RUNNIN' - Smut Butt Magazine's Freaky Fiction Vol. 2

Turning toward the door of the dim-lit dive called Monty’s, on Highway 9, Ray took one last swig of his beer. He lit his cigarette, and gently set the bottle down as he shouldered the narrow wooden door open into the night. It was cold and damp, with a thin layer of fog flowing through the mountain roads like a river searching for the sea. Ray loved his quiet midweek rides to the bar, and he was always the last customer at Monty’s. The only shred of superstition he maintained was related to his ability to start the old panhead. The number of kicks increased exponentially to the proximity of bystanders. He preferred to be alone on the deserted street, with only the red glow of a neon sign staring down on him. 

It was May, 1980, and after a busy winter swinging his hammer from 9-5, he looked forward to getting out of town for a few days. As he bent down to trace a newly discovered leak, a belligerent yell echoed in the street. Occasionally, a few scarf-donning transplants from the University end up at Monty’s to have a few drinks and share their thoughts and opinions at full volume. One of them, an aspiring journalist, was exclaiming the uniqueness of his life experiences and how, very soon, he would be able to monetize his irreplaceable viewpoints. This attitude doesn’t jive well with the typical, poorer, working class customer at Monty’s. These are the loud, hippy types who just pass through the area. They play disc golf, write novels, sneer at vets, and jack up rent prices. They flock by the thousands to grace the small coastal mountain community with their presence for four years, then they leave for high paying jobs in Texas or the midwest, where there is “less hype”. 

Ray was tired and half drunk, but couldn’t resist the thought of pummeling a few of these over-educated kooks before heading home. He wiped the grease off his hands, laid his burning cigarette on the seat of his bike, and went back into the bar. 

“Monty, what’s going on in here? I thought you were closing up.”

“Ray, these mother fuckers are makin’ a damn scene. They’re tellin’ me I owe em’ a round cause they brought a few nice lookin’ broads in here with em’.”

“Ain’t no broads in here. The two of them have been sittin’ over there alone all damn night.” Ray chuckled. 

“Man, they’re drunker than hell. If I gotta’ listen to this mother fucker talk about his time with Greenpeace for one more second, I’ll just as soon walk outta my own bar.” 

Monty pulled a crate of empty beer bottles up from under the counter and set it on the bar. He and Ray locked eyes as they continued laughing.

Ray is about 6 foot tall in boots, but he is broad shouldered and mean looking, he’s had his teeth knocked out more times than he can count on one hand, mostly from jumping in for his buddies, and never from starting his own drama. He is 27 years old, but has worked grueling manual labor jobs since he was 13, this has helped him stay in peak fighting shape. 

Monty walked the crate of bottles down to the other end of the bar where the two trust-funders were yammering. 

“Boys, it’s last call, gonna’ be closin’ up soon.” said Monty. 

The young journalist raised his voice and snooted, “You’re seriously going to kick us out? Do you know how much money we’ve spent in here tonight?” 

Before Monty could respond, Ray stormed across the bar and swiftly grabbed the crate of bottles. He lifted them high into the air above the two students and abruptly slammed the crate down on the back of their heads. Glass shattered up into the air while suds of backwash from the bar’s evening patrons splashed onto the ceiling above them, soaking the decaying dollar bills that were signed and stapled onto it years ago. Ray glanced up and saw his bill, which prominently read FUCK THE WORLD in thick black marker. 

“You got your free beer, now get the hell outta here.” Ray said calmly.

As the two stumbled out, Monty growled, “Goddamnit, Ray! Those sons of bitches are customers! How the hell you expect me to survive?”

“They need to get the picture, Monty! Maybe word will spread and they’ll just stop showin’ up here.” said Ray.

Monte remained silent for a few moments, then, looking solemnly at the door replied, 

“People like that are takin’ over, Ray. We’re a dying breed.”

An inch of ash fell off his cigarette as he sped away from the bar. The road was wet with fog, visibility was low. He gently rolled the throttle and felt his long wiry hair blow in the salty mountain air. The moonlight struck through the trees creating a strobe effect around each curve. He felt free, the mellow gloom from the night sky reflecting off his big red machine. As he rode down the final hill before making a left turn onto the Pacific Coast Highway, a tall, dark haired girl appeared in the distance. She stood on the front bumper of an old Ford pickup, staring down under the open hood. The truck was covered with rust, typical in a coastal community, and the girl was silent as he pulled off, leaning his bike beside the guardrail on the sandy cliff. Ray mustered up his most non-threatening smile, and approached her as if she were an abandoned fawn. 

