory meatloaf sandwiches and homemade potato salad, “You and I meeting, Joseph, it was serendipity. I really believe that.”
“Oh?” Joe smiled; in the time he’d known him he’d found Allan was a bit of a dreamer.
“You needed someone, you needed help, and by God so did I.”
This was leading up to something, Joe could tell.
“Okay…I’ll bite, what do you want, you old charmer?”
Allan looked a little sheepish, confessing he wanted to take the missus on vacation, maybe a cruise, and at last he found someone he trusted enough to leave the shop in the care of to go without worrying.
Seems Joe had a talent for cars of all make and model, even the fussy Japanese and German cars, though Volkswagen’s were his favorite. He could pull, strip down to parts, clean, reassemble, and reinstall a Beetle engine in about three hours. That was no small feat, and as the area was heavily German and therefore Vee-Dub country, this endeared him to the customers, and Allan, to no little degree.
More importantly Joe had a knack for people. He wanted to like people, and people seemed to want to like him right back. He was kind and polite where he needed to be, he was smart, quick-witted, and he didn’t take any shit.
That being said, for the nine people out of ten that took to Joe and his easy charm, there was the inevitable tenth who, regardless of his calm conviviality, after a brief once-over to take in the scars and the tattoos, made no secret of their disdain and decided to exhibit it with condescension, a sneer, or a brusque word.
He knew, to a degree, that he’d signed up for that every time he walked through a tattoo studio’s front door, but he couldn’t help the scars, and felt their judgement a far better reflection of them than himself. He returned their contempt with an even brighter smile and dialed his charisma up to a thousand.
He knew that they found it disarming, and the smartest saw that his smile was more a baring of teeth. Wide sparkling dark eyes paired with those shining pearly whites made him look a bit feral, turned his face into something that clearly conveyed ‘I BITE’, making even the meanest bully reassess, and back down.
The other thing their bad behavior did was ratchet up the price of whatever work they wanted, and as the garage came highly recommended, Joe kicking them squarely in their wallet was double incentive to keep their prejudices to themselves and their pie-holes firmly shut.
Allan and Sam got their vacation, and Joe didn’t burn the place down, or get arrested.
oOo
He didn’t know when he had begun to realize that the people, well, women, took more notice of him as he filled out, regaining all his strength and then some.
He would’ve thought that women in particular would be put off by the scars and his general look of ill health, but once he got some color and built up some muscle, broad shoulders over a slim waist and long legs garnered him more than one lingering look that he blushed under.
He never knew quite how to take it, and a good hot blush just seemed to encourage them.
It happened with such frequency Allan started to tease him about it.
“You’re going to have to start carrying a stick, kiddo.”
Joe grunted, not rising to the bait, but Allan was like a dog with a bone, he had it in his teeth and he shook it.
“I thought Mrs. Penuel-Jones was going to have to drag her daughter away from you.”
“I don’t have a stick handy,” Joe growled through his teeth, “would a great big wrench work?”
He was currently waist deep in the belly of a Bull-nose Ford F-150, fighting its defective carburetor, something he thought was one of the ugliest and most complicated pieces of shit he’d ever worked on. He was grouchy to begin with, and the last thing he needed was to be ribbed about his spartan sex life. He couldn’t fucking remember if he’d had one to begin with, so teasing felt like insult to injury.
Sadly, Allan didn’t see that, he just chuckled and kept on.
“C’mon, she was about your age, and I saw her slip her phone number into your pocket, will you call her?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
All Joe really wanted was for this conversation to be over with.
“You’d be silly not to, she looked at you like she was hungry,” he wiped his hands on a rag, stuffed it into his back pocket and clapped Joe on the shoulder, “You can’t be alone forever, my friend.”
Joe found it odd sometimes, talking to people, he felt like he wasn’t sure who to be. He’d confided this to Allan, who consoled him by telling him to just be himself, and he’d be fine.
