THE SMELL OF CHERRIES
by Jeffrey Goddin
Since that always-popular question: “Where do you get your ideas?” has been asked of authors probably since the first caveman started scribbling on his walls, it’s always a relief when some author manages to produce a coherent answer. “The Smell of Cherries,” according to Jeffrey Goddin, “is blatantly autobiographical, if somewhat romanticized. It derives from a period some years ago when I had to do security work to make ends meet—but it was fun. To keep myself awake on eight- or twelve-hour all-night shifts I’d fantasize about just what manner of bizarre things could take place in such a setting. On some nights the phenomenal world kicked in a few ideas of its own.”
Jeffrey Goddin is a native Indianan, born in a small town there on July 7, 1950 and currently living in Bloomington. He describes himself as a “basically rural type, fond of rare books, botany, woods, rivers, target shooting and moths.” Goddin has had other stories in small press publications such as Space & Time, November, and Potboiler; he has written a biobibliographical study of Lafcadio Hearn and professes a fondness for Edwardian/Victorian writing. At present he has more short fiction and a couple of nature essays upcoming, and there are novels in progress.
Taylor had never been in the army. Too young for Korea, he’d pulled a high number during the Vietnamese shindig. But he liked guns, and he liked excitement of the low-key variety. This might explain why he still found security work mildly interesting, even though he’d almost had his car shot up on an industrial espionage job, and had had to wrestle a coked-out robber to the floor on a pawnshop beat.
The problem with Taylor was, he was a romantic, and more or less incapable of taking orders from anyone on an eight-hour basis. This was probably the reason that what he’d regarded as merely a stopgap job on the way to better things was heading into its second year.
Now, near midnight, driving down a narrow river road on the Indianan side of the Ohio across from Louisville, he was humming softly to himself. He looked forward to a night of sipping spiced coffee and watching the perimeter of a small trucking company for intruders.
This was a holiday job. Happy Thanksgiving. He’d never done the Coleman trucking shift before. All he knew about Coleman was that they had trouble keeping guards on it. The guards got spooked, for some reason. This, too, made the shift mildly attractive.
The lights of Jeffersonville were fading in the distance. Night closed in around the inverted cones of his headlights. Skeletal November trees lined the road, with now and again a car parked by the roadside, interior lights on, kids smoking dope or drinking with the radio throbbing.
Nice, calm, dark road. But Taylor had a slight uneasiness this night, a new feeling, as if in some way he were going into battle. And a part of him liked the feeling.
He passed a stretch of river, distant lights, then the road ran back inland. Now on the left a series of large buildings came up, set well away from the road. A few, but only a few, of the buildings showed light.
Taylor remembered that Coleman’s lay along the edge of a large World War II military base, now mostly empty barracks space, a seldom-used proving ground with a skeleton administrative staff.
Almost there. He saw the red eyes of the reflectors marking the entrance to the wide staging lot, a dozen or so trailers ranged around the perimeter waiting for drivers. At the rear of the lot he recognized the El Camino of the day guard.
On a whim, he killed his lights. He accelerated a little, then let the car coast up beside the El Camino, which was facing to the rear.
It was one of those minor precognitions, like when he’d known that the next guy to walk into the pawnshop was the one he’d have to deal with. He’d also known in some strange fashion that the duty guard in the El Camino would be sleeping, and he was right.
The driver’s head was thrown back, a cap pulled across his eyes. Taylor rolled down his window, smelled the cool country air, a scent of dead leaves and earth. He was tempted to blow his horn to wake the shift cop, but he didn’t.
Funny, the man was talking to himself in his sleep. In the half-light, half-shadow of the interior, his face was contorted. He was talking quickly, then suddenly he screamed.
The man’s eyes shot open. Immediately he saw Taylor, and his hand was halfway to the gun on the seat when he recognized him.
“Snuck up on me, you bastard!”
“Any kid could have. It’s a wonder you still have tires. Must have been some dream you were having!”
Brewster laughed. “Hope I don’t have any more like it. Dreamed I was sitting right here in my Hillbilly Cadillac and some fucking monsters were creeping up on me out of the woods over there.”
Inadvertently, Taylor looked over to the darkly wooded perimeter. A full moon made the nearer trees stand out starkly, dark shadows beneath. He could almost see things moving in there.
“ ’Course, you’re the one they’re waitin’ for.”
Taylor shook his head. “Your sense of humor hasn’t improved since the G.E. job, leaving that dead cat by the first keystop…”
“Hey, it gets better.” Brewster consulted his watch. “Shit, past midnight, gotta haul, my momma’s waitin’.”
“One thing,” said Taylor, reaching for the walkie-talkie that Brewster handed him through the window, “I hear you have trouble keeping people on this shift, why?”
“Tales gettin’ to ya? Hell if I know. As far as action goes, don’t think anybody ever tried to hit this place. Nice and quiet and dead dull, out in the sticks like this. Maybe that’s it. City boys get lonesome. See ya.”
Brewster slammed the Camino into low, shot gravel across the lot as he took off. Taylor watch the red tail lights wink at the turn and disappear up the road toward Jeffersonville.
The beginning of a twelve-hour shift. A good time, as far as Taylor was concerned. He climbed out of the car, stretched, pulled out his shotgun, and walked across the loose gravel to the perimeter at the back of the lot.
To the left, the woods; to his rear, the road. Ahead was an empty field of autumn weeds, with a few desultory crickets chiming under the full moon and, very far away it seemed, the nearest of the abandoned barracks.
The night was quiet, so still. He took a deep breath of cool air, turned around.
He could see his old Chevy quite clearly in the moonlight. Someone was standing beside it.
Taylor’s nerves froze. He was an experienced guard. He had a twelve-gauge automatic shotgun with deer slugs under his arm. Yet there was something about the tall, apparently male figure beside his car that made him dizzy with fear. And there was only one thing to do about it.
He began to walk slowly back across the lot, the shotgun in his hands. It seemed to take a very long time. With each step, the figure was slightly clearer. It was a man, bareheaded, wearing a loose overcoat, facing away from Taylor, peering into the car.
Taylor suddenly remembered that, like an idiot, he’d left the keys in the ignition. All this dude had to do was climb in and drive away. He began to run, holding the shotgun across his chest.
He was quite close. The man must have heard him, but he didn’t move. Fifteen, ten yards. Taylor slowed to a walk, brought the gun up in one hand, his flashlight in the other.
“You, don’t move!” he yelled.
The figure didn’t move. Five yards, four, three. He could see the fellow clearly now, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched into the old khaki raincoat, a bald spot on the top of his head.
“Take your hands out of your pockets, real slow, and turn around.”