Dream Lover & Other Tales E-Book

Rj Cook

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Glint: A young man commits a murderous deed and has to flee back home. His only choice is to hitchhike the entire way, but fate has other plans for him.

Dream, Lover: When Adam Hacker stays overnight at a manor in a quest for the supernatural, history and the paranormal blend in unexpected ways.

Ben Franklin's Dream: In his waning years, Ben Franklin participates in his country's flagstaff event: the Constitutional Convention. However, due to his advanced years he frequently falls asleep in his chair. As he sleeps, he dreams and relives the high points of his extraordinary life as he remembers them, not exactly as history recorded them.

The Mayor's Cow: Joanie and her brother James live with their mother. One thing they enjoy doing together is a Sunday drive through the wooded foothills of northern New Jersey. On this particular Sunday, with James at home and her Aunt Mary aboard, they encounter a stray animal that creates a memory she will cherish forever.

Leseprobe

Dream Lover and Other Tales

RjCook

Copyright (C) 2016 RjCook

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover Design by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Glint

I can't get my mind to stop, can't get my thoughts to shut up even for a moment. Seems I'm in a cranial war with myself, battling the depression that is trying so earnestly to get over the wall I've built inside. When you've fought as long and as hard as I have there is no considering surrendering. It's all or nothing. If and when I lose it, it will be total, complete.

I reach into my backpack for the hooded sweatshirt I'm now happy I decided to take with me. It fits snuggly over the two pullover tees and long-sleeved button work shirt I'm wearing, along with a pair of blue sweatpants over my brown cargo shorts. The Nevada desert is cold at night, not a place to sleep of my choosing but this is where my ride dropped me off. “Tempest” he called himself, not sure if that was his name or just a label he grew up with. Picked me up back in California, just outside of Berkeley, said he had a place in San Francisco and was going to visit his son who lived with his ex somewhere in southern Nevada. Wasn't really interested in his life story but a ride is a ride.

Hitch-hiking really sucks, you know? People think it's dangerous, or its romantic and mysterious, the life of the wanderer, the road warrior traveling from and to points unknown. Bullshit. It's mostly boring, standing on the side of a road for hours on end, being hassled by cops or assholes in cars who get a thrill by chucking soda cans or whatever at you as they race by. But unfortunately sometimes it's necessary. Like now, for me. I need to get back east, to Jersey, and I don't have much money and there is no one to turn to for help.

California living was a bust, living in a flea bag motel, unable to find a decent job, and then some shit came down that made me pack up what I could carry and head east. A sleeping bag, three shirts, a hoodie, pair of shorts and sweatpants, a small hand towel with a map of the State of New Jersey imprinted on it, an empty cloth bag, “Speed”, a paperback novel by William Burroughs, and my Italian Stiletto switchblade I took as payment for a few ounces of weed I was helping some dude unload. He didn't want it, said they were illegal. Funny, I thought, the guy is selling weed here in Berkeley, 1974, and he is worried about carrying an illegal blade. Sucker is sharp, though, and it snaps out quicker than you can blink. Guess it's good to have here on the road. You never know. I used it to cut up an apple Tempest gave me.

Anyway, it's cold and dark now. I've found a place to settle down for the night, on the outskirts of a small town. I've spread out my sleeping bag atop a low hill, or sand dune, away from the road. I won't be visible to anyone driving by till the sun comes up, but I'll probably be awake by then. I rarely sleep well on the road.

Sure enough, the next morning I'm up with the sun, the last nighttime star fading in the west. I pack up my things and head into the nearby town. I've decided to live mostly on coffee and buttered rolls on my journey, that will stretch my money out if I can make any decent time getting rides. There is a diner in the middle of town, an old place on the ground floor of an even older hotel. Reminds me of a western saloon I've seen in the movies. It's got a long counter with a line of stools next to it, tables spread out in no particular pattern on the floor. Overhead there are several large wooden fans turning slowly, hanging from a high, tin ceiling.

It's not crowded when I walk in but everyone who is here stops what they're doing and looks up. The place becomes gripped in a ghostly silence. I know I look like a real mess and smell even worse, so can't say I blame them. The guy behind the counter takes my order, hands me my coffee and roll in a paperbag even though I didn't say it was to go. It was, and I turn and leave without looking up. Maybe I should be grateful it's not the wild west any longer, no one coming up to me and saying “we don't cater to your kind in this here town” and pulling me into a gunfight out in the street.

