Stones, John Prine, Willie Nelson, Freakwater, Steely Dan, the sound track to
Jakes had a little routine. He’d doze in the backseat awhile, start awake, launch into a story about some girl he’d fucked in college, take a slug from his flask (refilled periodically from a bottle in the trunk), then drop off to sleep again.
Morgan drove now, had the cruise control set to eighty-five.
Reams couldn’t leave the dome light alone. “Why won’t this infernal thing shut off?” He reached above his head, thumbed the switch without success, clicked his tongue.
“Leave it alone,” Morgan said.
“It’s bothering me.”
“You’ve been screwing with it for an hour. Forget it.”
Reams reached around the wheel, fussed with the switches on the steering column. The wipers came on.
Morgan slapped his hand. “Knock it off. I’m trying to drive.”
“I know the button’s over there somewhere for the interior lights,” Reams said. “Try that switch over by that dial wheel thingy.”
“No. I’ve tried them all already. Just leave it. And don’t mess with the speakers or the radio. The balance is fine. The bass is fine. The treble is fine. Everything is fine. The heat is fine. Your seat is fine.”
Jakes stirred in the backseat.
“Great.” Morgan forced himself to unclench his teeth.
Jakes sat up, fumbled off the cap of his flask, and took a big slug. He belched, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He rubbed his eyes with a knuckle, took another short drink.
Morgan and Reams braced themselves.
Jakes cleared his throat. “Did I ever tell you guys about this red-haired chick I knew at UCLA? Man she had tits-”
“White as snow with nipples like dark raspberries,” Morgan and Reams said together.
Jakes blinked. “Yeah.”
“You told us,” Reams said. “This is the third time.”
“She was the best one. I looked her name up on the Internet and got her phone number. Sometimes I think about giving her a call.” He finished the flask, upended it again like he couldn’t believe it was empty. “But I don’t call. It’s been maybe twelve years.”
Jakes hiccuped. “Jesus, I don’t feel so good.”
“Lay off the bourbon,” Morgan said.
“It’s empty.” Jakes tossed the flask onto the floor of the backseat. It clanged harshly. “What the hell is this?” He bent, looked. “Some kind of drill thing and a hammer. What is this shit, Reams?”
Reams twisted, looked over his shoulder. “Blast. I meant to take all that back to Sears when I was out gassing the car. The tools for the gazebo.”
“You’re cluttering up my brand-new Kraut car with this shit.”
“Sorry.”
Jakes threw his head back with sloppy laughter. Loud. “Hey, Morgo, you hear about Bob Vila? Almost chopped himself in half.”
“I heard,” Morgan said.
Jakes squinted at the ceiling. “Why the hell’s the dome light on?”
Morgan muttered.
“We can’t figure how to turn it off,” Reams said.
“It’s one of them fucking buttons on the steering column,” Jakes said.
“We tried them,” Morgan said.
Jakes snorted. “Well, try them again, dammit. It’s a brand-new car. I know the buttons work.”
“They don’t.”
“Hell.” He grabbed the hammer from the floor. “I’ll fix it.” He flicked his wrist, and the claw part of the hammer shattered the dome light with a loud pop. Glass rained, peppered Morgan and Reams. Reams covered his eyes, turned away.
Morgan jumped. “Shit!” He jerked the wheel, spilled into the next lane, nearly smacking a Honda Civic. It blared its horn, flashed its lights.
Morgan pulled back into his lane, heart thumping. “Christ, Jakes!”
“It’s out.”
“Idiot.” Morgan gulped breath, held it, let it trickle out slowly.
“I don’t think that was necessary,” Reams told Jakes. “I could have taken the bulb out.”
A lapse into angry silence.
But it was good to have the light out. Morgan could see better now. The road was nearly deserted, only a single set of headlights several car lengths behind, and the Honda, which had elected to speed up and put some distance between itself and the carload of morons.
Morgan included himself as one of the morons. How could he have thought a road trip with these two was a good idea? God was punishing him.
“Guys.” It was Jakes.
Nobody spoke.
“Guys, I think I’m going to be sick.”
Great. Morgan wondered if he should pull over. This stretch of road was very, very dark.
“Try taking deep breaths,” suggested Reams.
“Fuck the breaths, I’m… Jesus, I don’t feel good.”
“Take it easy,” Morgan said. “We’ll find someplace. Maybe drink some water. We’ll stop and get some water.”
“Oh, shit.” Jakes groaned. “My stomach. Rough seas.”
“Hang on,” Morgan said. “Just take it easy.”
Morgan prayed for an exit. Let Jakes puke all over an Amoco station.
“Jesus, here it comes. Oh, shit.” He bent over, gagged, coughed. His gut heaved, and he spewed liquid, sprayed a good portion of the backseat.
“Not on the tools!” Reams yelled.
Too late. Jakes heaved again, coated the tools with gunk. The smell filled the car, acidic and boozy. Morgan almost puked too when it hit his nose. “Oh, my God.” He hit the window buttons, lowered all four of them. At eighty-five miles per hour, the wind washed through the car quickly.
A blue sign ahead. Morgan squinted at it, crossed his fingers. It was a rest area.
“Yes!” Morgan mashed the accelerator.
Jakes lay in the fetal position, a thick strand of scummy saliva draped from his lower lip to the edge of the seat.
Reams said, “He doesn’t look well at all.”
Morgan flew down the off-ramp, skidded into a parking space near the rest rooms. The rest area was deserted except for the headlights that had been following. The other car pulled into the rest area too, parked on the far side. Shut off the lights.
Morgan shut off the Mercedes, flung the door open, and leapt out. He took a dozen quick steps before gulping clean, cold air.
“I think he’s passed out,” Reams called from the car.
Morgan walked into the men’s room, unzipped at the first urinal. He finished, washed his hands.
Reams walked in, grabbed two fistfuls of paper towels, and left again without saying anything.
Morgan splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. Bags under his eyes. He started
