Jacks Magic Beans

“They didn’t come visit you?”

“Not enough money. Cresson is a long way from Hanover—almost on the New York border. We didn’t have no car.”

He paused, struggling to sit up again. “My legs are cold.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “The important thing is to keep talking. Tell me more.”

“I—I got out this morning. Couldn’t wait to get home and see her and the kid. Kurt. We named him Kurt, like the singer, you know? The guy from Nirvana? She wrote me letters every single day. I used to call her collect, but Robin still lives with her folks, and it got too expensive. I’ve s-seen pictures of Kurt. Watched him grow up through the mail. I want to hug him. My stomach is cold.”

“It’s a cold night,” I replied, trying to take his mind off of it. He was losing a lot of blood. The smoke was stronger now, heavier. It blanketed the treetops and drifted over the road like fog.

“The State got me a Greyhound ticket from Cresson to Hanover. Rode on that damn bus all day, and I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. Too excited. There was a McDonalds at one of the stops, and that’s the first time I’ve had a Quarter-Pounder in five years! Couldn’t wait to tell Robin about it.”

His eyes grew dark.

“There was this one fucker on the bus though. Guy from Cresson, just like me. Never saw him before. He was in a different block. He was on his way to Harrisburg. Fucker started the fight, but the bus driver didn’t believe me and threw me off.”

“Really?”

“Yeah!” He broke into a violent fit of coughing, and I thought that would be it, that he would expire. But then it subsided. “Fucker threw me right off the bus. Right here on the road. I had my thumb out to hitch a ride when I saw—I saw the fire!”

He sat upright, eyes startled.

“Shit, I r-remember now. There’s a house on fire!”

“Yes,” I soothed him, forcing him back down. “Yes, there is. But there’s nothing you can do about that now. Somebody should be along shortly. What else do you remember?”

His eyes clouded.

“T-the fire—and then—a horn? A loud horn, like on a tractor-trailer, and bright lights.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Mister? I don’t feel too good. I don’t think I’m gonna make it. Will you d-do me a f-favor?”

I nodded. His skin felt cold; the warmth was leaving his body.

“Give my love to Robin and K-kurt? Their address is in m-my wallet, along w-with t-t-their phone number.”

“I’d be happy too.”

“I—I s-sure-a-a-appreciate t-that, Mister.”

He smiled, safe in the knowledge that I would give his wife and child his love. Then he turned his head to the fire in the distance. His brow creased.

“I s-sure h-hope the p-people in that h-house are a-alright . . .”

“They are fine now,” I told him. “There were four of them. Daddy, Mommy, and the kids, a boy and a girl. The Wilts, I believe their name was. Exit Four. I killed them long before I started the fire. So don’t worry yourself. They’ll never feel the flames.”

“W-what?” He tried to sit up again, but I shoved him back down, hard.

“They were Exit Four. You are Exit Five. Hold still.”

I pulled the knife from my jacket and cut his throat. There wasn’t as much blood as I’d expected, most of it already having leaked out while I kept him talking. I wiped the knife in the grass and placed it back in my coat. Then I fished out his wallet and found Robin and Kurt’s address and phone number. I smiled. They lived just off the Interstate, at Exit Twenty-One.

Twenty-One. And this was Five. Sixteen more exits, and I would keep my promise to him.

I walked on into the night, the distant wail of fire sirens following in my wake.

I am an exit.

***

Many readers tell me this story is one of their favorites. “I Am An Exit” appeared in my second short story collection, Fear of Gravity, and was reprinted in A Little Silver Book of Streetwise Stories. Both of those collections are now out-of-print, and people who don’t own them and don’t want to pay an exorbitant amount of money for them on eBay keep asking me to reprint it, so here you go.

The tale came in a single, sudden burst. I usually write to music. The night this was written, I was working on the first draft of a novel called Terminal, and listening to Johnny Cash’s “Give My Love To Rose” and Nine Inch Nails’ “Mr. Self Destruct.” When the story idea came, it was the perfect fusion of fatigue, music, coffee and creative energy. The lyrics from both songs kept running around in my head. I thought about Cash’s protagonist dying along the railroad tracks, begging the stranger to give his love to Rose, while in the background, Trent Reznor whispered “I am an exit.” I wrote the first draft in the next half hour, and the second and final drafts the following day.

The story was so well-received that I eventually wrote a sequel to it (which follows).

This Is Not

An Exit

“You ever kill anyone?”

He licks his lips when he asks me, and I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t really want to know. His eyes dart around the hotel bar before coming back to me. No matter what I say, my answer will barely register with him. The question is perfunctory. He desires the act of confession. He’s killed, and it’s eating at him. It weighs on him. He needs to tell.

“What?” I pretend to be shocked by the question.

The young man is maybe twenty-one or two. Still learning his limits when it comes to alcohol. His slurred words are barely noticeable, but the empty beer bottles in front of him reveal everything. He leans closer, nearly falling off his stool.

“Have you ever killed someone?”

This is his conversation starter. A chance to unburden. Or to brag. This is a beginning.

An entrance.

I close entrances.

The first person I ever killed was named Lawrence. I’ve killed so many people over the years that they blur together—a nameless, faceless conglomerate. But I remember Lawrence. Pale and pasty. Hair on his knuckles. Rheumy eyes. He drove a red Chrysler mini-van and the glove compartment was full of Steely Dan cassettes and porn. Lawrence cried when I cut the sigils into his skin. Mucous bubbled out of his nose and ran into his mouth. Disgusting back then, but oddly amusing now. It brings a smile to my face, like thoughts of a childhood friend or first love.

In the years since, I’ve streamlined my efforts. I no longer bother with sigils or ceremony. I no longer speak the words of closing. The mere act of killing accomplishes my work. Spilling blood closes the doors. I don’t need the rest of the trappings. Indeed, I prefer to act quickly these days. A shot in the dark. A knife to the back. Burn them as they sleep. Over and done. No muss. No fuss. Move on up the highway to the next exit. There are miles to go and doors to close before I rest, and I am getting older. Robert Frost took the road less traveled, but I take all roads. Speed and efficiency are the key. I didn’t know that, back when I killed Lawrence.

I know it now.

I am swift. My avatar is a hummingbird. Metaphorically speaking, I move through the night at eighty miles per second, traveling from blossom to blossom, taking their nectar and then moving on.

I tell the young man none of this. Instead, I say, “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”

“I have. A few years ago.”