The Nevada sun heats up the day early. I strip down to shorts and a tee shirt, walk to the eastern end of town and find a good spot on the highway to put my thumb out. My first and only ride of the day is a woman named Kathy, middle-aged, and I'm guessing older in appearance than her years. Gives me the impression she was a looker in her younger years but heavy smoking has taken its toll. She has a lit cigarette in her mouth and the car reeks of burnt tobacco.

“Where you headin', hun?” she asks.

“As far east as you can take me” I reply.

“Well then, hop in.” Kathy says, " looks like we'll be keepin' each other company for a bit."

Kathy is nice, but as with most rides the obligatory dissemination of our lives begins. I don't reveal too much of myself to strangers, and a lot of what I do say is made up. I figure might as well embellish my existence in exciting past endeavors: residing in exotic locales, growing up in a large family or alone since I was very young, raised on a farm or in a big city, or in a commune, roadied for Hendrix…I've done it all when relaying my fictional life to that point in time to those kind enough to give me a ride. Kathy's story is straight forward. She's heading to a new job, husband died in Vietnam, no kids. Seems she's got a degree in animal husbandry and an offer from some children's zoo in Nashville. I'm guessing it's not a lucrative career, judging by what she drives and the boxes in the back seat that represent her life. The dashboard has a plastic Jesus on it, right hand up blessing all those cars behind us.

I enjoy my time with Kathy and the day goes by quickly. She gets me as far as a truck stop somewhere in Colorado before she heads south to New Mexico to visit a friend. I thank her for the ride, wish her the best of luck in her new job and head into the truck stop's diner. Haven't eaten since early in the morning so I grab a booth and treat myself to their meatloaf special which looks terrible but really wasn't so bad.

When I'm on the road and in a diner or store, I keep my eyes down. No interest in making eye contact with anyone who might want to start a conversation, asking what it's like living like I do, where are you heading, etc. But this time I can't help but notice the two men at the counter watching me, exchanging whispers, stealing furtive glances my way. A black guy and a white guy, maybe in their forties, and for sure they're truck drivers. Stout, stocky, the white guy is heavier, wearing suspenders over his flannel shirt, the black guy is in good shape, wearing a pullover shirt that reads AB MOVERS across the chest. All I can do is ignore them, finish my meal, pay the check and leave. But ignoring them isn't going to work, they follow me outside. It's dark by this time, the parking lot lights are on, there are a few cars parked near the diner.

“Boy” the white guy yells, “wait up, boy.” I turn to meet them, removing my backpack, holding it in front of me. They come too close for comfort.

“You wanna buy some reefer?” the black guy asks.

“No thanks, guys. I'm good” and turn to walk away. I think it's best I stay in the lights.

“Don't walk away from us, son.” the white guy bellows. “We want to see what you got in that there bag of yours.”

I know I'm in trouble and can see them slowly separating with the intention of one getting behind me. I notice to my left two parked cars with a parking lot light pole between them. Slowly I back between the cars, hoping not to be flanked.

“Look guys, I'm sure you can find a better target to roll. Do I look like I own much of anything?” I plead. Quicker than I anticipated the white guy is upon me.

“Shut your damn mouth, faggot!” he yells and with both hands knocks me to the ground. I'm able to hold onto my backpack but the black guy runs over and attempts to tear it from my grasp. In desperation I reach into the pack for my Stiletto, flick it open and swipe at his shins, cutting through his jeans and slicing open a large gash on his leg. He let's out a blood curdling scream, the white guy backs up in shock and before either can recoup from my defense a few men come storming out of the diner, one screaming “Hey, get away from him.” The two who attacked me take off, the black guy limping, practically dragging his leg behind him and my would-be rescuers choose wisely not to persue them. I close the Stiletto and hide it behind the light pole where it's dark in shadow. The men from the diner never saw it. They help me to my feet and walk me back inside, seating me in a booth near the door.

“We called the police”, one of them said while a waitress brought me a glass of water.

“Great. Thank you” I reply, but it wasn't great. When you're hitch-hiking across the country the less contact you have with the law, the better. And there was my situation back in California…

Two Colorado state troopers show up. Typical, beefy, ex-military types. One sits in the booth opposite me, the name plate on his shirt reads “Connor”, while the other officer leans against the lunch counter. I can't make out the name on his tag. They take my report and description of the two who attacked me.

“Do you require medical assistance” Officer Connor asks.

“No, I'm fine, really.”

“Why do you think they attacked you? What's in the bag they could have wanted?”

“No idea,” I answer, “I don't have much”, but I know where this is heading.

