Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 20

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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What did you go out to the desert to see?
A reed swaying in the wind?

— Matthew 11:7

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The whiskey did clear my pipes, so to speak. The round, hard rock disappeared from my gut, and I felt... better, provisionally better. I'd already had episodes of relief throughout the day — moments where the discomfort seemed to have passed, only to have the stone roll right back again soon after, as bad as before. I wasn't ready to claim victory.

I felt... cautious, as though I was carrying a old, creaky wooden bucket, brimful with water, anxious to not spill a drop. I had to be careful what I ate and drank tonight. And probably tomorrow as well.

In spite of my tentative mistrust of my internal plumbing, Ebbidles appealed to me from the moment we walked in. The place was light, bright, and clean. Music played so softly, it was almost subliminal. The air smelled fresh, and carried a healthy, appetizing aroma.

I took in all of that at once. The next thing I noticed was that nearly every person in the place — customers and staff — was a young, attractive female. At least it seemed that way at first blush. When Hugh and I pushed through the door, a little bell tinkled, and every head in the place swiveled to look at us with expressions of mild curiosity. My breath caught in my throat. I stopped in my tracks. If you've ever walked into the wrong restroom by mistake, you'll know what I was feeling.

I realized my mouth was hanging open stupidly, so I closed it. I spoke to the hostess, babbling, uncertain — blurting out, without a thought, "Is it okay for us to be here?"

"Of course it is!" she replied, welcoming, smiling, slightly amused. "Table for two? Is the window okay?"

Hugh held up his finger. "Could we have something a little more... private? away from the window?"

Her eyebrows went up at that, but she didn't miss a beat. "Follow me," she replied, and with a smart about-face, led us to a table in the back, near the kitchen, behind a large fern and a half-wall. We could hear all the bustle and chatter from the kitchen, punctuated by the random whump! of the door as the waitstaff entered and left.

"Is this alright? It's not too noisy?"

Hugh looked over his shoulder toward the windows and nodded. "This is perfect," he said. "Thanks!"

I couldn't stop looking around us. "There's so many women here!" I exclaimed. I still felt out of place, a tresspasser.

The waitress turned her head and took in the room, as if she hadn't noticed until I mentioned it. "Yeah," she said, "You're right. We do get a lot of women customers in here. It's pretty popular with uh, you know, the vegan crowd." She smiled and pointed across the street, toward the Ultimate Steakhouse. "Men usually go for the meat."

After we sat, after she gave us our menus and went off to get us some water, Hugh explained, "I hope you don't mind sitting back here. It's just that... I... well, I don't want to advertise to the rest of RPD that I'm talking with you."

"What?" I asked him, utterly lost. My mind was stuck in another context. I had no real reason to be overwhelmed; there was nothing strange about a restaurant full of women. It just caught me surprise, is all. To be the only man, in a crowd of women was disconcerting... that moment when all those faces turned toward us, just pulled the rug out from under me. But of course, it was nothing. I shook it off.

"Sorry, what did you say?" I asked Hugh. "I was distracted by all the women."

With a slightly puzzled frown, he repeated, "All the women? Where?" With a glance over his shoulder, he scanned the other tables, then said, in a tone as if I'd told him that the sky is blue, "Oh, yeah. Look at that! I hadn't noticed." Then he repeated, "I said that I wanted to sit back here so nobody from RPD would spot me. Any of them could walk by and look in the window. I don't want them to see me talking to you. No offense."

I had to puzzle over that for a moment before I understood it. Then I got it: RPD was Robbins Police Department, and the problem with talking to me... "Because I'm Charlotte's cousin?"

"Exactly!" His eyes were on the menu. His mouth worked as he read, as if he was trying to decipher a foreign language.

"Do you know what's good here?" he asked me.

"No, I've never been here before. This is my first day in Robbins, remember."

"Ah, right, right. Yeah, sorry! I've never been here before either. Just wanted to get a feel for the place, you know?" He turned the menu over and looked at the back. "I can't make heads or tails of this."

The waitress returned and simplified things by suggesting the meatless meatloaf with mashed potatoes and cauliflower. We both agreed.

"Can you hold the cauliflower for me?" Hugh asked. "Not a big fan."

"No, it's mashed with the potatoes."

"What?"

"The potatoes and cauliflower are mashed together and blended with a rich vegan broth. It's good. You'll love it."