Easier said than done when he didn’t quite know who that was, Joe thought, hard to want to get to know a person when you don’t truly know who you are yourself, that wouldn’t exactly be fair. What if he had people, family, somewhere else?
He stubbornly refused giving up the idea that he did.
The girl had smiled and flirted, bitten her lower lip, and looked him over so thoroughly it felt like she already had her hands on him, and certainly Joe had felt a twinge when he looked back at her, but it wasn’t in the way she would have wanted.
She was petite, a pocket-sized strawberry blonde with enormous sparkling grey eyes, and Joe thought he could probably have spanned her waist with his hands. Cute as a button from the top of her perfect ponytail to the toes of her little white sneakers, a pink t-shirt and tight acid-washed jeans hid none of her charms.
She was undeniably beautiful, obviously willing, and probably sweet as pie. Joe couldn’t have said why, but the sight of her turned his guts to ice water.
oOo
He didn’t object to women as a whole, he just found tiny pixie-like blondes made him anxious.
Then there were the boys.
He was smart enough to keep his eyes up when he spoke to men, but some of them made his stomach swoop. Walking past a basketball court while a game was in full swing was exhilarating in more ways than one, held a fascination for him he couldn’t quite find the root of, but he never lingered. He didn’t care for basketball, as a rule, but learned enough about the game to chat if someone asked him what he thought.
‘Hoosiers all the way!’ He’d say, ‘Who cares if Bobby Knight liked to throw chairs?’
Odd, the things he could remember. He knew he couldn’t grow a beard for shit, he knew how to tie his boot laces, knew he liked cream in his coffee, and he knew to never look at a man too long. If he did risk a glance, he kept his face carefully blank, lest some hot look end in his getting the shit kicked out of him, or worse.
Eventually he found a bar he liked, an atmosphere just dark and hard enough to tempt him, where they didn’t care so much about ID as long as he looked 21, there were plenty of screaming guitars and wailing vocals on the jukebox, and they served cheap, decent beer.
He was hit on enough that it bolstered his ego to finally accept an offer or two. This was something else he found he had enough muscle memory to fudge and slur his way through until he was on firm ground. Finding himself squeezed into the back seat of a car with a woman, hot and sweet and moving deliciously in his lap, the awkwardness of that was enough to disguise his own fledgling clumsiness.
Being crowded into a bathroom stall, the rasp of a stubbled jaw against his belly, and biting the heel of his hand to stifle a shout as he came down a willing throat. That took no skill, and he wasn’t against reciprocating in that arena, either. Even if his mind didn’t remember, his body certainly did.
Even for all that, it had been a trip to a tattoo studio that made him realize that, regardless of any sex he was happily having he was a) seriously touch starved, and b) just as eager to have a man’s hands on him as a woman’s.
With remembrance in mind, didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember, he reasoned, it was the principal, he’d commissioned a sprig of rosemary in bloom, tied with a curling yellow ribbon. It would start at the front of his left hip bone and follow the curve of his belly. Best of all, not one single question was directed to his scars when the artist saw them first, and Joe appreciated not having to explain them, again.
The artist called himself Permanent Marc, was skilled if his book were any indication, and was good looking too, a real silver fox. Prematurely grey with bright green eyes, he was older than Joe, but couldn’t have been much over 30. His ears were pierced top and bottom, and he was inked solidly from his knuckles to jawline, at least, as much of him as Joe could see. He would’ve liked to see more.
While Joe stood in front of the man as the stencil was applied, his boxers pulled so low on his hips it was nearly indecent, he had nervously observed to Marc that everyone in town must think he was terrifying.
“Who me? No, I’m a teddy bear,” he’d smiled then, sticking out his tongue to show the bead of the barbell through it, and Joe had laughed in shock and delight.
He’d taken care with the tattoo and Joe was happy with the result, so he became a regular, and it wasn’t long before he realized a healthy dose of brazen flirting came along with the advice about aftercare. He flirted right back, another thing he’d discovered he had a talent for. This led to staying after the shop closed, visiting Marc’s apartment above the shop.
