Young Writers Society

A car horn cut through the evening murk. “Get out of my way!” A driver yelled out the window as he barrelled by.

Dell momentarily lifted his face to the harsh wind, but then settled his gaze back on the cracked road. Truth was, he knew he was walking a little bit to the left of the edge towards the double yellow in the center of the road. He also knew that he didn’t really care. The road didn’t care for him either.

Another short blast of a horn made Dell look up again as a car crept up beside him. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing a disgruntled figure inside. “Need a ride?”

The man’s lumpy voice reminded Dell of curdled milk. The only person Dell knew that had a voice like that was Karl Klaus, a bartender in town, but Dell had only seen him in passing. “Sure,” he said, giving a little nod. Dell watched as Karl hurled empty chip bags and dirty magazines into the back seat to make room for him. The seat gave a little grunt as he fell in, and he realized that he had stepped on and broken a beer bottle.

“Aye, sorry about that.” Karl chucked the remainder of the beer bottle into the backseat with all the rest. Pulling back onto the road, he began to pick up speed. He peered at Dell out of the corner of his eye. “I know you! You’re that guy who throws up at closing hours at the Wasted Sloth!”

“I don’t drink,” Dell said.

“Are you sure?” Karl seemed to accelerate as he spoke. “You seem like the kind of guy who can’t keep his spirits down.”

Dell said nothing, instead looking back down on the broken glass. Crusty toenail clippings littered what appeared to be carpet around it. He moved his feet slightly to the right, only to find yet another abandoned chip bag. Dell felt his gaze travel back to the broken beer bottle. You could die by drinking alcohol.

“Earth to puny boy!” Karl Klaus gave him a thump the shoulder. “Are you one of them mutes?”

Dell rubbed his shoulder. Karl had a strong arm. “Yeah, sorry. What’d you say?” Dell focused in on the little sprout of yellow hair that grew off the top of Karl’s head. Despite the beer bottles and the fact that the car smelled like B.O., Dell couldn’t help thinking about how much Karl reminded him of one of those Truffula trees out of a Dr. Seuss book.

“I said, where ya’ headed?”

Dell’s eyes shifted to the window to watch the blurred, dismal landscape as it raced by. He shrugged and toed a piece of the broken beer bottle. “Nowhere.” Anywhere but here, he thought to himself.

Karl Klaus seemed to contemplate this for a while. “Say, what’d you say your name was?”

“Dell. Dell Vic.” Dell thought of how much his name sounded like the brand of a toenail clipper. He imagined that all the toenail clippings on the floor probably came from someone who used Vic Toenail Clippers. They weren’t even the nice kind of toenail clippers; they were the kind you got from the gas station when they didn’t have any fingernail clippers left. Dell examined the crusty clippings again. Now that he thought about it, there were probably some fingernail clippings in there as well.

Dell looked up from the contents of the shaggy floor mat. He didn’t know where Karl Klaus lived, nor if he even went anywhere other than the bar at all. He felt compelled to ask, but also heard the beer bottles shush him, as if any more statements from Dell might push Karl into a drunken rage.

“Well, Dell Vic,” Karl said, beginning to pull into an empty parking lot. “This is where I’ll let you off.” He put the car into park.

Dell looked out the car window again. He wasn’t familiar with this part of town. It seemed to be an abandoned grocery store of some kind. Dell wondered if Karl had bought the beer bottles here.

“Thanks for the lift,” Dell said. Karl had grown very quiet now, which allowed Dell to hear the seat beneath him groan again, as well as the beer bottles giving him a quick shh.

And he did hear both these things, in precisely that order. The seat groaned. The beer bottles shushed. And then the click of a lock. The long sigh of Karl. The pounding of Dell’s heart against his breastbone.

Karl Klaus turned of the car. “Dell, do you know me?”

Dell screamed inwardly and looked to the broken beer bottle for advice. They didn’t shush him now. “Bartender,” he managed to get out.

“You know why I’m a bartender, Dell?” Karl didn’t wait for a reply. “It’s because I see all these sad people come in, get completely wrecked, and not remember why they were sad in the first place.”

Dell, still wanting to leave, but no longer feeling the threat of being murdered, nodded. He too knew the faint pleasure that came with watching people throw their lives away. It wasn’t that Dell was better than them. But at least he wasn’t alone.

“Dell,” Karl drew out Dell’s name, and let it linger in the air for a second. “I don’t drink.”

Dell accidentally laughed out loud and slapped a hand over his mouth.

Karl didn’t seem fazed. He actually even let what resembled a smile form on his face. “I know what it looks like, but Dell, I don’t drink.”

Dell pondered this for a minute. “What about the bottles?”

“I buy bottles and pour them out.” Karl relaxed into his seat a bit. “Used to drink. Nearly killed myself. Figured if I drank enough, I would. But now I just pour them out.”

Dell looked back to the broken glass and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Oh,” he said.

Karl ran a hand through his sprout of hair. “Listen kid. You ever find yourself walkin’ roads alone again, just give me a call.” Karl scribbled down a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Dell.

Dell fingered the piece of paper for a bit before sliding into his pocket. “Thanks.” The whisper of the broken bottles. The clicks of locks sliding up. Karl’s even breathing.

Dell opened the door, stepped out into the abandoned parking lot, and shut it behind him. He watched as the rusty excuse of a vehicle turned around and pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe another day, Dell thought, one more day. And suddenly the wind seemed a little less cold.