To drive to the nearest bar from Shelton Texas, one would have to take Highway 20, also known as Alameda Avenue, and drive through Tornillo up to Fabens. Once on Highway 20, one could take that road all the way through to Lara's Bar and Grill, a small honky tonk where the glasses are dusty, the lady at the bar has few teeth, and the juke plays mostly country twang. It was a twenty minute drive from Shelton and it was one that Clint Dawson made often. This is where he was on a Thursday night, drinking from one of those dirty glasses and trying to keep conversation with the other patrons to a minimum.
He did this three or four times a week and if he wasn't drinking here, he was either working at one of his two jobs or drinking at home. He was not worried about the strain he placed on his liver at just twenty three years old. In fact, the only things he thought much about at all were the mounting bills and his dead wife.
He had met her in college when he attended the University of Texas in El Paso (UTEP). She was an English major while he was Working on a psychology degree. They had met in an English 101 class and hit it off right away. He took her out to eat lunch that day and they had done it every Tuesday and Thursday afterward. When the semester was over, they remained in touch and they began dating regularly. She moved into his two bedroom apartment on Mesa Avenue the next year and he had proposed to her on her twenty first birthday. She told him yes without a bit of hesitation and they were married at the courthouse only a week later. Things had seemed so promising then.
How quickly a life can be snuffed out like a candle flame.
She had been driving home one night after work and was hit by a drunk driver. She had died six hours later in the ER at Providence Medical center. The day she died, Clint had honored her life by getting trashed and passing out on the floor when he got home. He fell into a deep depression after her death and failed all five of the classes he was taking that semester. He lost his Pell Grant as well as his scholarship and there was no longer any possible way he could pay for school. So he had dropped out and six months later, the first bill for his student loans had come in the mail. His depression continued, and he decided that it was the apartment in which they had lived together. Too many memories. As soon as the lease was up, he had packed up all his things and moved out to Shelton, where he got a morning job as a dishwasher at Rosie's Steak House and an evening job as a cook at Jimmie's Bar B Que, both of which paid minimum wage. He had rented a small trailer on Antonio Drive and for the last year he has lived there while the bills piled up on the kitchen counter.
Tonight, he had made another attempt to drown the memory of his wife in alcohol and failed once again. While his depression was getting a little better, his drinking was only getting worse.
“Do you want another, honey?” The bartender was looking at him with one of her thin eyebrows raised. She was only in her early thirties but she looked more like forty five.
“Please.”
“You know, one of these days your going to kill yourself out there. I go against my better judgment every time I let you leave here. Didn't your wife get killed by a drunk driver?”
“That son of a bitch was an idiot. I drive even better drunk than I do sober. I'm more careful when I'm drunk. I don't want to get pulled over.”
“I've heard that one a million times, honey.”
Clint glared at her. “Joscelin, just bring me another beer please.”
Joscelin sighed and got another of those perpetually dirty glasses off the shelf, turned on the Coors Light tap and set the mug in front of him. She gave him a look of exasperation and then went to an old man at the other end of the bar.
Clint took a large gulp of his beer, set it back down, and got up from the swiveling barstool. He looked at his haggard face and sunken cheeks in the mirror mounted on the back bar for a moment realizing how tired he looked. He turned away from the mirror and crossed the room to the Jukebox, passing two of the tall, metal, circular tables and a pool table where two gentlemen were setting up a game. Clint deposited his quarter and selected a song by Bob Dylan.
The CRACK of the pool game beginning rang out through the Dylan song as Clint made his drunken way back to the bar. There was a smell in Lara's Bar and Grill like a mixture of spirits, beer, and hamburgers with an undertone of vomit, which seemed to waft out of the men's bathroom every time someone opened the splintered door. Clint drank some more beer and tried to hear Dylan through the whooping of one of the pool players and the whinny bickering of the other. A tall and well built black man sat down on the stool beside him and after a few moments, began making conversation. He had a very deep and seemingly silky voice, like Marvin Gaye. Clint thought this guy probably had no trouble getting a woman in the bedroom.
“How you doin?” The black man was looking at him with a friendly expression on his face.
“I could be better my friend. I could be worse. SSDD, I suppose.”
“What's that?”
“SSDD?”
The black man nodded.
“It's just a saying from a book I read once. It means Same Shit Different Day.”
Marvin laughed and it was a pleasant one, full and rich. Clint finished his beer as Joscelin came back to ask his acquaintance what he would like. “Just a coke, please ma'am.”
Clint got up to leave and stumbled for a moment. Marvin grabbed his arm to steady him. “You OK buddy?”
“Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm just leaving now. It was nice talking to you.”
Clint got half way to the door before the black man called out to him. “Hey wait a minute!” Marvin walked briskly toward him and Clint turned around to see him. Marvin swam in his vision.