"Okay," he agreed, and we handed our menus to her. She nodded and entered the kitchen.

That done, I laid my hands on the table and asked, "Hugh, why did you ask me to read that crazy story?"

He chuckled.

"It reads like a cartoon!" I exclaimed. "Explosions! Flying bathtubs! Riding naked down a hill on a child's bicycle... I mean, what am I supposed to make of all that? Please don't tell me you *believe* that story!"

Hugh shifted in his chair. He glanced at the wall for a moment and tapped his fingertips on the tabletop, as he considered how to explain. "Listen," he began. "Before we get into that, I have to apologize for being late, but it was the birthday of a guy on my team, and obviously we all had a few, so..."

"It's fine," I said impatiently, trying to brush the topic aside. "I don't care about that. Forget it."

He shrugged. "No, it was rude of me. I didn't want you to think I stood you up." He took a breath. "But, anyway, look... about that story: I know it's wacky and hard to believe—"

"*Hard* to believe? It's impossible to believe! And how in the world can that writer use real people's names? and real places? Aren't you supposed to change the names to protect the innocent? Couldn't somebody sue?"

"Uh... you mean like Charlotte or Mayda? I suppose. Mayda doesn't care, though—"

"How do you know that? Did somebody ask her?"

"Yes, actually. People *have* asked Mayda about it. Several times. She always laughs it off and calls the story fan fiction. And Charlotte? I'm not a lawyer, but people who know have told me that she wouldn't have much of a case, if she wanted to sue for libel."

"Why not?"

"Uh..." Hugh blew out a brewery-scented breath. "Hell, I don't know. I'm not a lawyer. Honestly, I don't care. If somebody wants to sue somebody else..." He threw up his hands. "It's no skin off my back. I don't want to talk about that. What I do want to talk about is a very important fact about that story. See, the thing is, what's important here, is that every incident in that story, every encounter or event that you can verify, all tracks. It all tracks!"

"What does that mean, 'it tracks'?"

Hugh reached over to briefly tap the back of my hand. "It's what I like to call 'objective correlatives'.^[1] It means that if you consider the parts that you *can* verify, they line up perfectly with the story. They mesh together like gears. Take the bit at the end, for instance, where Mayda beans the would-be rapist with a glass turkey—"

The waitress, returning with our order, heard the last few words and began to laugh. "Are you talking about the Naked Girl thing? The glass turkey?" She set down our order, her eyes open wide in delight. "I remember that! How crazy, right? It happened just after I moved here, to Robbins! My mother heard about the serial rapist and she was so worried for me! When I told her the glass-turkey story she didn't believe me! It sounded so silly, she thought I was making it up!" She laughed briefly, then paused for a moment, struck by a sudden, more serious, thought. "That guy, though: he's still in jail, right?"

"Yeah," Hugh responded, nodding. "He's in Combright Penitentiary. He won't get out for a long, long time."

"What about that chick? Do you know what happened to her? The one who brained him — it really was a glass turkey, right?"

"Yeah, it was a glass turkey, about yay big—" he indicated a football-sized shape with his hands. "And the chick, as you called her, is now playing soccer for the Barcelona team. In Spain."

"Wow!" she laughed again. "Such a weird, funny thing, right? Well, if that guy ever gets out, we'll have to bring *her* back again, right? From Spain?"

"Right you are," Hugh agreed jovially, jabbing the air with his index finger. "And we'll get another glass turkey lined up, ready to greet him with!"

After she walked away, Hugh returned to the charge. "See? That bit at the end— it actually happened. You can check. And the part before that— we know she showed up at Charlotte's the next morning because Charlotte herself says so."

"Yeah, but, come on—"

"The part before that? The ride down the hill on the kid's bike? A complaint was filed with the Duxbridge Police. A naked woman matching Mayda's description claimed to have come out of the river and wanted to borrow some clothes. I can play you the 911 call from the woman whose dress she borrowed. The call is word for word identical to the bit in the Iodine Story. The woman also reported that her daughter's bicycle was taken and later found at the bottom of the hill — directly in front of Charlotte's apartment building! Exactly like the story. Besides that, the Duxbridge Police have statements from churchgoers who saw a woman matching Mayda's description ride up naked in front of their church."