“So you wouldn't mind if we take a look?” the officer leaning against the counter asks.

I was the victim a moment ago, now I'm a suspect. I've been to this dance before.

“If I say no it's going to happen anyway” I answer. The seated cop flashes a shit-eating grin and begins to empty my backpack on the table.

“Is this all you're carrying?” he asks, “Where are you heading?”

“Back home to New Jersey. I'll be on a bus tomorrow”. I know enough to not mention I'm bumming for rides, not sure if it's legal here in Colorado.

“I would have guessed Jersey by this” Connor says as he holds up my small hand towel for his partner to see.

“Never been to New Jersey” partner states, “don't think I'd ever want to from what I hear.”

I keep my mouth shut, not about to proclaim the high points of my home state to these two rednecks. Nothing much to sell anyway and I'm not a martyr. They tell me I can call their headquarters for a copy of the report in a few days and leave. The waitress brings me a cup of coffee, “on the house” she says, “boss told me to tell you, take your time. Rest as long as you need to.”

She is pretty. I thank her and tell her so, I get a wink back and she moves onto the next table. After an hour or so I figure it's time to leave, certain I'm wearing out my welcome and a wink from the pretty waitress is the best I'm going to do. My knife is still where I left it, behind the light pole. I stuff it into my backpack and look for a place to sleep for what's left of the night. Before passing beyond the parked cars I catch a glimpse of myself in a car window, shocked at how thin I've gotten, and forgot that I both cut my long hair short and shaved my beard before leaving California. There's a few days of growth on my face, all the more adding to this straggly look I'm now sporting.

The rest stop has a picnic area where the trucks are parked. I find a picnic table farthest from the parking lot and spread out my sleeping bag beneath it. The night is chilly again and it looks like rain, so I put on every piece of clothing I'm carrying. Before I fall asleep the bad memory of California comes back. I can once again see the clown who let himself into my studio apartment at one in the morning. Recognized him as belonging to the motel's maintenance crew, obviously drunk and obviously not expecting me to be there.

“I, uh…I heard your AC's not working right. Uh…figured I'd check it out” he mumbles, nearly incoherently. He bends to look at my AC which is built low into the wall by my door. I find myself shaking off the cobwebs of deep sleep and quickly find I am flushed with anger, there is a rage inside of me I've never experienced before. This bastard came to rob me, take what was mine. Next to my bed I keep a short iron bar on the advice of my neighbor who told me she's had to use hers in the past.

“SONOFABITCH!” I scream and slam the bar into the side of his head. The force of the blow throws him sideways and he slams his chin on the kitchenette counter. He falls to the floor motionless. “Shit”, is all I can think to say, and remain still, listening for any response to the noise from my neighbors or from anyone who might be outside on the walkway.

Nothing. All is calm. There is no blood, but I've put a large indentation on the right side of his skull. There is no pulse in his neck and I can see he's not breathing. What to do? Call the cops? No way they're going to believe he just walked in on me in the middle of the night, and it's obvious I hit him from behind. I do the only thing I can think of: drag him into the bathroom and dump him into the tub. After a few dozen stealth-like trips to the ice machine in the laundry room he is completely covered in ice. Then it's a matter of getting myself out of there. I cut my hair and shave my beard, decide to leave as soon as possible. The roach motel I lived in didn't even bother to ask for i.d. when I took the room and I paid in cash. Sold my van more than a week ago for food money so there's nothing they have to go on when the body is found. I guessed that wouldn't be for awhile. While it was still dark I walk out to 415, that's where Tempest picked me up, and here I am sleeping beneath this old, wooden picnic table somewhere in Colorado. Life can be a bitch.

The morning sun comes too soon. Dreary, and needing a bathroom I walk back to the truck stop diner. It's a different crew working there, they don't recognize me as the guy who was attacked in the parking lot last night but I'm betting they heard the story. I grab a coffee and buttered roll - thinking I'd like to say goodbye to the cute waitress from last evening but can't now - and head to the highway for my next ride.

For most of the day I've got my thumb out and no luck, daylight is slipping away. I walk a bit down the highway, stop each time I see a vehicle approaching, hoping for the best. I'm thinking this day is going to be a bust, I'm about to give up when just before night fall a pickup truck with two young ladies in it pulls over. They tell me they can give me a ride if I'm willing to ride in the open back. No problem I tell them and climb aboard. They've got some soft luggage strapped down and it makes for a nice pillow. The sun sets slowly in the west behind us, the stars overhead one-by-one become more visible until the night sky is a dazzling display of light. There is one particular formation I focus on: it's a grouping of four stars in the shape of a kite. Always intended to learn what constellation they were part of but never got around to it. They are a bitter part of my life, nonetheless.