“You need a ride home Clint? I can take you if you want.”
“No, really, I'm OK.”
“You're sure?”
“Yeah man.” He laughed to show Marvin how fine he was. “Just as right as rain my friend.” Marvin gave up an Clint walked out the door, pulling his keys from his pocket. The air was refreshing out here. After the hot day, the weather had cooled off nicely and it had rained a little on his way out here. The El Paso Times had predicted a hell of a storm tonight, but Clint hoped that the little rain they got would be all. The roads were already slick.
Clint lit a Marlboro and walked to his car, passing a bearded man with ragged clothes on his way. The man smelled like he hadn't showered in a week.
“Any spare change?” The man had a raspy voice; full of gravel.
Clint reached into his front pocket and pulled out the pennies, dimes, and quarters that he had there. It wasn't much, but Clint didn't like to carry change with him anyway. Might as well give it to the homeless guy. He handed it to him and turned to his old Cadillac, a rusted piece of shit that he wished he could replace. He opened the door and got in, closing the door with a metallic CHINK! The interior smelled like a mixture of beer and potato chips; the remnants of both could be found on the passenger floorboard. Clint put the key in the ignition and turned it over a few times before the engine roared to life and Bob Seger welcomed him to the car. He was singing about that old time rock and roll and Clint turned it up. Shelton didn't have its own radio station, but they could get KLAQ out of El Paso, which played modern and classic rock.
The parking lot of Lara's Bar and Grill was muddy and for a moment, Clint thought he might get stuck. Finally the back wheels caught and he shot to the end of the parking lot. He pulled out onto Alameda Avenue singing along off key with Bob Seger. Lightning shot through the sky and was followed only a moment later by a loud burst of thunder. The wind was picking up and it tried to push the car around the road. Clint slowed from seventy to sixty and kept it there.
He was trying not to let what Joscelin said get to him. Yes, Mary had been killed by a drunk driver. If he had any friends, he would probably have a designated driver with him. He couldn't call a cab every time he went out, and it gets pretty old sitting at home drinking by yourself. The depression tends to set back in when he drinks by himself at home. Fuck Joscelin. She had no idea how it felt to be as alone as he was. She didn't know what it was like to walk into a restaurant and have the hostess say, “Will it be just one tonight?” while she smiled her cute high school girl smile. She didn't know what it was like to lose the only truly good person in your life. His father had never been worth a damn and his mother had died in labor.
The car drifted almost off the road and Clint jerked the wheel back to the left, righting it again.
They had been a great couple together. He could remember helping her make dinner, which he did often. They would sit at their table in their little apartment and eat listening to music. They would talk about school, speculate on how hard one class or another would be next semester, tease each other, laugh, compliment each other on a dinner wonderfully made. He couldn't make dinner anymore. And he couldn't sit at the table anymore. Every time he did those things, these memories would come back to him, and he would feel guilty, like he was being unfaithful to her. That was one of their things. He made frozen dinners now and ate on the couch so that it was easier not to think about it. They would clean up after dinner together and he would sometimes come up behind her and hug her, kiss her neck, tease her a little. She would reach behind his head with her wet hand and hold his lips to hers.
There was a girl out there on the road, standing beside her car. The car was billowing smoke from under its hood and she stood beside it looking in his direction, perhaps hoping that he was the help she had called for. She was a pretty girl, probably seventeen or so with blond hair. She was wearing a white tank top and her hair was held back by some sort of band. Nonetheless, her hair flew about her face in the wind. Her blue jeans had been cut off at the top of the thighs to make them blue shorts. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was looking at his car expectantly as well as apprehensively.
Incubus came on the radio with that retarded song, “Drive”. He leaned over to turn off the radio, fumbling with the knob, and finally cut the words off.
He looked back up at the road and the girl. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights and when she put out her arms to ward him off, he realized she really was a deer caught in the headlights. He was coming right at her and she ducked to her right just as he jerked the wheel to the left so he wouldn't run her over. He slammed on the breaks and the wheels began to wail on the wet road.
There was a loud thump on the front of the car.
The girl sprawled over the hood, smashing her face into the windshield, and a large gout of blood, as well as some of her teeth spattered across it. There was another burst of lightning, turning the dark world blue and the blood deep purple for a moment. Another loud crash of thunder followed. The car came to a screeching halt on the pavement and the girl flew off the front of the car, rolling and shattering bones.
Clint's heart was beating fast and his breath was caught in his chest. He got out of the car and ran to the girl who was face down in the road. He turned her over and saw that, although she was still alive, she would not be for long. She was breathing in harsh gasps which strained through her ruptured lungs. Her skull had been cracked on the windshield and her face was covered in blood. Much of her blond hair was red now. Her arm hung in a way that it was never meant to, the bone poking out of the skin. Blood caked the front of her shirt. She looked up at him with one eye while the other hung on her cheek from its cord of nerves. Don't let me die, that eye seemed to say. Please don't let me die.