They shared some whiskey, some really good grass, and a few beers before Marc asked Joe if he could kiss him. Joe said yes, as this was something he had secretly hoped for. He only prayed he didn’t seem too eager.
The sex was good, really good, regardless of the fact that Joe didn’t really know what he was doing. Marc was happy to lead, to teach, to draw Joe tight as a bow string then let him go. He never questioned why Joe never spoke of his past, or what had left him looking like he was on the losing side of a fight with a meat grinder, but did comment on the fact that he was more lean than he should probably be.
Joe’s anxiety melted away under Marc’s hands, any apprehension fading into the background in the face of such care. It was thrilling to trust enough to let himself be taken, have hands on him strong enough to hold him down. Then to wake early, cuddled into another body, perfectly warm and pleasantly achy, with a necklace of bruises and stubble burn on the insides of his thighs. Thrilling to take, too, when he had the opportunity.
It satisfied his body, ooh boy did it ever, and while it was plain that he cared about Joe, Marc wasn’t interested in a relationship, and pleasant as having a friend with benefits was, just getting together to pound the Posturepedic wasn’t what Joe’s heart wanted.
He still dreamt of the kids and the poisonous ashy sky, but other scenarios had begun to play themselves out in his dreams, too, the kids, their faces were becoming clearer as time passed, and others had joined their number.
A small troop of teenaged boys of all shapes and sizes who seemed to hang on to his every word. When he dreamt of them, he woke up longing for their laughter, their friendship and company. It all felt so unguarded, careless and easy and good.
One of the boys stood out from the others. Smiling face round with the last bit of baby fat, always adorned in a violently bright Hawaiian print shirt, he had shrewd eyes and was always talking, broad gestures, waving hands, and a beaming grin.
Then there was an elfish young woman, slim and cool, prim, polished and neatly dressed, with the eyes of a warrior, with a gun in hand. At her side stood another, slightly younger woman, not quite so steely, but with wide eager eyes and a slightly manic smile that bared all her teeth. She had a fierce and frenetic sort of energy that he found he wanted to lean into. Another girl with long red braids and big haunted blue eyes looked like she'd been to the wars, she carried a skateboard like she’d be happy to ride it or beat someone to death with it and wouldn’t be too particular about which.
Who he dreamt of most often though was a boy with somber hazel eyes, a shining and gravity-defying mane of chestnut hair, long, strong legs, and an ass that had to have been sculpted by God himself.
He had a very pretty face too, a face that belonged in a museum, curving lips and perfect straight nose, he looked like he could have been carved from marble, but then he’d look to the kids or the girls and smile, and it was like someone had turned on a light inside him. He glowed, so beautiful, a golden boy-next-door dream come true, and too often in Joe’s dreams, he held himself like a soldier, steely and resolved, but who were they fighting?
Dreaming of this boy had several results, he would wake feeling hollow and anxious, like he wanted something that was just out of his reach and likely to stay that way. Or, paradoxically, he’d dream of touching all that warm golden skin at his leisure, kissing those sweetly pink lips, raking teeth down the column of his neck, then wake with his hard cock in his hand, just in time to groan like he was dying and ruin his boxers.
Had these been his people? Had he loved this boy? Had the boy loved him back? Who and what were they fighting, and why hadn’t they come for him? Nothing about it made sense, so it became one more thing that Joe swept into a box in his heart, hopefully to be dusted off and parsed out at some later date.
With no memory of where he’d lived or the names of this, his, odd little tribe, who and whatever his old life had held felt irretrievable, he knew the life he had now was good, he was relatively happy, and he decided to embrace it.
oOo
Allan had a side hustle, buying cars at auction, fixing them, and selling them again. Even though he never gouged anyone in terms of price, it was wildly profitable, and when Joe started to help out, he started to cut him in on the money he made.