I took a forkful of the meatless meatloaf. It was suprisingly tasty. The potato-cauliflower combination wasn't bad either. Hugh was shoveling it into his mouth as if there was no tomorrow. In spite of the fact that he was doing most of the talking, his plate was already half-empty.

"Okay," I acquiesced. "But those things are not far from reality. Those things actually could happen, even if they're a little out there. And, okay — apparently some of those few things *did* happen. But the flying bathtub? I mean, you can't—"

Hugh grinned slyly. "Now THAT is an interesting tidbit. But remember what Sherlock Holmes said about how... the impossible can be improbable, but might end up being the truth? I have it a little mixed up, but you know, logically, what it means is that if everything lines up, cause and effect, and physical evidence, then it must be so."

"I don't know what Sherlock Holmes said," I told him, "but your logic sounds a little fuzzy. And I'm pretty sure Conan Doyle never wrote The Adventure of the Flying Bathtub."

Hugh blew a raspberry and waved my comment away. "As it happens, we have some facts. There *was* a fire at a house in the woods up near Aldusville that very night. The people in that house had a meth lab in an outbuilding near the house, and the lab happened to blow that very night, at just the right time to fit into Mayda's narrative. Not only that — and this is a matter of public record — the house belonged to a woman who calls herself 'Lemon'. What do you think about that?"

"Okay," I said, smiling in spite of myself. (I had a mental picture of Mayda sitting in a tub full of bubbles at the top of a house whose roof had been blown off.) "Okay. An explosion and a fire: that much I can believe. But for two chemical cannisters to fly up from the ground, attach themselves to the bottom of a bathtub, and propel that bathtub through the air? and then cut a path through the forest? Give me a break!"

"Ha!" he laughed. "What if I told you that I visited the site and found the trail dug by that bathtub? By now the ruts are overgrown, but I've got pictures—"

"No, no, no! Come on! Be serious, man! Be serious!" I protested.

Despite my entreaties, he went on: "I found shards of the chemical cannisters. I don't know what kind of chemicals they were — the labels were burnt off, but you can see there was a separate explosion right there, by the banks of a stream—"

"No," I said. "No, no. This is insane!"

"Yes," he insisted. "There was an explosion by the banks of a stream that feeds into the Robbins River. And—" he leaned back in his chair, trying to create some drama before his big reveal— "I actually found the bathtub! It landed in a field on the outskirts of Aldusville. A friend of mine and I hauled it away, and now it's sitting in his storage unit. See?"

He showed me photos on his phone. Different views of a burned-out clawfoot bathtub. "See these marks? We tipped it over and you can see— see the scratch marks there? And how the burn marks are different? That's where the tanks were jammed in, and — see? — this is all from the explosion. It's cast iron, remember. I can take you to the site. I can show you the bathtub. You can look at it, examine it, and then you'll see. It's hard to tell much from these pictures, I admit. The lighting is bad, and there's not enough contrast — but when you see it in real life, it's as clear as day. The business with the bathtub, all happened just like in the story."

I groaned. "Jesus Christ, Hugh. You're showing me pictures of an old bathtub that went through a fire! And some yokel dumped it in a field! It's no mystery! It doesn't prove anything!"

Hugh fell silent. His enthusiasm shrank away, and the smile left his face.

"It's alright," he said in a subdued tone, taking his phone back. He quietly added, "You have to see it to believe it. I understand. It's okay." His eyes moved from my face to the table, and looking down, he reached over and squeezed my hand, as if forgiving me for something.

The waitress came over at that point to see whether we wanted dessert or coffee. I said, "Neither, but I'm really curious: can you tell me what was in that meatless meatloaf? What's it made from? It's pretty tasty!"

"Oh, thanks! I'll tell the chef! Well... what's it made of... it's a secret recipe, you know? What I *can* tell you that it's mainly black beans and roasted eggplant. Then a little of this and a little of that, to give it the right flavor and texture."

Hugh ordered a triple-chocolate cake for dessert. He wanted to share it with me, but after the pizza and the meatloaf, I couldn't even think about taking a bite. He picked at it sullenly, put off by my reaction to the tub, and offended (I think) by my lack of interest in the cake.

Clearly, in his eyes, the burned-out bathtub was a smoking gun, an unimpeachable piece of physical evidence. And all I did was scoff at it.

