motion in a still life
��������� �����the clock has ticked into sunday. movies, and their indelible images, are like crazed carrion birds whirling over the desolate landscapes of my mind. indeed - and i have now lodged in there the scene of a desert, and a nomad (who would capitalize the word if he could, make himself the definite article, as opposed to the impersonal pronoun - even though he is the epitome of impersonal) - Nomad, not nomad. wandering about sheathed in indolent sweat and baking in the terracotta hues. the grizzled aspect of a smoker clings to his lower jaw, and the shuffling percussion of footsteps against the sands is a storm of noise assailing his eardrums in most peculiar ways - alternately loud, alternately soft.[the lilac of this page is mindnumbingly terrible.]
in a deaf-dumb sort of way, enter onto this scene a closemouthed individual who speaks less than he would like, locked into a sort of eternal cringing, and only now being freed from these odd shackles because he has killed his wife - or so he's thought. the sun is a constant judge, beating down gimlet retribution on his backside. his car is brokendown, pushed maniacally into overdrive, and lies smoking on the road. his wife is in the backseat, blood from her temple. she is unmoving, so unconscious as to not even have a pulse. she does not have a name yet, except for WIFE. (courier new, font size 11, middle of the page, 12 picas and a 15 pica margin)
characters in a landscape. motion in a still life. enormous bridges of stone in the background, terrible and stalwart - bone flips out a zippo and lights his last cigarette, reluctantly. the metal clicks, slides, and flame (which seems so superfluous in the desert) flicks out, wavering before crisping the end of the cigarette. he inhales, pocketing the lighter, and, exhaling, smiles. his steps never falter, swinging easily to their beat. the road blurs up ahead, like a black river that he's going to ford, and eventually cross over. but there is also a wreck - a heap of a car piled there, no accident, but steaming and grumbled into silence.
"hoy," bone hears a voice calling, and, as he nears the car (steps no more hurried than before) he notes the presence of a man in a white collared shirt, sleeves rolled up and hair swept away from his forehead - sweat like pearl beads forcing their way out of his pores. "hoy there - !" the man is leaning against the side of the car, but uncomfortably. the metal is searingly hot. he tries not to linger in one place for too long - a pair of black shoes are set mildly by the side of one wheel. something desperate flicks within the brown recesses of his eyes, furtive and unsettled.
"broke down?" bone hears himself casually adverting, hand automatically sliding into his pocket for the cool presence of switchblade within.
"sure did," the man replies, somewhat eagerly - "d'you know anything about engines?"
bone used to work at an auto repair shop. his hands were painted daily by the charcoal smudges of oil and grease, dug deep like splinters beneath his fingernails and smirching the eventual destinies of the lines on his palm. "ain't got a clue," he says ruefully, wiping a hand along his forehead. "sorry."
the other man exhales and leans against the side of his car, thudding. "damn."
"try callin' triple A?" bone offers, casually, knowing that no respectable cell phone company offers service in the middle of the mojave.
".. guess i shoulda tried some other service." the other man's face lifts in a semi-laugh, and falls again as it's not echoed from the nomad. almost as if forgetting himself, he draws up against the car, suddenly wary of the stony-browed man. "but thanks. for your help. how far is it to ... " he trails off, looking around him - "... well, anywhere?"
"from here?" this time, bone does laugh, and shrugs as it peters off. "lotta miles. you're out past barstow, last i can figure it, and maybe even yermo. which means the nearest thing is baker, and that's a good 50 miles, give or take." maybe 20, he adds in his head, but keeps tongue in check.
"something like that ... i might have an atlas in here, somewhere." the man circles back to the trunk, which is popped up as well. the car looks like an unwieldy bird, one of god's lesser jokes, unable to take off from the side of the burning asphalt road. "got one - " he spreads it out on the closed trunk. "here, i think ... " he mutters to himself, periodically rushing a hand through his hair.
bone glances in the backseat of the car as he passes by - a large blanket, spread out over the seats in a bad fashion, crumpled and hastily done. he nearly asks, but keeps it to himself, continuing to the other man. "name's bone," he puts out his cigarette, leaving half of it for stowing in his pocket - and offers a dusty hand laconically.
the other man looks confused for a moment, as if unused to the offerings of strangers (and who isn't) but then grasps the hand in a handshake - firm, but also somewhat weak at the same time. a grasp of a man who tries to look a lot stronger than he is simply by increasing the pressure of his fingers against the palm. bone smiles, and increases the pressure of his own. the game ends as he relinquishes and the other man gives up, almost a gasp of surrender when he reveals his name - " ... dan."
bone nods, approvingly, and backs away, dirt scuffling up around him like needy spectres trying to winnow up his pant legs. "so whatcha gonna do?" he asks briefly, glancing up and down the road.
"wait for someone, i guess," comes the tired reply. "what else can i do?"
bone snorts. "good luck." and slowly walks away.
"wait, wait - what do you mean?"
he doesn't even turn around. "good luck getting someone to pick you up. you think people trust people anymore? good. fuckin'. luck." he even throws in a laugh, for good measure.
"jesus." dan stops, glancing back at the car, tugging at his collar, muttering. "fuckin' hot. jesus."
"mind not takin' the Lord's name in vain?" bone tosses over a shoulder, sticking a thumb out and glancing at the completely deserted road.
"huh?"
"the lord's name. don't take it." bone spits out to one side.
"uh. sorry."
the sun, like the rusty minute hand of an antique clock, ticks agonizingly forwards, beginning a slow-motion fall that will last the rest of the afternoon. the two men lapse into silence. the car groans in the heat, and in the sand, further away from the road and the cracked asphalt, something coils and rattles menacingly.
bone's hand fits nicely into his pocket, resting comfortably against the small switchblade. by the end of the day, he'll at least be twenty dollars richer. if not more. he smiles, and whistles something like led zeppelin while aimlessly circling the shoulder of the road, like a grounded vulture, ambling around his prey.
dan sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "where do you live?" bone asks, tonelessly.
"what?" dan's stalling for time.
"where do you live?"
"california."
"wow." bone's not surprised. he came from ... bakersfield, he wagers. "where in?"
"... southern."
"okay, we're getting somewhere, now ... where in southern?"
"i'd ... really rather not say. if you don't mind."
bone turns, staring at the man, dark-eyed and dogwhipped leaning against his poor car. "okay. sure."
the silence burgeons again, like a deranged flower in the middle of the desert. the heat is hammerlike, pounding on their heads, battering on the closed doors of the ears. dan's breathing is laboured, and bone doesn't seem to even bother with that primary act of living. his fingers twitch.
"how about you?" the man tries to reciprocate bravely.
"nowhere, capital n," bone replies, yawning. "capital of. have lived, probably always will. travelling for now, and the road seems to be as good a place as any." he pauses. "don't you agree, dan?" dan flinches, almost as if the speaking of his name was a physical blow. "man, you're skittish. i ain't gonna rape you, or nothing." bone grins, a bit ingenuously. "don't got a knife, or a gun, or anything, see?" he pats his pockets and ankles. "just making talk with somebody on the road. killin' time. you know how it is."
dan fidgets with his fingers, having met bone's eyes, now looking away at the dust on the road. "bakersfield," he admits, as though it were a carnal sin and the open road his confession booth. "that's where i live."
"nice place," bone observes. "wouldn't want to live there, though. one'a those places with those signs up that say "IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU'D BE HOME BY NOW", eh?"
dan laughs, surprisingly. "oh, there's one of those on our exit ramp. it's awful."
"i bet," bone agrees drolly, and the clouds overhead shift restlessly, like prowling tigers.