Joe loved it. Having a steadily growing nest egg was a good feeling, but always having something to work at when reading or playing his guitar weren’t enough to quiet his racing mind was a godsend.
He started attending auctions with Allan, and one day he found something he said he absolutely had to have.
The auctioneer had just announced a 1974 Dodge Street Van and when they pulled the trailer out into the viewing area Joe twitched like he’d been pinched.
“Oh,” he breathed, big-eyed and awed to the tips of his toes, “would you look at that? It’s Gandalf…”
“What, that?” Allan asked, evidently not seeing anything special. “Who’s Gandalf?”
The van had been painted bronze originally, with some mica thrown in for sparkle, but the sun had faded it to a muddy brown. It had significant salt damage around the skirting, any vehicle that survived almost 15 Midwest winters would, though. A bubble window graced each side, and it sat up high on fat tires.
The kicker though, the thing that had Joe bidding on it, was the airbrushed murals on the side. On the driver’s side, an aged wizard in grey robes, a pointed hat, flowing hair and beard, brandishing a staff against three fat green trolls as they shrank away from the sun blazing up from behind him.
He hadn’t yet seen the passenger side art, but whoever the artist was, Joe could tell he’d painted the van with love.
“Jesus Joe, really? I wouldn’t give a Dodge to someone I didn’t like.” Allan said, unaware of Joe’s predilection for fantasy novels. “You’re going to keep the Bond-o people in business doing the body work on it.”
“I don’t care,” Joe breathed, “it’s amazing and I want it.”
In the end, as the transmission was fucked, they got it for a bargain, only $500.00, and Joe became consumed with restoring it to its former glory.
oOo
A new tranny and an engine rebuilt during Joes off hours got it running, that was the easy part, the body work on the other hand, was a challenge. He didn’t have much experience for this type of work under his belt, so Allan stepped in and helped, pleased to see Joe so fascinated with anything.
Countless hours were spent at the Pick-and-Pull, locating the more difficult to find bits, and getting their hands on some bonus pieces as well. Replacement parts for the rusted-out skirting, running boards, a visor for the windshield, a bed for the back, though finding a mattress that was the right size had been a chore.
A drive to Elkhart to visit Gerring, Inc. garnered even better things, because they’d dominated the van conversion trend in the 1970s, and still had stock stored away for the rare enthusiast.
The end result was a plush, fanciful little home on wheels, and midway through the restoration, Joe got a cat.
It had been a cool rainy Sunday, he’d borrowed the truck that belonged to the garage, the one they used just for trips to the junk yard, he was looking for a hinge for the back door of the van. The one there now was rusted out and unworkable, so bound up you could hardly open the door.
He poked around for a while, finally finding what he needed and setting about removing it from the wreck it was attached to. This was in much better shape but still bore its own share of rust, and when one of the bolts proved stubborn, he had to bring a hammer in, as the wrench and his own strength wasn’t going to budge it.
He soon noticed that every time he struck the wrench, the metal clang was echoed with a funny little squeak, that finally turned into a full-on cry.
He dropped his tools and started hunting around, under the van, in its wheel-wells, and in the back seats. What he found was a tiny sick kitten, one eye swelled shut, wet fur spiky from the rain, and completely alone.
“Oh, little baby, where are your people?” He asked it, scooping it up and wrapping it in the flannel shirt he’d taken off when he’d gotten too warm working.
The kitten only offered a weak little squeak in answer, and Joe felt a swell of emotion looking at it. Hurt and alone, and kind as everyone had been to him when he was in that unenviable position, he found now was a good opportunity to pay it forward.
Newly determined, and full of urgency to get the kitten to a vet, he made short work of the hinge and headed back into town, and straight to Allan and Sam’s house, they had a cat and would surely know a vet.
They did, and after them cooing a little over the sick baby, Joe left with directions. Three hours later found him at home with a little girl cat, who was tired and sore from a few shots of antibiotics, and ready to eat and go to sleep.