It suddenly struck me that, with all my scorn and skepticism, I was alienating Hugh. Maybe I needed to back off, to not express my disbelief so forcefully. Maybe I should humor the guy, much the same way as I humor Charlotte. After all, what did it matter? He asked me to read a silly story, and now he wanted to talk about it. It's not like he was asking much. And probably, he had no one to talk to about his obsession, if I could call it that. It certainly seemed an obsession.

Charlotte has her alternate reality. Hugh clearly has one of his own as well. I was only a visitor to their worlds. I didn't need to correct either of them. I wasn't obliged to set either of them straight. I could just as easily listen and keep my thoughts to myself.

Okay. I opened my mouth to speak, to say something conciliatory, to try to smooth things over, but Hugh began first, in a wistful tone. "You know, I was kind of hoping to meet Charlotte. That maybe you could introduce me." He looked up at me. "I don't mean any kind of romantic thing. Not at all. It's just that... She's this huge presence here in Robbins, and she's cast an enormous shadow over the whole police department. I can't imagine what she must be like in person. So, you know, I'm curious... to, uh, experience that first hand."

"She's a trip," I told him. "A trip and a half. You can't think you'll come out unscathed. Charlotte can make you question your sanity. But if you really want to—"

He waved his hand. "No, no. I wish I could, but it's too big a risk. Sooner or later she'd find out I'm a cop, and probably she'd file a complaint against me for God knows what. And then I'd have to explain to the captain why I went and poked the bear, so to speak, and the whole department would be on my case..."

"Okay," I said, cutting him off. "If we can somehow find a way around all that, I'll be glad to set it up. Okay?"

He nodded, then fell silent. Despondent.

I reached out and touched his hand (it seemed to be his thing). He raised his eyes to look at me. "Listen, Hugh, I'm sorry I was such an dick about the tub and everything. I *do* want to see it. At your convenience, of course. You, ah, you mentioned those shards... did you pick up any of them, by chance?"

His face brightened at that. "I got all of them — all the pieces I could find! It was a little tricky: they're sharp as hell, you know?"

"Cool," I said. "I'd love to take a look at them. We should be able to figure out exactly which chemical... I mean, how hard can it be? It's got to be one or two of the ingredients they use to make meth, right?"

"Right!" he said, sitting up straighter, his enthusiasm returning. "Hey, look—" he glanced at his watch. "The timeline! We're still on the timeline, if we want to be! Right about now, on the night Ross disappeared, he and Mayda left this restaurant and drove out to the desert." He reached over, tapped my hand lightly three times. "What do you say — we drive out there now, check out the scene? What do you say?"

I took a breath and nodded. If that's what it took to humor the guy... and besides, it wasn't as though I was busy doing anything else. So, "Sure, bro," I said. "Let's go for it."

An eager smile spread across his face. "That's the way! That's the way, buddy! You're the man, Mason! You are the man!"

As we were leaving, he gave my shoulder a big squeeze. "I'm really glad you're up for this," he said. "Really glad!"

The waitress sang out to us as we left "Thanks, guys! Have a lovely night!"

 

---

 

Hugh's car was parked just around the corner from Ebbidles. It was sparkling clean, as though fresh from the car wash. Hugh looked it over, nodded approvingly. Then he pointed up to make me notice: "No trees on this side of the block. No trees, no birds. No birds, no crap on the car!"

"True," I agreed. "Your car is amazingly clean. Did you just get it washed today?"

"No," he replied, proudly. "A week ago. I do my best to keep it clean and shiny. I pay a lot of attention to my car. A *lot* of attention."

I pulled the handle on my side, but the door was still locked. Hugh looked at me across the roof.

"Uh, hey," he said, coming round to my side of the car. "A little thing: Do you mind if I check the bottoms of your shoes? I want to make sure you don't track in any... dog remains?"

I showed him the soles of my shoes, which were about as clean as you could expect. "Okay," he said, and unlocked the car.

I opened the door, and as I bent to get in, I felt an abrupt build-up of pressure in my lower torso.

"Get in, dude," Hugh called to me.

"One sec," I said, and took two steps away. With a mild groan and a great whoosh! I let out a fart of breathtaking volume. "Whew!" I exclaimed, and climbed into the car. "Excuse me!"