“You need a lift, darlin’?” His raspy, low voice cut right through the bellowing white water breaking against the cliffside. The girl looked up and made eye contact with him. 

“No.” She paused. “I’m fine.”

“Well, what the hell you doin’ out here in the middle of the night?” Ray asked.

She seemed to be thinking about her response, but her tone indicated  the answer should have been obvious. Her large brown eyes squinted in the darkness as she replied, “Have you ever felt like you made a big mistake, and you feel like the only way out is to just surrender?” 

He was hoping for a simple answer to his question.

“Every day.” he said.

Suddenly, a spark of electricity came from the engine compartment and the old truck roared to life. The girl popped out from under the hood with two screwdrivers, and for a second, Ray thought she might try to stab him in the eye for his intrusion. The crash of the waves continued to engulf the atmosphere shared by the two strangers. Just as the girl was closing the driver’s side door, Ray yelled, “What’s your name?” 

With a mysterious gaze, she looked back out the window and replied, “Beverly.”

The truck slammed into gear and she sped off down the road. 

It was 2:30 in the morning when it struck Ray that he should hurry the remaining 10 miles down the coast highway to his small cabin on the westside of town. The girl consumed his thoughts the rest of the ride, she was effortless, walking through the world like nobody was watching. 

Ray pulled into the driveway, hopped off his bike and proceeded to lift up the small garage door of his run down house on Mission St. Ray had purchased the house a couple years earlier after a booming construction year. It needed work, and he was great at putting it off. Any free time he had was usually spent on the road, exploring small towns he’d never been to, or working on his bike. The garage was always a mess, stacked and littered with old parts that he would surely use, one day. The wood paneling on the house was peeling and warped from years of sea mist sitting in the air. Ray had ripped out the green carpeting in the living room but never finished the job, the subfloor was dark wood, and it made a loud thud when he walked around in his boots. 

He had convinced himself that he would never see the girl again, and that was probably for the best. Ray didn’t like to be tied down, he enjoyed the freedom of being able to take off whenever he pleased. Tomorrow was no different, he would wake up at the crack of dawn and ride south, where the sun would burn his skin to leather, and the warm colors of the desert would bleed into his eyes, wide open, embracing that single moment in time which he knew he’d never see again. Ray took off his jeans and tossed them on top of the dresser next to his wallet, his hands were calloused and tired from the day. He always slept heavy, freezing his thoughts and instead zeroing in on a crashing wave as it crested toward the sky, repeating this sequence until he lay like a dead body, peacefully unconscious.

6:15 a.m. Ray popped mechanically out of bed, his eyes opened wide and his legs stretched so far that his feet hung off the edge of his bed. Being a carpenter, he was conditioned to being on the job every day by 6:30. Waking early was one of his pleasures, empty roads, no one around except a handful of surfers who were up before dawn to catch some uncrowded waves. Ray immediately snapped to attention at the dwindling hours that lay ahead. He put some water on the stove for coffee and headed for the garage. 

He was intercepted by his neighbor Al, a 60 year old World War II vet, who was outside loading his surfboard into an old beat up van. Al always wore an olive drab jumpsuit. Every day, that same green jumpsuit, he must have had 20 of them. His grey hair was long and coarse, but his face was always clean shaven. He had a perplexing appearance to him, he could be standing on the side of a freeway on-ramp with a cardboard sign, or perhaps he is the humble millionaire next door. Either scenario made sense. 

“Hey Ray!” Al shouted, “I’m settin’ up at the swap meet tomorrow and could use a hand.”

Ray thought for a split second about hanging back a day to help his old neighbor. He glanced up at Al and replied as he walked, “Headin’ outta town for a few days, Al. You know the routine...why you gettin’ rid of your stuff?”

“Simplifying, my man. Thinkin’ about sellin’ this place and roamin’ around for a while; hell, I’m 60, got my benefits set up, why not try somethin’ new?” Al said with a happy conviction. 