The night my mother died, after having suffered in bed for ten years as the result of a stroke, I left her bedside not wanting to be there for her last breath. My sisters and father stood by her, holding her hand while I went outside. The first thing I noticed were these same four stars overhead, it was an unusually clear night sky for New Jersey, and I angrily cursed God for all that was happening. Mom and dad lived with me, my sisters' homes were a distance away. All I could think of was now it was just dad and me and that just wouldn't work. We had no use for each other, always at odds ends over every little thing and now with mom gone and he in his later years, it was expected I would take care of him. So it came as a shock to all of them when I announced I was moving west, to California within a week. I know it made my sisters angry and there was a look of worry in my father's eyes, but no way was I getting stuck with him. I packed up my Dodge van and took what few things I had and left.

While it was still dark the girls pulled off the highway into a clearing next to a lake. They said they needed some sleep, I stayed in the back of the truck where, until the light of the next morning I slept deeply and soundly. Shortly after the sun came up I woke to the girls packing up their sleeping bags, getting ready for the road again. They shared a thermos of orange juice, got me as far as the next exit on the highway where they dropped me off, then they drove north. Once again I was in the middle of nowhere, some place in Nebraska. It was starting to feel as if I'd never get home, no one was expecting me so there was no time-table, and I hadn't thought about where I was going to live when I got back to New Jersey. My father had moved in with one of my sisters and I could only assume they were still angry that I left. It would be no welcoming home the prodigal son, all I could do was worry about it when the time came.

But this morning it looked like my luck was changing. While it was still early, the first car that came upon me stopped. This is going well, I thought, until I got into the now-waiting car. He called himself Butch, drove a rundown dark blue 1964 Rambler. He was a stocky man with a gut that hung over the chain belt strung through the loops of his cuffed blue jeans, black tee shirt too tight for his girth, and black working boots on his feet. Butch had tattoos on both arms, one of them a Marine insignia. His face was shaven, hair short, black and spiked with grease that made it stand straight up. The ashtray in the car was overflowing with cigarette butts and it was all I could do to not gag from the odor. He never asked where I was heading, just started driving, and I quickly became uncomfortable with the piercing stares he shared between me and the road.

After a passing of uncomfortable silence I tried to start a conversation - some remark about the weather, or how there was so little to see here in Nebraska - but Butch just grunted with each remark so I gave up. Further down the highway, after maybe a half-hour of driving, he said he needed to make a call. There was a phone booth at the bottom of the next exit that accessed a one-lane road that ran parallel to the highway. That he knew there was a phonebooth there I found disturbing. I sat in the car and I could see him watching me as he spoke into the phone, giving me the distinct impression it was me he was talking about. Butch returned to the car, he was now sweating, seemed anxious. When he began driving I could see he was avoiding the highway. My instincts kicked in and I reached into the backpack that was on my lap and grabbed hold of my Stiletto. We drove for another five minutes when he suddenly turned down a gravel road that had a wired fence on his side with a line of trees behind it. My side there was a short drop to a small creek that ran alongside the road.

“Wait” I said, “where are we going? I don't want any trouble.” I was sure he could hear what he thought was fear in my voice but I knew the burning cauldron of anger that was growing inside of me. He grabbed my left thigh with his right hand and squeezed.

“Now boy,” he uttered, “we're going to have us some fun. Then I'll drive you to where…”

Without thinking I clicked open my switchblade and with my right hand sliced across the top of his hand on my leg. He screamed in pain. “Mother fucker!” he yelled, “you little cocksucker” and swung at me with his bloody right hand now in a fist, catching me only slightly on the temple as I ducked forward. In one motion I transferred the knife to my left hand and with a forceful arching move I swung beneath his outstretched right arm and drove the blade into his right side below his ribs. Butch screamed loudly in more pain, “Oww! Shit! I'll kill you!” he bellowed and grabbed my hand holding the knife, losing control of the car. The impact of my stabbing forced his foot down in a reflex hard onto the gas pedal, we drove through the wire fence and slammed into a tree.

