Part XXIX

Part XXIX

The Old Man was pissed by the time we got back. He'd worked up a noxious combination of hair ball and hate, and had dropped it outside the sandbox, where it had festered in the heat and turned the atmosphere inside the van un-breathable.

We rolled down the windows and Carl lit match after match and flicked them at the Old Man trying to catch him on fire. I eventually put a stop to it. We pulled into the fist Hotel I could find, but not before we stopped into the S’Enivrer, the rotting corpse of a roadhouse, whose name meant "drink to excess".

I dumped the Old Man's sandbox just beyond the gravel parking lot and poured him a new landing strip. I'd given him his potion with just the juice from a can of tuna and told him he'd get the rest as soon as he quit pissing me off. He gave me the stink eye and a hiss and then curled up on the bed in the back.

I've heard people say before that beer tastes better in the heat of Louisiana. If they're talking about some dreck like Bud, they might just be right. What they forgot to mention is that from the moment the bottle is put in front of you, it's a race against time. You against thermodynamics. By the time you down the last, now tepid, sip, the outside of the bottle has enough condensation on it to drown a mouse.

We were two beers in before Carl said anything, and to be truthful I was grateful. I liked Carl, but most of what came out of his mouth was a mix of misinterpretation and stupidity.

You think that guy is actually part Gater?

No Carl, he's not, and I think you might not want to talk about it.

Carl had asked his question loud enough to garner the attention of just about everyone around us. We were being looked at like our our welcome was wearing thin. So I ordered another round and waited to see if anyone wanted to do anything about it.

It turned out they didn't.

Back at the hotel, I let Carl go under before I picked up my cell phone to call Father. I stepped out side onto the landing and leaned over the rail. I looked down at the swimming pool and wondered for a minute what lived beneath the fuzzy brown surface.

The phone rang through three times.

Donny's Donut Hole.

Gater hadn't said anything about a password, but I knew I had to say what I needed without saying what I meant.

I hear you make 'em from an old family recipe?

Where'd you hear that?

From a little girl and her brother.

He a big University of Florida fan?

Yes he is.

There was a click and then a squawk. The phone signal had been scrambled.

You must be Aubrey.

You must be Father.

How'd he look, we haven't seen him in a while.

He seemed content. Then again I'd never met him before.

There was a momentary pause on the line.

What can we do for you?

I need to speak to Mother.

Well, I can't promise you anything, but we're just outside Slaughterville, Oklahoma. We'll be here two more days, cleaning up, and then we're gone.

I'll be there.

That was it, phone call done, and a 13 hour trip to make.

I set the alarm and laid on the bed without taking my clothes off. I'd meant to, but I had just wanted to rest my eyes. As soon as the room went black, the alarm went off.

My eyes felt like they had bees trapped under the lids. I rolled off the bed and headed to the bathroom. By the time I had showered, Carl had woken up. I don't know for sure if he'd done it on his own, or if it was because I'd turned the TV on as I'd passed it.

I found him enraptured by cartoons.

Thirty minutes later we were eating breakfast and thirty after that we were on the road. While I drove, Carl looked up Slaughterville on the cell phone browser so he could be comfortable with its name. It had been named after a grocery store, not a slaughterhouse. As Carl poked deeper into the cities online presence, all of eight wikipedia paragraphs, we'd discovered that PETA had tried to get them to change the town's name. Sounded like a real swingin' place. In the back of my mind I kept hearing Father say they'd be cleaning up, but cleaning up what?

We passed the time listening to evangelical nut jobs on the AM, and playing sad games of I-Spy, that seemed to delve into the surreal of our subconscious. After about thirty minutes or so we'd just be making stuff up. The last thing Carl spied put an end to the game and made me take my eyes off the road to look at him.

What?

There's something not right about you Carl?