Hugh grinned. "Thanks, dude. I appreciate your discretion. That one would have really filled the car. Sounded like if we shot it out the tailpipe, it could have blown us halfway there!"

"Yeah," I acknowledged, a trifle embarrassed.

"Anyway, about the shoes... I hope it doesn't seem too OCD, but I'm, uh, very houseproud about my car, if I can put it that way," Hugh informed me.

In fact, Hugh's car was as fresh and clean inside, as it was outside. "Hugh, I have to say, I'm really impressed. I've never seen a car so perfectly spotless, unless it was brand new."

Pleased, Hugh turned the key in the ignition. The car made a noise like an old man clearing his throat. It didn't start.

"Huh," Hugh said, as if he was surprised. "Think good thoughts!" He turned the key again. This time, after two slow huffing sounds, the engine turned over. I would have joked that his car had symptoms of COPD, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings again.

"Good girl!" Hugh said, addressing the car, beaming, patting the dashboard.

"Hey," I said, feeling a little concerned, "are you sure it's a good idea to drive out to the desert? It sounds like your battery is on its last legs, doesn't it?"

"I don't know," Hugh replied. "Maybe. But someone who knows, told me that when the engine is running, it charges your battery. Now it's running, right? So, we're fine."

He ran his hand lovingly across the top of the dashboard, and said, "Armor All. I love it!"

"Hugh, sorry to be a pain, but one more thing before we go: are you okay to drive? I mean, you were drinking before Ebbidles, right?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Sure. Yeah. I did have a few. Although, not to brag, but I'm a very good driver. In fact, I actually drive *better* after a few drinks than before, because I'm a lot more careful; I pay more attention." He sniffed. "Also, keep in mind that I'm a cop, so nobody's going to give a ticket, know what I'm saying? So don't worry about it."

Honestly, I couldn't give a flip whether Hugh got a ticket or not. My concern was that I — we — didn't end up having an accident. But Hugh *seemed* okay. Aside from the alcohol on his breath, he didn't show signs of inebriation. I decided that if he did — if he starts taking chances, or drives erratically, I'll insist on taking the wheel. Anyway, as I said, for now he seemed fine.

We left the city on the desert highway, and soon there was darkness all around us. The headlights were on, high-beams up, but the light didn't penetrate far. It was almost as though we were driving into a big black box. Hugh's phone was fixed to the dash, and he kept glancing at his GPS.

After about twenty-five minutes, we passed through a series of low hills: up, down, up, down. He said to me, "Do you remember in the story, there was a van going up and down a hill as it approached? This was that hill."

"How do you know?"

"Two reasons. One, there are no more hills after this, until you get close to Aldusville. From here on, the road is flat and straight for miles and miles and miles. Two, there was a police report."

As he spoke, he pulled off the road, into the desert, and turned off the engine.

"What are you doing?" I demanded. I worried that the car might not start again. "Why are you stopping here?"

He gave me a surprised look. "This is the spot where Ross and Mayda stopped; this is where they were picked up by the aliens. Come on. Let's check it out. Just for a second or two."

He got out of the car and looked straight up. The Milky Way was a large, luminous cloud. The sky was chock full of stars.

"Let's just drink in the scene," he said, craning his neck and turning in a small circle. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"How do you know they stopped here?" I asked.

"Remember there was a state trooper? Creepy guy? His cruiser got hit by a van while he was groping Mayda? It happened right there." He pointed to the road. The trooper had to report the damage to his vehicle when he arrested the van driver, and he gave the exact location, which is right there. So—" now he pointed up "—Ross and Mayda were taken right here, truck and all."

Of course, I still didn't buy it. Sure, all the normal things — all the things that actually *could* happen — might "track" as Hugh put it, but that didn't mean that aliens from space had anything to do with Ross' disappearance. I mean, okay, so the Iodine Story packages this alien-abduction-slash-body-swap business with actual events, before and after. So what? Just because someone managed to take a chain of unusual, but real, events, and added a weird-ass fictional story to the chain is interesting. Maybe even clever! But it doesn't make it true.

I took a deep breath and looked at Hugh. After reminding myself that it was in my best interest to humor the guy, I asked him, "Why do you think the aliens took his truck?"

"That's an easy one. It's because they didn't get out. They just sat in the truck and argued."

"Okay," that made some kind of sense, if you were trying to make things make sense. Then I wondered, Is he hoping the aliens will pick us up as well? So I asked him.