“Why would you want to do that? You been livin’ on this street since before I was born. This is YOUR town.” said Ray.

“You know what they say, variety is the spice of life, man.” replied Al.

“I guess I see where you are comin’ from, with all these damn new people comin’ ‘round, this place is gonna explode.” Ray walked over to the garage and pulled up the door.

“Bet you locked horns with some of those boys last night, huh Ray? I heard you roll in real late.” Al’s accusatory statement seemed to stop the wind that was blowing, and nothing but silence remained. 

“You don’t know shit about them people, I had to back Monty up! Those pricks ain’t gonna show any respect, Al. No respect for people like YOU, that’s why I busted em’ up, for YOU.” 

Al calmly replied, “Live and let live, son. Hell, it’s almost 35 years to the day I stepped off that boat, finally back home. When I got back, that’s when I adopted that saying, it’s the only way I coulda’ survived.”

Ray replied, “Been five years, but it still feels like one day. Things are different than before I left, but I aint’ accepting it.” 

Al rolled his eyes, “Yeah, well, I gotta get goin’, Ray. Been chasin’ a northwest swell that’s soon to hit at the Lane. Try to calm the fuck down, man.”

Ray walked into the garage as Al hopped into his old brown Econoline. He pulled his bike out into the foggy atmosphere for a quick inspection before he hit the road. Transmission leak, like always. A set of critical wrenches were packed tightly in a leather roll which he strapped to the handlebar risers. As he ran back inside to take his water off the stove, he debated whether he’d camp or find a cheap motel room that night. Sipping his coffee, watching his breath prominently in the morning air- the thought of his body laying on the cold high desert ground separated by nothing more than a discount sleeping bag crossed his mind. 

Staying in motels on the road meant he could carry less. He pulled out a weathered map of California and estimated the trip to be about 480 miles, it would take about 8 hours in a car, or 12 hours on his panhead chopper. He walked outside and began to admire the machine sitting perfectly in the driveway. It sat tall in the front with a six-over wide glide, thick 8 inch risers, and drag bars. He acquired the ‘48 frame from Monty, and sprayed it red with paint he found on a jobsite. Three-gallon split gas tanks to really hammer out miles, a cobra seat on springs, topped off with a tall “devil’s tail” sissy bar, which was covered in rust because it had not been chromed. 

He straddled the bike and gave it three prime kicks. Then, ignition on, one final kick and the bike started with ease. He lit a cigarette and sat on a wooden stool while the bike warmed up. He was overdressed, but he’d been caught out in the cold riding through the night too many times to be underprepared for a sudden change of temperature. The western landscape is sundry with mountains, coastline, deserts, and dramatic elevation changes. He had no doubt he’d be seeing the whole spectrum California had to offer. 

After 30 cold miles he broke out of the morning fog, heading east toward Hollister. The dew on his seat was finally dry, but he hadn't cared anyway, riding an old bike had recalibrated his baseline for discomfort. A long ride allowed him to slip into that blank space between instinct and awareness, his attention was completely in the moment. The feeling of the curves on the road, the wind on his face, the mist from sprinklers as he rode by the numerous strawberry farms. 

Highway 156 was an empty two lane back road surrounded by golden hills and rich agricultural land. It was an empty stretch that connected Interstate 5 and Highway 101. Ray liked a road that kept to itself, and the countless bars scattered along 156 shared the same obscurity. His first gas stop would be just outside the San Luis Reservoir. He dodged about 20 potholes as he pulled into the desolate gas station and parked his bike at pump 4, which seemed enticing because the angle of the sun was hitting it just right. The sign on the pump read “Wait For Attendant”. 

He grabbed the nozzle and filled up.

When he walked into the store to pay, the frail looking man was dead asleep behind the counter with a red baseball cap slouched down over his eyes. Ray looked at the bell sitting between the register and cigarettes, but refused to wake the old man. It occurred to him that he could easily ransack the remote gas station, grabbing quarts of oil and six packs of beer, all without the slightest chance of ever being caught. He grabbed a pack of Marlboro Reds, dropped a 10 dollar bill on the counter, and walked out. 

