Drilling. Burning, hungry venom. Mr. Phoenix and his cats — five of them, four black as midnight, one smoke and fog grey. Licking his hands. Staring at you, right into your eyes. Drilling.
He hated cats. His Old Man had moved like a cat, slinky and graceful, even when he was oiled. Then the claws came out. Blood. Red. Red was everywhere.
Then. and now. Red.
All his life driving away from it. Fast. And here it was again. Waiting. If he wasn't on time. If The Package was damaged. Red. Waiting to let its claws out.
'Fuck all this rain. Pissin' like someone in Hell drank all the fuckin' beer in every shithole bar this side of the Mississippi.'
If he had time he'd pull over and yank the fuse for the radio out. At least he could stop Rev. Set-aside-your- sins-and-ask-God-forforgiveness' moral deluge. But Mr. Phoenix said 11:30 sharp. Said he'd be waiting. Waiting. Red tie, tight and just so. Red stickpin! and the red cufflinks. And probably those fuckin' cats. Licking his hands.
'Fuckin' treacherous cats. Yeowlin' like saxophones. Ballin' like that nigger music set 'em on fire.'
He looks at the clock on the dash. 100 miles and less than an hour to make it there.
Raining. Harder. And Rev. James Theodore Ellison blatherin' like he knew it all.
And the Old Man, tellin' ya he knew it all.
And Mr. Phoenix actin' like he knew it all.
And this rain comin' down like the end of it all.
And those fuckin' cats and their hungry eyes, lookin' atcha like they wanted it all.
'Fuck-it-all! Gonna take my cash and hit some Mexican beach and score some nice Mexican pussy. Gonna leave all these wounded motherfuckers to their wounded neighbors and just lay there. No more in a hurry to get there. Fuck that.'
Sixteen hours of drivin' rain and barely a moment where it let up so he could pull over and take a piss. Sixteen hours behind the wheel with the clock following him. Pulling. Pushing. Mile after mile. Pushing. Prodding. Poking. Mile after mile. Minute by minute. Not even 50 minutes left and the clock wanting it to be over. And him wanting to be gone. And that bastard Rev. James Theodore Ellison sayin' The End is near — Bet the only thing he ever got near was the pink little backside of an altar boy. And the mean, murderous rain not letting up.
The flat ten hours back really put a dent in his plan, laid out all nice and straight. Fucked plans. Now all banged up and hollow. It seemed like it was last week and it killed any hope of stopping for dinner — some eggs and toast and hot black coffee would be nice, but. The rain and the clock and the flat killed at that. Left the day a victim. Roadkill, that got ran over and nicked and flattened and ran over again and again 'til it was pulp. Red. A red mess no one would stop for. No one would miss. Not even the clock.
He had a headache. Starin' through wipers killing themselves to beat off the rain hour after hour with no coffee and something filling his belly. He had a headache. Wanted to sleep. Wanted to eat. Wanted to wake up beside something warm and nice. And willing. Wanted this shit to be over. Now.
Wanted it to stop fucking raining. Let Mr. Phoenix build an ark and him and his fuckin' cats could sail off to one of those places like Babaluma or Zanzibar. He wanted this chapter closed and he wanted his money. Now.
If it would just let up and he could find a 7-Eleven or a gas station that hadn't dozed off into goodnight. Just one cup of java and a pack of smokes and he could make it 'til The End.
There'd be Mr. Phoenix at The End. Standin' there. With that stone, spider smile turnin' to poison and asking for The Package. Bet if it was still rainin' the rain wouldn't touch him. Bet he had red eyes under those thick black sunglasses. Come to think of it he'd never seen him, day or pitch black, without them. Albinos had reddish eyes, and Mr. Phoenix could — maybe? even if he was as black as the ace of spades, black as any old Mississippi bluesman with broken eyes filled with sorrow. Yeah. He had red eyes. Just like one of those hellfire demons in those creepy old movies.
And that wasn't all that wasn't right with Mr. Phoenix. Always decked out in that stupid scarlet robe. Did he think he was some pope or old pharaoh? All that Egyptian stuff layin' around his office — the place looked like some creepy-assed museum. And that time down by the trains on Hennepin St. when the dogs ran from him bawlin' like he beat them with an ugly stick and he had his back to 'em and was at least twenty feet away. And those clove cigarettes, red tip burnin' like hellfire — smelled like they was rolled in Hell too. And his voice, sounded as if it came from deep in a well and it boomed, those old Bible prophets must have sounded like that to fill people with doom and damnation. Sounded pitch black and wise. Wise in things That Were.
But he had to get there first. Had to beat this clock ticking, pulling its load into some unknowable future. Had to get outta this rain.
Highbeams trying to read the snake-curve of the road. The rain confusing the context of space and time. Rain. Here now. Here then. Like a plague.
A sign — The
$50,000. Just ahead. Long afternoons alone with a cold beer — drunk and ready for a nap if he wanted, unless he wanted her around. Everything he wanted, just ahead.
Hours and hours in the dark. No sky, no horizon. Now — wet and repeated endlessly. No shore. Minute by minute. No clouds. Minute after minute. No moon. Hour after hour. Rain. Leviathan.
Out of it. Hot summer complaining. Cactus. Sand. Moon — low and somehow energetic, smiling in satisfaction. Rev. James Theodore Ellison's sermon instantly ended, cut off. Joshua trees, bent old crones, twisted and passing for dead. The yellow spine down the middle of the road, dry, untouched by the merciless storm. Everything here in this exhibition of midnight and the small hours of morning bone-dry.
The hill off to his left. What passes for a road leading to it. Brakes. Left at the big boulder, just where he was told it would be. The tires quieter in the sand. Slow, not wanting to kick up dust. Three minutes late, not wanting to face Mr. Phoenix.
The Pontiac stops in front of three large rocks, sentinels, white as bones. They have no eyes, arms, hands. Still he sees them as dangerous. Something about them pulses. They don't belong here. His finger touches his mother's crucifix under his shirt before passing between them.
He steps from the deep black shadows of the sentinels on to white sand.
Two more steps — ghost steps. He feels he's walking up a long hill toward a great dark house, carrying something obscene and unwanted. He feels slight. Stops. He doesn't know if he should get The Package out of the trunk. Doesn't remember his instructions. Was there a script that disappeared? He'd like to turn back. But he doesn't know the way.
The flash of a match, a scar burning this cell of night. Mr. Phoenix without his dark-brimmed hat, face under it, glowing black edge to black edge. Mr. Phoenix carved out of sharp moonlight. Smiling. Smiling that blasted, open-faced, silent smile that soured his stomach, that could hit you like a shot to the ribs. Mr. Phoenix seated at a table under a canvas pavilion. Saxophones — a pair? — coming from a tape recorder by his feet, playing blind, surging, interstellar meditations, the lost music of some vertical invader awakened from slumber, hungry, hunting. Saxophones screeching and yeowlin' like those fuckin' blacksouled cats had their tails on fire. And his cats, pushing each other aside to lick his hands. Mr. Phoenix singing, 'In the Outer Nothingness, Heavenly Things dancing in the sun. They Dwell on Other Planes.' Empty well-deep voice — thin, stone lips hardly moving — reflecting yesterdays gone with the wind.