"Hugh, is that why you wanted to come out here? Do you come out here often? Are you hoping to be abducted?"

He made a little scoffing sound. "As if!"

Smiling, I teased him a bit: "You're not hoping that the aliens will come and do a cute body-swap on you, are you? Is that why we're out here? Is that why we're looking up at the sky?"

"Hell, no!" he said, standing up a little straighter. "No fucking way! I absolutely do not, would not, want to be in their zoo. In fact, if they came and picked us up right here, right now, I would not go. I would flatly refuse. I would fight tooth and nail for my right to stay right here on earth. Terra firma! That's where I belong."

"Really? You feel that strongly?"

"I do. I absolutely do. I've got my reasons. Good reasons." He hestitated a brief moment, then decided to confide in me. "Listen buddy. I have a confession to make. I don't know whether you can tell, or whether you suspect... if you did, or do, I don't care. The thing is, I'm gay. That's it. I like men. Love men. Proudly, completely, without guilt or shame. These aliens, on the other hand, if we can believe The Iodine Story, these aliens are looking to even up the numbers of male and female humans in their zoo. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but if that's their aim, well... it doesn't sound as though they're aware at all of same-sex couplings. Think about it: if they want one man for every woman... the implication's pretty clear."

"Did they say that, though? I thought they said their mistake was picking up only women, or mostly women—"

Hugh waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not taking the chance. That is not a life I want to live. It's a hard NO from me." He bristled a bit, then glanced at me. "What about you? Would you go?"

Since I don't believe in aliens, I'd never considered the question until that moment, but I didn't need to think about it. My answer was clear. "No, I wouldn't go. I couldn't go. My mother, you know? We're close. I couldn't leave her like that. With no way to say goodbye? No way to call home? No way to explain? She'd never know what happened to me."

We were silent for a few moments, then Hugh asked, "Are you an only child?"

"No, I've got a brother and sister, both older than me. And they've got kids. So my mother wouldn't be alone, but still..."

"Gotcha," Hugh acknowledged. "Well, I tell you what — it's a little chilly in this damn desert. Let's get the fuck on out of here."

Once we were back inside his car, before he touched the ignition, Hugh asked me, "What about your orientation, Mason? Are you gay? Bi? Curious?"

"Um, no, I don't think so," I told him. "I've never felt the urge."

"Hmm," Hugh mused. "Maybe you just haven't met the right guy."

"Who can say?" I replied, noncommittal.

 

---

 

Hugh turned the key. This time all it did was click. Click-click. No other sound.

"Oh, shit!" I said. "It's the battery! I told you, it's dead."

"Don't lose your head," Hugh told me. "Stay calm." He turned the key again. Click. And again. Click-click. On the third try, the engine groaned and grudgingly turned over. "See?" Hugh told me. "Good thoughts! Good thoughts!" He patted the dashboard. I felt an enormous sense of relief...

... until Hugh pulled back onto the highway and kept heading in the same direction as before: west.

"Hey," I cautioned, trying my best to not sound alarmed. "Hugh — Robbins is *that* way, back there, behind us. We're driving away from Robbins."

"I know," he replied, his eyes on the road ahead. "I thought you might want to take a gander at the place where Ross and Mayda were heading that night."

"What do you mean 'where they were heading'? We just came from the place they were heading. We just left it — that spot, back there!"

"No, no," he said. "That's not where they were *headed*. That's only as far as they got. Remember, Mayda said it would take 40 minutes to get there. We only drove for half an hour."

"Yeah, but—"

"The only reason they stopped back there is because Ross got upset. Mayda wanted to go to a Lovers' Lane, which is a couple miles off the road, up ahead. Where we stopped — where they stopped — that's no Lovers' Lane. It's just the side of the road." He looked at me, smiled, and patted my thigh. "Don't worry, it's fifteen minutes, tops. We'll have a look, turn around, and head straight back to Robbins."

He turned his eyes forward, to look at the road. Then he turned toward me again. "Don't worry, Mason: I'm not trying to make a move on you. I can tell you're not interested."

"I'm not worried about that," I responded. "I'm worried that if you stop this car again, that it won't start. THAT is what I'm worried about."