My backpack protected me from the dashboard but my knees took a beating. Butch didn't do so well. The crash was hard, lifting the rear of the car off the ground for a moment. Smoke and dirt filled the air around us and when it settled Butch was crushed against the steering wheel, barely conscious. He mumbled something but I couldn't make it out. My door wouldn't open so I climbed out the passenger side window but before I did I pulled my knife from Butch's side as he let out a muffled scream. It was difficult to walk with the hit my knees took but I managed. I grabbed my backpack and walked around to the driver's side. Butch was a mess, unable to move, his face bloodied, yet he still continued to play the psychopath.

“I'll…kill…you…fuck.” was what I could make out. How many poor souls has this bastard hurt, I wondered? I scanned both ways up and down the long, gravel road. There was not another car in sight. I put my backpack down and pulled out my hand towel with the Jersey map on it, wrapped the hilt of the Stiletto with the towel and put the blade into the bottom of Butch's neck on his left side where his shoulder and neck met, and I shoved my knife with all I had into his neck and down into his chest. The towel instantly became red with blood but it acted as a shield, preventing his blood from splattering on me.

Butch convulsed violently but only for a few seconds and his physical movements were restricted between the seat and the steering wheel he was wedged against. When he stopped moving I grabbed the blade, keeping the towel between it and my hand, and slowly withdrew my knife from his blood stained neck. While I did that, I leaned into his car, wondering if he could hear me any longer. “Fuck. You.” I whispered into his ear. Using the towel again I wiped his blood off my knife, then dropped the towel to the ground and left it there. Again I scanned the road, still no one in sight. Butch died with his eyes and mouth open, his death gaze staring up at me. I gathered my pack and walked down the gravel road to the end where we turned in from the one-lane road that ran alongside the highway. There I made a right and walked for maybe two miles until I came to a small bridge that ran over a narrow but fast moving river. It was as good a place as any to crash and getting off the road was important. Access to underneath the bridge was easy, and there was a modest patch of dirt and rock that would be my bed until the next morning. I removed my bloody clothes, emptied my backpack and stuffed the remaining contents into the cloth bag. A short distance into the water there were some large stones and finding one I could handle I overturned it and buried my bloody clothes beneath. Using my knife I cut the backpack into pieces and one-at-a-time tossed the remnants into the fast moving water. The backpack's frame I buried in several locations along the bank. When these tasks were completed and I settled down for the night, several police cars past on the bridge overhead, lights and sirens blaring.

I guessed they'd found Butch.

The morning brought cloudy skies but no rain. I cautiously found my way back to the interstate, feeling refreshed after washing in the cold waters of the river. I missed my towel. The highway seemed almost abandoned, the cars were few and far between each other, but I finally did get a ride from a trucker named Tim. Nice enough fellow, driving a large semi, hauling machine parts to a warehouse in Chicago. He shared some dry cereal with me and water that he carried in some gallon bottles behind his seat. Interesting life he'd had: was in the army, served a tour of duty in Germany, never called to Vietnam, owned a farm in Oregon but got busted growing weed. He was able to avoid jail time because of an improper search warrant but says his lawyer took most of what he had, leaving him just enough to buy this rig. Now he picks up long haul jobs, likes to be on his own on the road but occasionally will pick up a hitchhiker for the company. Told him I was grateful.

Chicago was a long way off and soon enough I fell asleep. Tim gently nudged me awake, we were pulled over to the side of the road just before a toll booth. Said he takes the exit beyond the toll and this was the best spot to let me out. I hopped down off his truck, Tim told me there was a diner down the road a few miles and wished me luck before driving off.

It was dark and very late, no way would anyone see me with my thumb out now so I walked the distance to the diner. I grabbed a booth by the front window, ordered an entire meal because I was ravished and took my time eating it knowing I had a bit of a wait before the sun came up. A cop came into the diner, walked to the counter and ordered a coffee. I could see him checking me out, wearing a dirty, buttoned-down workshirt over a pair of sweat pants. He took notice of my cloth bag and sleeping bag on the opposite seat. As he was leaving he gave me a nod hello, slightly tipping his cap at me. I returned the greeting but wasn't comfortable doing so. The cop walked to his patrol car, got on his radio but didn't leave. That was my cue and I motioned for the waitress to give me my check. It took uncomfortably long for her to write me up and I snatched the check from her hand before she could put it down. Whatever the total was didn't matter to me. I threw down a few large bills at the register and hurried out.

But it was too late.

Two more patrol cars came racing up to the diner's entrance. The steps outside ran adjacent to the building, there were no more than four or five stairs down to the parking lot. Four cops in three cars, doors flung open where they crouched behind them, with guns drawn. “Let me see your hands” they yelled, “drop what you're carrying and put your hands on your head!”