Outside, he laid himself out on the hot blacktop, resting his head on the curb beside his motorcycle. The “gas station hangout” was customary for Ray on a long ride. He rarely worried about time back at home, but that feeling was further loosened during long trips like this. He lit a cigarette and relaxed in the sun, letting the blood return to his hands. 

Two hours later he was jamming down Interstate 5, wide open, with a nice wind blowing at his back. The sun raged and it was 90 degrees as he approached the southern end of the state. There were no more strawberry farms, but instead miles and miles of cows. There was not a car in sight, this was the leg of the trip where he had planned to make up a little time that he always seemed to waste aimlessly drinking at truck-stops and bars. The bike seemed to be running great and, after the first couple hundred miles, his constant nervous anticipation for mechanical problems finally dissipated. His hair blew long in the wind while his eyes peered behind his amber gradient shades. 

In the distance, he could see the large striped water tower at the off-ramp for Highway 58, which shot east, straight to the desert. Immediately, the bike began to sputter and die. 

“MOTHER FUCKER!”, Ray screamed. 

He crept onto the shoulder, put his bike on the kickstand, and, out of habit, bent down like he was diagnosing a problem. Here he was, stranded, alone in the middle of nowhere, out of gas. Even if he saw another motorist, there was no way in hell they’d stop. His eyes were bloodshot from the wind and sun, he looked like a dope addict in his current state, running on three hours of sleep. His shoulder length hair and beard were greasy and covered with dirt. He had no choice but to walk. 

His habitual thirst for beer had ceased and he now yearned only for water. All at once, he felt the importance of the basic life-supporting needs which he had deprived himself of for the last 24 hours. He stared glumly down the road at the hazy water tower, which didn’t seem to be growing any larger despite his forward progress. Everything in his view began to blur, and he tried vigorously to distract his mind from questioning his whole existence. 

He was instantly yanked out of his own head when he heard truck tires come to a screeching halt on the dirt behind him. The motor was still rumbling as he turned around. 

“No fuckin’ way.” He said.

A long, bare leg stretched out past the open door of an old rusty Ford. Beverly stood up and stared directly at Ray. She wore dirty black Chuck Taylors, tight jean shorts, and a baggy, deteriorating red sweater. Her dark disheveled hair blew in front of her face with every gust of wind, leaving only her large brown eyes to be seen. 

“Where you headin’?” she said.

Ray still faced the water tower, keeping only his head turned back at Beverly. 

“East. Little town I like. Amboy.”

Beverly raised her voice over the howling wind. 

“I gotta ditch this truck. Will you take me with you?” 

Ray paused, he hadn’t planned for his trip to be hijacked, but he was curious about picking the strange girl up. 

 “I’ll need to steal some gas. I’m all run out.”

Beverly leaned back into the truck and pulled out an empty glass jug of Sangria. Her shorts were so tight when she bent over, exposing the very top of her thighs and Ray’s mouth started to water like a starving dog. 

“This work?” she asked while extending the jug toward Ray.

He walked over and accepted the makeshift gas container without a word. He kneeled down under the truck, pulled out a small 4-blade knife from his pocket, and reached for the fuel line. As he cut with the dull blade, gas began to spill onto the dusty ground. He nonchalantly placed the rotting hose into the glass jug and sat comfortably under the shade until fuel was sloshing out the top. Beverly stood near the tailgate, perplexed at the lack of shrewdness in Ray’s improvised refueling procedure.

“You gonna stop that leak, or what? Could start a fire out here.” Beverly proclaimed as she watched the gas continue to pour onto the dirt below the truck.

Ray arose from the ground and faced Beverly, handing her the full Sangria jug and motioning with a head nod in the direction of his bike. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long, deep drag. He exhaled and, without a moment of hesitation, tossed the butt under the truck. The spilt gas immediately ignited and flames blazed toward the truck’s leaking gas tank.

“Run, darlin’” Ray said.

  Beverly turned and ran, screaming with excitement, and Ray followed clumsily. The two were no more than 10 yards away when, “BOOM”, the truck exploded with a thundering vibration that penetrated deep in their chests. 

When they returned to the bike, Ray filled his bone dry tanks, “Should have enough to get us to Mojave.”

Beverly ignored his distance estimation and instead looked back at the burning truck. “No surrendering today, I guess.”