The vet guessed she was about five weeks old and thought maybe the mother left her when she realized she was too sick to keep up. It was some time before she started acting really kitten-like, too sick to do much but eat and sleep and suffer having pills stuck down her throat.
Without realizing he was doing it, and since he was ass over teakettle in love, Joe started spoiling her immediately. Meat baby food, kitten formula, toys, and a regretful surgery to remove the eye that couldn’t be saved. She flourished under his care, growing sassy, plump and healthy, and cuter by the day.
Despite the missing eye, Joe thought it made her look a little roguish, like she was flirting, she was a beautiful cat. Her striped black on grey coat looked smoky till you stroked it up to find the fur beneath was so silver it was nearly white, and after a time the blue of her remaining eye faded and turned to a bright, light green.
She loved him, too, slept with him always, and if, by her estimation, he stayed up too late, she would sit by his feet and yawn expansively, then look at him as if to say, “Gosh, I am so sleepy, aren’t you sleepy?”
If he was feeling blue, she would sit by him, lean heavily against him, and when he looked at her, bunt her head into his arm, then let him pick her up and cuddle her, nose buried in the silky fur of her throat as he wept. She was lovely, kept him company, a quiet, warm, purring presence, and he was so grateful to have found her he named her ‘Mellon’, Elvish for ‘friend’.
When he told Allan, who hadn’t read Tolkien, Allan said, “Oh, Melon, like honeydew? Her eye is kind of that color…”
Joe only smiled.
April 1988
Two years after waking up this is what Joe knew.
He had good friends, not many, but quality over quantity was always better, right?
He had a fat, spoiled one-eyed cat that he loved. He felt they made a good pair, both a little bit broken and making the best of it.
He knew that rising early for a full, busy day was good, but sleeping in until the metal panels of the roof of the trailer started to pop and creak in the morning sun was better.
He loved good food, good books, and hard music, and if he never had anyone to share them with, he supposed that was the hand he’d been dealt.
He knew now that he’d had friends, so the thought that they’d abandoned him had in its own turn at last been abandoned. He suspected that maybe they didn’t know where to look.
He knew at some point he had loved a boy with chestnut hair and mossy hazel eyes, and he would probably love him forever.
He knew that at some point he’d been a part of something big, and wished he could remember what that was, but thought that it was maybe a mercy that he didn’t.
oOo
August 1988
Joe had poured a significant part of his nest egg into the van, and he had plans. He’d started to get itchy feet, he wanted a vacation for himself, somewhere quiet, where he could exist and be whatever and whoever he was without judgment or expectation.
The van had a bed, enough of a kitchen to cook basic things, with a little table to eat at and big enough to share, should someone be so inclined. It was carpeted throughout, but he’d steered away from the stained burnt orange shag they’d pulled out when he started the reno, opting instead for something short and utilitarian. They’d installed cherry-stained cabinets, Joe tucked some of his books up on a little shelf, and Sam brought him an African violet for the bubble window over his tiny kitchen sink.
He’d stood back and looked around the day it was all done, thinking that the Airstream was nice, but if he ever had to go, he had a home for he and Mellon to take with them.
He told Allan his plans, a road trip for no more than a week, maybe he’d drive down to the Hoosier National Forest by way of French Lick, spend a few days soaking in the hot spring there.
He felt a little anxiety at stepping out of what he was used to, putting aside his routine wasn’t a thing he’d tried yet, and it took him a minute to turn the key on the ignition once the time came for him to set off. He consoled himself with the thought that he had everything he needed and then some, food, gas, and the cat. Marc had gotten him a lid of grass, tidily rolled up into joints and hidden in the van’s console, and if anything happened on the road, he knew Allan and Sam would come to the rescue.
The parts of Indiana that weren’t pancake flat were pretty, rolling hills dotted with fat oak trees, old farmhouses, and doublewide trailers, and he guessed even the endless cornfields, red barns, and silos had their charm. He stopped a few times just to stretch his legs, got the cat out in harness and leash so she could pee, a thing that garnered them some very strange looks, which he secretly really loved. Normal was so boring.
