Dianne could never, never see a wrong without at least trying to take some kind of action, even if all that action amounted to was pointing out to someone that the wrong was being committed. I made her believe that this annoyed the hell out of me, which in truth it did—not because it was another way of her proving how moral she was, but because I admired the courage it took to always do it, and in my admiration found that same conviction to be sadly lacking in myself, which irritated me, so more often than not I took it out on her in a series of little cruelties that ran the gamut from deliberately ignoring her to going out of my way to be a pain in the ass. I was a real prince of a hubby, me.
So the question: What would Dianne do?
She’d tell someone, that’s what.
I looked at the kid in the booth, then back at my car, then at my feet. Staring at my feet has been the source of many an epiphany over the years.
I was surprised to discover that I was genuinely pissed at what that girl was doing back there.
Next thing I know, I’m standing at the booth and waiting for the kid to look up from the issue of Guitar Player that he’s reading. Steve Morse was on the cover. I like Steve Morse’s music a lot. Perhaps I could use that as an ice-breaker if the little shit ever acknowledged my existence.
Finally I cleared my throat, and without looking up from the page he was reading, the kid reached out and pressed on the intercom button: “Yeah?”
“There’s a girl about a mile back who’s vandalizing some roadside memorials.”
“You don’t say?” He looked at me with the kind of unctuous, smarmy smirk that doesn’t try to mask the wearer’s amused apathy, and instantly makes you want to step on their face and grind your heel.
Keeping a civil tongue, I quickly explained to him what I’d seen, and where, and finished by suggesting that he call the police or sheriff.
That smirk still on his face, he nodded, flipped to a new page in the magazine, and said: “Anything else I can do for you?”
I tried, Dianne; give me that much. I tried.
“Yes,” I said. “Where are your restrooms?”
This got an audible sigh. He closed the magazine, stood up (which seemed to be a source of great physical strain), walked over to a cabinet on the wall, opened the door, and removed a key that was attached to a chain that was soldered to a piece of metal half the length of my forearm. Returning to his stool (I saw now that one of his legs was encased in a metal brace of some kind), he valiantly struggled back into position, tossed the key into a drawer, then shoved it out to me.
Removing the works from the drawer, I waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, I used the end of the key to tap on the glass. Hearing it, he paused in his reading, sighed even more loudly than before, and (still not looking up at me) said : “Yes?”
I couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d last in this job if it actually required him to step outside and work for his paycheck, metal leg brace or no. “This does me no good unless you tell me where the restrooms are.”
He pointed to his left. That’s all the more I was going to get from him as far as directions went; past left, I was on my own.
I nodded, turned away, muttered, “If I don’t return, let it be on your conscience,” and made my way around the left side of the building.
The restrooms, as it turned out, were at the back of the building, which meant I had to go left, walk the length of the place, then turn right. Night vision goggles would have helped me locate the door quicker, since the back of the place—despite the glaring lights from the pump islands—was mostly in shadow, but I’m pleased to say that I didn’t have to add a stop at an all-night department store for a new pair of pants to my travels.
I found the restroom, unlocked the door, and made it inside.
I have been in kitchens in peoples’ homes that weren’t as clean as this restroom. It not only smelled brand-new, it looked brand-new: the floor tile was shiny, the faucets sparkled, the mirrors were streak-free, someone had decorated the wood-paneled walls with framed photographs and old movie posters, there was none of that moist, old-urinal-cake stink that usually permeates service station bathrooms (the urinals and toilets looked as if they’d never been used), and there was no trash in the receptacles—not a paper towel, wad of chewing gum, empty soda can, nothing.
I almost felt like I was defiling the place when I finally stepped up to the urinal, but an aching bladder will diminish the sanctity of even the Sistine Chapel; yes, you may quote me on that.
Standing there, I looked around at the movie posters and photographs. I was expecting stuff like Gone with the Wind and pictures of New York at night—your standard, safe, pleasant, nothing-to-offend-anyone type of public restroom milieu—but instead what I got were posters for Two-Lane Blacktop, Vanishing Point, Dirty Mary and Crazy Larry, The Driver, and (the one that made me laugh out loud) Death Race 2000. Whoever decorated in here had a thing for racing and car-chase movies.
The photographs were of people standing beside heavily tricked-out or racing cars; a couple looked to have been taken in the winner’s circle at NASCAR or Formula One races (I don’t know the difference between the two, it’s all just roaring engines and squealing tires to me).
Then I turned my attention back to the business at hand and caught a glimpse of the framed photograph hanging over my urinal.
Have you ever heard someone say, It scared the piss out of me? Well, if there’s an expression for the opposite bladder-related physical reaction to being frightened, it pretty much describes what happened when I saw that photograph, because everything south of my personal Mason-Dixon line came to sudden, dribbling halt; it felt like my bladder would have slammed everything into reverse had it been capable.
I was looking at a very striking woman surrounded by dozens of children, all of them smiling the type of forced, could-you-hurry-up-and-take-the-picture-puh-leeeeze smile that we’ve all plastered on our faces at one time or another as suited the occasion.
This wasn’t a copy of the picture from Miss Driscoll’s foyer—it was the same photograph, in the same frame, with the same crack in the glass running down the center of her face.
Of all the thoughts that could have gone through my mind, these are the three things that occurred to me at that moment: 1) the hulking shadows in my apartment had not used any doors or windows to break in or to leave; 2) another shadow had closed the door to Miss Driscoll’s apartment from the inside after Dobbs had made certain it locked behind us; and, 3) if these shadows could just pop in and out when- and wherever they wanted, who was to say they couldn’t bring something along…like, say, this picture? Take a good look: this is me, not realizing I’m screwed. This is me, not realizing I’m screwed while still holding my dick in my hand. And dribbling piss onto my shoes. A moment of great personal dignity that I felt compelled to share. I feel it’s brought us closer.
Backing away from the urinal, zipping up, and wanting to look over my shoulder to see if someone or something were standing behind me, I found I couldn’t take my eyes off that photograph. There were probably, oh, at least one or one-and-a-half very good, logical, reasonable scenarios to explain how this picture had followed me to this place, but at that moment I couldn’t think of any that didn’t involve bulky shadows. And even if I could have, all of them would have shared the same ending, anyway; me getting the hell out of Dodge right now.