The gasps of air were getting fewer and farther between. Clint picked up her hand and it was cold already. He held it while she took her last few breaths. No thought was going through his mind at this moment. He could only stare at her dying face. The girl said nothing, hadn't the strength to say anything. In the movies, they always had one final line, but apparently not in real life because this girl died in silence while Clint held her cold hand.
He began to slowly back away from her in horror. There was no one else on the road. No one had seen him do it. It was almost two o' clock in the morning and Alameda Avenue was deserted. He thought about The Shawshank Redemption and how that guy had been brutally beaten and raped. Sometimes people got killed in prison. He thought about those bars and how they would be so cold when he put his hands on them. He thought about how utterly alone he would be in his cell.
Clint's ass bumped into his car as the rain began to fall around him. He looked up the road, saw no one, then back the way he had come. Far in the distance, he could see headlights. They were little more than specks now, but they would arrive very soon. He looked at the girl's car, where smoke was still billowing from the hood. He looked back at the girl. She was dead and there was nothing he could do about it. Clint still had a life to live.
He opened the door of his car and got in. Looking in the rear view mirror, he saw that the lights were a little closer now. They would be close enough to see him any moment now. The car was still running and as the rain began to come down harder, smearing the blood across the windshield, he got moving, turning on his windshield wipers as he did so. The blood smeared for a few passes of the wipers before it washed completely off. More lightning flashed in the sky, instantly followed by ear piercing thunder. His mind was racing.
What if he got caught? He could see all the charges against him now: drunk driving, reckless endangerment, involuntary manslaughter, fleeing the scene of a crime, possibly even murder. Who knows all they might charge him with.
He turned on the radio and lit another Marlboro attempting to turn his mind off. Last Kiss was on by Pearl Jam. He listened, not singing along this time, trying not to think about the girl. The rain poured down around the car, making it difficult to see through the windshield at all.
After what seemed like hours, Clint pulled into his dirt driveway, which was all mud now. He parked the car and got out. The accident had sobered him up quite nicely. The rain had slowed and the wind was gone now. He went inside and flipped the light switch in the living room. The storm had knocked out the power. With no electricity and clouds covering the sky, his trailer was filled with a darkness that was so thick he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. it enfolded him, seemed to embrace him, to move and shift around him as if it were alive. He could feel it like a weight pressing against his entire body. He wondered now if he was alone in the room. He told himself that there was nothing but he could almost feel it.
Clint put his hands out and walked to the hallway where he kept some candles in his computer room. His hand touched a wall and he felt along it, finally coming to a door. What if someone is behind this door, he thought. There was a creak behind him and he wheeled around, expecting to see someone. Of course, he could not see anything at all. “Hello?” he called out. No one answered. Of course not, he thought. If I were stalking someone in the dark would I say something when they called to me?
He turned back to the door, feeling along it until he grasped the knob. Then he remembered his lighter in his pocket. He pulled it out, flipped up the top and sparked a flame. It took a minute to fill the hall with light and, for a moment, he thought he saw something at the end of the hallway, standing in the living room. Then it was gone and he was looking at just the couch. The flame on his lighter began to get smaller and he saw that he was running out of fluid. He snapped it closed, wanting to save what was left for the candles.
Clint opened the door to the computer room and walked inside. He heard nothing. He never noticed how much noise the fans in his computer seemed to make until he couldn't hear them. The silence crawled around him the same way the darkness did. A chill went up his spine and he realized that the temperature had dropped. He thought about using the lighter again and, not wanting to waist what little fluid remained, decided to find the candles first.
He went to his computer desk, kicking the computer when he reached it. He felt along the desk and opened the top drawer. There were three candles in there and he pulled them out now. “I was eighteen years old.” A whisper beside him on the right. He snapped his head in that direction and backed up, dropping the candles on the floor. He still couldn't see anything. The darkness was too thick for his eyes to adjust to it. He tripped over a distortion pedal and fell, his head hitting his amplifier, his arms flying out and knocking over his guitar. It crashed on the floor beside him ringing out a discordant note.
“Who's there?”
No one answered the question. The silence pressed in around him again and the darkness continued to shift in front of him. He felt sure there was something in the room with him; that he hadn't imagined that voice. He got up and walked back to the computer desk. He bent down and hunkered where the candles had dropped. Christ it was cold in here. He felt along the floor for the candles. For an agonizingly long period of time, he found only dirty carpet. Then his hand finally landed on one of the candles. He picked it up, still hunkering and pulled his lighter from his pocket.
Clint struck another flame.
In the light of the fire, he saw that the girl was hunkered down directly in front of him. One eye hung on her cheek, the socket shattered. Parts of her brain showed through the cracks in her skull and the blood, which covered her face still ran down her cheeks. Her nose was a shattered wreck, and a good many of her teeth had been knocked out. Clint could not move. The girl leaned forward and blew out his flame.
