He stood on the hillside of the yard, sweating viciously in the heat. Another eighty-nine degrees in the middle of summer. The hillside was freshly trimmed and mowed, and the yard looked pretty; every foot of it. About as long as a football field, with a small vegetable garden and a small shack painted white, with a tiled roof that was crooked on several rows. His body was skinny, and the sweat highlighted the build of it; Hardened by almost eight months in the rocky state of West Virginia, in a small community called Lashmeet. Not town, nor village. A gas station loomed nearby, easily within sight. A scattered clump of houses, maybe fifteen or twenty, all rough and dirty. The people were dirty too. Their speech, their thoughts, all slow, proceeding forth from their mouths like sludge, jamming the flowing tunnels of their brains and reducing conversation to the minimal standard of appreciation.
He stood there, finished for the day, chest heaving from the strain of having to push the lawnmower by hand up and down the hill that the house was next to. His hands were blistered, and the last thing he wanted to do was go into that house, to an air-conditioned room where they all sat, drinking either beer or tea, talking idly. It was a scenario that was shoved into his face every day, and it went nowhere. But nowhere was where he was bound, apparently. Wiping his shirt across his face, he gently shoved the lawnmower down the hill, to the bottom, and back to the shack where it belonged. The blisters bit, and he grit his teeth as the thought tore across the skies of his mind –
(I’ve got to go.)
It was time. Or was it? There was no telling anymore. Before he knew it, he was striding across the field, and blinked sharply when he realized that he no longer stood on grass, but on concrete. The gas station offered shade, and it was cool inside as well. It wasn’t uncommon to see a man stroll in without a shirt on, covered in grime from a good day’s worth of work, so in he strolled. A handful of people were in the central part of the store, lounging around the front, as was custom. They always purchased their beer or soda here, as well as the occasional candy bar or pack of toilet paper. All of them as dirty as he was.
(If only they knew. We could all change. Shed it.) He was on his way to the back, where he could find the alcohol, and heard his name called –
“Bane! Travis!” A burly character stood behind him at the cash register, grinning heartily. Travis Bane ignored him as he went to grab a case of booze for himself.
“In a minute, man.” he replied. It was too short a minute, and finally he was present amidst the conversation, running a gamut of local rumors and topics that Travis knew too much of, and wanted to forget. He stood there, putting the case at rest by his feet, knowing he wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. The girl working the register was one of them, and she thrived on the wave of gossip as well.
“I ain’t seen that damn bitch in weeks! An’ I’m gonna kill her when I do!” Travis caught the tail-end of one final comment that was aimed at a local girl he knew.
“What’s happened with her now?”
“You ain’t heard?” They stared at Travis, and it was explained. “Ran off with Bayard. Left Jim in the dirt, and tha’s my brother she’s insulted. I swear ta God I ever see her again, she’s dead. I’ll bury the bitch.”
So as it was conceived, it would always be. He had learned that a long time ago, standing in a room with his two parents, both griping and shouting, insinuating and accusing. Never hugging or touching, never smiling. A happy family unit, grown and raised around suspicion, and distrust. Deception. Travis had understood the concept of betrayal since the age of five, and deception was everywhere he looked, and he knew it all to be a mirage. The only question left unanswered was how to escape it.
As the men stood there, conversing all the while, Travis hefted his beer up onto the counter, shoving his way through the small crowd, and was ignored as he did so. Their words were thick, plodding with efforts, useless to his ears. Even the girl behind the counter, her words were thick with a creeping sense of travesty, though maybe she couldn’t comprehend that for herself. “Here’s your change, Travis. Have a nice day.” As if she knew what day was; a hiding place for the mind as the darkness waited nearby, just waited for the right moment to strike.
But they couldn’t see it; none of them suspected it even. None of them thought it possible that there was something out there, slowing marking the day and hour of their lives, and cutting them short with a knife sharper than anything the human mind could conceive. (Time’s up, gotta go. No point in awaitin’ the judgment, must flee.)
And flee he did. Back over the field, past the freshly-mowed yard, towards the old house, where his Aunt Gina and step-uncle lived. A small party was gathered inside the house as well, and they all bid him well as Travis brushed by, trying to break through without interruption. He said nothing, and they demanded no words from him. He went to the back of the house, to the back door leading to a small porch. On this side of the house the sun peered over the building, and a thin piece of shade covered the porch. Travis plunked the beer on the wooden deck, hoisted a can out and popped it open noisily, leaning against the railing of the porch.
The trees blocked his view, but he knew was lay beyond the woods. Another set of forests, mingling together, placed on different small mountains, surrounding the county. Surrounding the state. Lost in a jungle. And it never went anywhere. He knew this, had known it for a while. So why the charade? Had he expected anything less?
(I could watch them from up high once. Had a good view. But all I see is wood now. I could once see everybody outside while I stood at that window getting ready, and everybody’d wait on me to come down, and I could be free. It was like my own theme park.)
Washington, D.C.; Travis longed to climb the Monument again, to wander through the museums at his own leisure. New York, during his sophomore field trip in college, had been a beautiful place to be at night. Same could be said about Chicago. (Now there was a city) he thought about it then, recalling the interesting two guys he’d met there, named Dawson. Two brothers, goofballs. Seventh grade wouldn’t have been any fun without them. As he sat there slurping at the beer, Travis felt his body shake, and his breathing pace picked up. He knew why. (I can’t see them anymore. I can’t see past the wood, past these damn mountains. They pen me in, steal everything that is mine. All that was is still there, but for how much longer? Would they wait for me? Could they?)
(Time to go.) he thought again, and maybe this time, it was for the permanent. He turned abruptly and went back to his room in the house, ignoring it when his named was called on the air, and searched his desk for that little notebook, filled with names, numbers, a gateway to his escape. He found it finally, a small black one, and lifted it in the air. Flipped six or seven pages, but he finally located the number. He pulled out his cellphone, and dialed the number. He only had to wait two rings before a deeper voice than he had expected answered.
“It’s Travis,” he said quietly, well aware that they were listening to him in the dining room. “Travis Bane. You still live in that shiny new apartment?”
(Time to go). "Is your offer still any good?"
, other than pointing out a few things.