He decided to skip French Lick, his scars had improved over time, but were still ugly, and he was not eager to shed his clothes in front of strangers. So directly to Hoosier National Forest it was.
The Ohio Valley’s heat and humidity had settled in in earnest, and on one of their stops he’d changed into an old t-shirt with the Nauga Monster on it, cut down to the waist for ventilation, and jeans cut off above the knee. He’d left his boots at home, exchanging them for red Chucks.
His hair was finally long enough to put in a modest ponytail, but he still kept a battered ballcap on hand if he wanted it up and his bangs out of his face. A pair of gas station sunglasses completed his look.
Once he got out into the trails to explore, with Mellon leading the way, fearless girl, he thought the beauty of the place surpassed everything he’d read. It was blessedly shady and cooler under the canopy of trees, and the little creeks and springs that seemed to pop up everywhere cooled the air, too.
They paused occasionally so he could get his feet wet and Mellon could creep through the ferns stalking birds or chase butterflies, and it was during one of these rests that Joe found a giant oak tree and sat at its roots, back pressed to the bark, listening to the susurrus of a breeze through the leaves. He felt such peace, his life was good, and he was genuinely happy.
He had people, a home, and security, more than many people had, and he thanked the powers that be for sending him such good luck in the wake of whatever had happened to him Before.
With this in mind, for the next five days he lounged in the sun, read, got super high, wrote in what was now his third notebook, played music and napped with the cat.
oOo
He came back Sunday afternoon well-rested and with a clear mind and light heart. Today, as they say, was the first day of the rest of his life. So, he tried not to take it as an ill omen when, on Monday morning, fortified with his second cup of coffee, Joe took a deep breath, opened the trailer door and stepped out into a day already heavy with incipient rain.
The air was thick with humidity and electricity crackled over his skin. A full-body shudder rolled through him at the sight of fast-moving clouds the purples and greens of old bruises. They threatened an epic storm and Joe felt his hair stand up with the static in the air. He hated thunderstorms. He really didn’t mind the rain, but thunder and lightning struck some chord deep within him that made his blood turn cold.
He always felt silly, he wasn’t a child, and he’d tried to shake off the fear, but no amount of inner pep talks and muttered mantras had ever kept him from wanting to crawl back in bed and pull the covers over his head.
He took another fortifying breath, stiffened his spine, and walked across the yard where a flatbed AAA truck sat, a burgundy BMW sedan chained to the bed.
Allan was deep in conversation with someone Joe assumed was the BMWs driver, whilst the AAA driver set about tipping the truck bed to gently decant the car into the garage. Joe wondered idly what the issue was, he didn’t have any other big jobs today, and hoped this was something meaty enough to distract him from the foul weather.
Joe let his eyes roll subtly over Allan’s companion, his snug Levi’s and striped polo, the bronze tips of the over-long hair that clung to the back of his neck in the humidity, and stopped dead in his tracks, heart hammering. This was his friend, his boy, the beautiful boy from his dreams.
His steel coffee cup slipped from his fingers and fell to the concrete with a clang. Allan turned at the sound, smiling, and gestured to Joe.
“Here he is! This is Joe, he should be able to help you get your girl up and running again in no time,” Allan said proudly, “Joe, Mr. Harrington’s BMW died this morning, could you please take a look?”
Harrington. Harrington? Was that name familiar? Before he could determine if it was or not, Mr. Harrington turned around and looked at him, his benign smile immediately falling away, along with all the color in his face.
It was, it was the same boy he’d dreamt of for two years. The perfect straight nose, the wide green eyes, gone very wide now, the swoop of hair and sweetly pink lips hanging open on whatever he was about to say.
What he said was what Joe had waited for, for so, so long, his name.
“Eddie…” He breathed, eyes fluttering shut as his knees buckled and he slid into a graceful heap on the ground.