Clint dropped the lighter and scrambled backward away from the girl he had killed only thirty minutes ago, ramming his head into the wall. He got up and ran for the door, which still stood open, hitting the door frame on his way out and then running into the wall across from it, pain coursing through his left arm. The door slammed shut behind him with a sudden, loud clap. He ran back to the living room and tripped over his own feet, sprawling on his face behind the couch. He could feel her behind him and he turned over, sitting up, his eyes wide, heart fluttering in his chest, skipping beats. “What do you want?”
“I want you to listen to me.”
“What?” He didn't understand. What was she talking about listen to her? “You're dead. You aren't supposed to be here at all.”
She said nothing.
“It was an accident! What do you want me to say? What can I say. I'm sorry.”
“Yes,” she said. “Sorry enough to flee the scene like a coward.”
“They would have put me in jail. It was only an accident. I don't deserve to go to jail. I've never hurt anyone in my life. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to listen.”
Clint said nothing now. Listen, she says. Maybe if he just let her talk, she would leave him alone. The silence pressed in around him again. She sat there saying nothing for some time. Maybe she was gathering her thoughts, trying to decide how to give him the message she wished to convey.
Not being able to see her was agonizing. She could be walking around the house or she could be standing a few feet in front of him. Maybe she was hunkered down directly in front of him or bringing her lips up close to his ear to whisper to him. He didn't know exactly where she was.
“I was eighteen years old. My name is Destiny and I graduated from El Paso High school just last year. My parents bought me that car as a graduation present. I got a scholarship to UTEP for finishing high school a year early. I was a math major. I finished my first year of college with a three point five GPA and my parents were so proud. They were going to let me live with them until I finished college rent free. I was doing so well.” Her voice had an angry tone to it and she seemed to be moving closer to him as she spoke, growing louder as she came to him.
“I was invited to a party in Shelton to celebrate the end of the semester. I figured, why not right? I didn't have to study for once and it was nice to get out for a while. They were all getting themselves drunk. They offered me drink after drink but I refused them one after another. I remember saying to one of them, 'No; I'd like to make it home alive, thank you.' If I had known what was going to happen, I would have gotten trashed, you know. Maybe it wouldn't have been so painful. I thought it was so sweet of you to hold my hand the way you did. It was the only redeeming thing about what you did tonight.”
Now Destiny was right beside him, whispering in his ear. It was freezing cold being this close to her and he was sure that he would be able to see his breath coming out of his mouth had there been any light in the room.
“My car broke down and I called my friend Lorenzo to come pick me up. It was his lights that you saw before you left. Before you turned and ran away. Ran away like a coward.”
She stopped and Clint got up, not intending to run away from her but hoping he could make her understand. “Look,” he said now. “I'm so sorry for what happened. But there is nothing I can do about it now. I swear to you that I will never do anything like it again. If I had it to do over, I would change it, but I can't.” All empty words. Of course he would never do it again, but that didn't change the fact of what he had done to her.
“You made a choice that ended my life when you got into your car,” she said. The power came back on then and the light in the living room hit him hard. He squinted his eyes against it, trying to see. She had moved away a little when he stood up and was standing there in front of him, wearing her blood soaked white tank top, her legs also smeared with it. She wore only one shoe, the other one having been knocked off when he struck her with the car. She held her arms out to him in a 'come here' gesture. One of them stuck out at an odd angle.
“Now I've made my choice too,” she whispered. “To end your life.”
Intense pain suddenly shot into his lower abdomen from the bottom of his chest to his hips. There was hard pressure there, as though an enormous fist had punched him in the gut, encompassing the entire area below the chest and above the legs. Numerous organs in his stomach were instantly obliterated and his pelvis shattered. He was thrust violently forward and his face slammed hard into thin air. His skull cracked open, ten of his teeth flew from his mouth as his jaw was shattered, blood pouring onto the carpet. His right eye socket was smashed and the eye was ejected, hanging grotesquely. He was thrown backward onto his back on the floor. He was trying to scream in pain as his left arm broke, his ribs shattered, puncturing his lungs, and several more chunks flew from his skull. Bones all over his body were broken, splintered, and sprained while organs ruptured and skin broke. He lay in a pool of blood, unable to move anymore. Clint had never in his life imagined that pain this intense could possibly exist. His body was raging with it from head to foot. Breaths were coming in hitches. His heart was fluttering feebly in his chest. He couldn't see much of anything as the one eye he had left saw through a film of red.
In his red vision, Destiny appeared standing above him and he tried to reach out his hand to her. She bent down, took it in hers and watched him die.
June 10, 2010
Originally Posted by Brice
Just have to keep on trying.
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