He considered what I said for a moment. He ran his hand over the car's dashboard. Then, "Tell you what—" he said. "I won't turn the engine off, okay? I'll keep it running until we're back in Robbins. Does that work for you?"

To tell the truth, I would have felt a lot better if he simply turned the car around and headed back to Robbins, but if he wasn't going to do that, well, then... not turning off the engine... that *should* be good enough.

"Okay," I acquiesced.

"Okay?" he echoed, smiling.

"Okay," I repeated.

 

---

 

After twelve minutes, or twelve miles, Hugh leaned forward and slowed his speed. He studied the right-hand side of the road, and gradually slowed to a halt. "Okay," he said, "here it is." Whatever he saw, I didn't see, but once we turned off the highway, our headlights picked up tire tracks heading into the desert. I'm no tracker, but I could see that they were a bit indistinct, partly blown away.

"Okay, now," he told me. "Just five more minutes. It's just about two miles."

I didn't want to be a wet blanket, so I didn't say a word until ten minutes had gone by and we'd seen nothing but the single pair of faint tire tracks.

"Do you know where we are?" I asked. "Are you sure this is the way?"

He replied with an uncertain "Uhhh."

"It's been ten minutes," I pointed out. "Shouldn't we be... wherever it is we're going?"

"Yeah," he admitted, coming to a stop. "Yeah, sorry, this isn't the place. I turned too early. Let's go back." Contrite, he looked me in the face. For a moment I was afraid he'd propose trying again further up the road. To my immense relief, he said, "Let's head back to Robbins. I'll check my intel. We can do this some other time."

I was feeling a lot better, knowing that we were heading back to civilization. Until...

... until Hugh, in order to turn his car around, moved his gearshift into reverse. The moment he did so, the car went dead. The engine simply died, just like that. There was a sound like a slam! and that was the end of it. No lights, no engine, no heater.

He turned the key, but nothing happened. There was no response. No response at all. No cough, no click, no groan.

Hugh, with a baffled, perplexed expression, said, "Well, now that was unexpected!"

My jaw fell open. I was astounded, stupified, stunned. I couldn't speak. I tried to gesture, but my arms only made small, helpless, spasmodic movements. When at last the power of speech returned, I said, "Was it, Hugh? Was it really? Was it really unexpected?"

He gave me a look as though he feared I'd lost my mind. "Well, yes of course, it's unexpected. I take good care of my car! I'm very fastidious about it!"

His statement struck me as so insane, I could only laugh. Admittedly, I sounded a bit hysterical even to myself, but didn't the situation warrant it? I covered my face with my hands and laughed. Not long, of course, because it wasn't funny at all.

Then Hugh, in an offended tone, asked, "Are you implying this is somehow MY fault?" It set me off again, and shaking my head, I got out of the car.

It was freaking cold out there. I thought it was supposed to be a desert, but apparently this is what happens when the sun goes down. And it was windy! I walked to the front of the car and warmed my hands by the heat of the hood.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. No signal, of course.

I didn't look at Hugh. I didn't want to start yelling at the guy. After all, we were going to have to walk out of here together. From the corner of my eye I caught the glow from his telephone — he was no doubt checking for a signal as well. And not finding one.

I waited until he climbed out of the car to join me. "Hugh," I said. "We're what — five miles from the road? We can walk it, follow the tire tracks. If we're lucky somebody will pick us up. Maybe a trooper..."

Hugh didn't answer at first. Then he said, "This happened to me once before. I mean, that the car wouldn't start at night, but the next morning, it did."

"Do you want to stay here all night?" I asked. I couldn't manage to hide my scorn.

"I have supplies," he said, gamely. "I've got water, power bars, and a big wool blanket in the trunk."

"No," I said. "I'm walking to the highway. If you want to join me, great. If you want to stay here, fine. I'll send help."

He looked at the ground for a few moments, then said, "Okay, let's start walking."

"Good," I said. "Before those god-damned aliens pick us up, right?" I laughed. He chuckled. I felt a small sense of relief when I heard his laugh. That meant we were good. Friends again. Everything was going to be alright. I hadn't managed to permanently alienate the guy.

Alienate him. Ha. Alienate, right?

Then a brilliant light swallowed up everything. It was so intensely white, I couldn't see the car. I couldn't see Hugh. I couldn't see my own hands in front of my face.

And then... darkness, unconsciousness, nothingness.

Nothing.