The revolver lays on the passenger seat granting its own kind of happiness-but possibly only the illusion of invincibility.
“I have to pee,” shatters my thoughts, so I pull over. I get out with the kids and scan the area as they run off into the trees.
“Not too far stay within ear shot… stay close enough so I can hear you!” I shout.
Jesse and Mary run back giggling, I don’t question their mirth and back on the road we go. As the sun begins to descend we hit a long clearing and I make out what looks like a farm in the distance.
“Can we see what’s there?” Mary asks.
I give her suggestion a primitive cognitive analysis, I conclude it can’t be worse than elsewhere to sleep. We drive over the dirt road as a low fog of debris floats up behind as we drive up and a fence makes itself visible. A woman—roughly in her 40s, weathered face, auburn hair, and an air of True Grit—stands with a rifle at her hip guarding the entrance.
I slow down and stop within 40 feet, I look back at the kids and say, “Don’t move, if shit…. If things go bad drive away, you can do that right? You have practice.”
I hand them the keys. I put the revolver into my waist band, Killer Swiffer staff in hand. I get out of the car with my hands up tell them we’re friendly while I question my decision to give the kid the car keys. She motions with her hand to step forward, she happens to be smoking and wearing all black-out of place these days. As I walk closer I see that she has some sort of writing, a pamphlet in one hand.
“Are you friendly?” I ask once I am within talking distance.
She remains silent as she motions me ever closer—my nerves became frayed and my heart speeds up. In the air I sense blood, the sun warms my face, I’m close enough to count the crow feet around her eyes, each step crunches dirt underfoot. She extends the pamphlet in a leathery hand, her eyes dim and she nods her head back. I take the pamphlet in addition to a few steps back. My eyes dart between her and the pamphlet. She nods again, motioning at the paper. I begin reading:
Subway
A Jewish man sat by a Jewish woman, I could tell because he wore a golden Star of David, the woman was in traditional attire, or probably it’s more accurate to call it conservative dress—but with flashy bracelets and earrings, a contradiction of theirs. I could see his arousal, interest, and desire but lost in an unknowing nest of what to do. He stared sideways as she bent over and brushed her hair back, she sat back as his lust overcame him. He picks his ear as I wonder if that’s the best he can do. Is he proud of himself, I want to know but I’m too scared to ask. Is that fear a trap, is it none of my business?
I don’t know what to make of this. I flip it to its backside and continue reading. My discomfort grows as I peek back at the woman, she simply stands there, a monolith of unknown origins.
Face
He was strangely handsome, as if his handsomeness was only an inverse refraction of his ugliness. Unorthodox appeal to be sure. A perfect imperfection of various almost just right features, grotesque at a glance and the gestalt of them was clearly a face to admire. English, strong features, and probably on a crew team. Ugly and beautiful are at times one and the same; close interplay of features in which analysis can vary wildly simply because one observer miscalculates or perceives differently a single feature.
“Lady, what the fuck is this?” but she says nothing. “I got two kids in the car, can we stay here tonight?”
She squints in my direction and nods. I look back at the car, Jesse and Mary falling over the steering wheel trying to get a better look. The woman in black opens the gate and motions us in, I drive in slowly it say, “I don’t know who these people are, so stay close.”
“Why are they wearing black?” asks Mary.
I want to tell her they might be a cult, but reconsider, “It’s just, the way they dress,” I fumble.
The gate closes behind us and we drive over to a lot with others cars. Two men approach us as we get out of the car, my hand ready to grab the Swiffer or revolver, probably the revolver. One reaches into his back pocket and I step back ready for anything but he pulls out a notepad.
On the pad he writes: Where did you come from?
“Some town not too far from here, we’ve just been driving for some time now.”
Are those your children?
“In a manner of speaking I suppose they are,” I look back at them, they look cute and I feel a warmth envelop my heart.
You can spend the night here, only one.
“Alright, thank you.”
They take us round the compound, or commune, or cult base. I was surprised to see that not all of the people here were silent or wore black. A large fat white man with overalls strides past smelling of labour, shovel over his shoulder. Shacks are spread out around us in organic fashion—some mobile homes with personal decorations, others tin shacks hastily put together. Hippy types dance around a fire, naked people lying unconscious nearby, others shouting, but they seem semi-content. As we kept walking Mary and Jesse were glued to my sides holding my hands.
“I don’t like it here,” Mary said.
“Me neither,” Jesse replied.
I look to comfort them as we pass a naked man being paddled by a woman wearing a nun’s outfit. I want to laugh but I only find befuddlement. We near what I would likely call the center of this community, a group of people sitting cross legged-their eyes narrowed, focusing intently.
“Who are they?” I ask our tour guides.
The bigger fellow writes: Jedis. I don’t question this, at this point if they aren’t trying to kill me or cover me in shit I am okay with it. Suddenly Steady as She Goes by the Raconteurs starts playing over a loud speaker. In the air I smell reefer and hear people yelling, I pick up Jesse and we keep walking with our guides. From what I can tell this place has one entrance—the rest is barbed wire fence. They seem to have their own water and it doesn’t seem to have any central authority; unless the people in black run the show. We get close to a tiny house and the men write: Tonight you stay here now you work.
To the left of the house a man is shackled to a tree. “Help me god damn it,” he faintly whispers.
“Why is he chained there?” I ask our kind patrons.
He helped Samson cut his hair is all they write.
I tense up realizing we’ve entered a new kind of place.
“What do I need to do?” I ask.
Leave kids follow.
“Where I go they go,” I say.
They glance at each other, then the small one nods at me. We walk to a larger house near the outskirts away from the “city” activity. We walk to a house—old Victorian style with books scattered over the floor and oil-paintings hang from the walls. They motion me over to sit in a chair at a desk. Opposite me sits a woman with blond hair, glasses from the 70s, and dressed in black slowly giving herself lung cancer.
“Welcome to our humble little oasis. I hope you find it suitable for the evening. Sarah let you in because she deemed you worthy, not everyone here was let in for the same reason. Do not ask me any questions, you simply answer mine and you can stay here without trouble,” she says this all coldly and yet she betrays some leeching desire to know something.
“Ask away ma’am. I’m just glad to find a safe place to sleep,” I say as the kids begin to explore the room we’re in.
“How many people have you killed?” she says as she lights her second cigarette.
“None, haven’t needed to, we’ve been quick on our feet, and our wits match that speed,” I smirk, feeling somewhat clever.