Chapter 9:

Michelle

Despite the heat and dust of the desert, Marvelous was comfortable, as comfortable as a kitten in a sock drawer, which is to say, he hadn’t been this happy in some time. He did not think of this happiness. No, in fact, he now realized that happiness is often ruined by nothing more than an examination of it's nature. Like comedy, happiness does not take kindly to inspection.

That is not to say that Marvelous was not aware, for thinking and awareness are not synonymous. To point, he felt. He felt the sun washing over the surprisingly tan surface of his skin, playing over his hairless scalp. He felt the slight breeze, attempting to move the heat, but only succeeding in pushing it about, swirling it around, as there was nothing to replace the heat, except more heat. He also felt secluded, so far away from everyone else—except for Davies, his partner in exile, his fellow castaway. He felt strong and capable, ready to venture through the unchanging wastelands of Nevada’s desert.

Despite Nathan’s cheery outlook and high spirits, Davies was waning. His strength was flagging under the stifling heat and the weight of the meteorite that he refused to relinquish. Nathan noticed the misery surrounding Davies, a misery Davies faced valiantly, a misery that washed over the private as he marched under a sticky sun. Just like Davies, the water was dwindling fast, down to maybe half a gallon. They had one MRE left, and not a good one at that: corned beef. Bleh. He'd make sure that Davies got it—and if Davies pushed and tried to share, he’d make comments about the Irish and how he couldn’t stand anything about those potato-eaters (even though it wasn’t true).

Davies trudged along the tracks of the jeep. He pushed one foot in front of the other as he followed the tread marks to the horizon. The path turned, the mountains now to the right, and Davies thought of everything he couldn’t have. He wanted an ice cold bottle of beer, sweating in the sun. He wanted a swimming pool, and a pint of ice cream. He wanted great waves to crash upon this sand and turn it into an ocean. He wanted towels and margaritas and a pool float. He wanted a lake of Gatorade. He wanted… But all he got was the desert, and the only water was hot, and sloshing about the bottom of the jug on Nathan’s shoulder.

Strange, Davies thought, this reversal in roles. Initially, he was the one fresh to the desert. He had all the supplies: water, food, clothes, sun block, aviator glasses; while Nathan was dirty, naked, and thirsty; having come straight from space. But as they marched, Nathan became stronger and talked more. He was relaxed and easy, unbothered by the elements, and unconcerned about their dwindling food and water. Davies wondered if those slumped shoulders might actually manage to take on the world; only, Nathan’s shoulders were no longer slumped. It seemed the more they walked, the stronger Nathan got, and the more Nathan talked, the more it was Nathan supporting Davies through the desert—and not the other way around.

Yet, when Davies had all, he had shared his supplies willingly, and now, as Davies’s strength waned, he freely drew from Nathan. It wasn’t a question of whether or not Nathan was strong enough to endure. Either way, Nathan would make it through this ordeal, even if he had to carry his new friend, and his silly rock It was a question of whether or not Davies could last that long. For now, Davies refused to surrender. This was just the suck until they found the highway. And then it was only about another ten miles.

Davies asked questions so Nathan might distract him with yet another story. Nathan went from suspicious, to amenable, and was now downright gabby. He spoke of his days fighting, trying to identify just what he loved about it, exploring exactly why he had to leave it, and wondering what else he could do to occupy his time now that he had retired. Davies threw around suggestions, offered pointers, interjected with concerns, or simply listened in silence. Somewhere in these conversations, Nathan mentioned Michelle—and it wasn’t long before he mentioned her again, and again. Davies felt obliged to ask, but when it came to Michelle, Nathan clammed up. Davies asked over and over, partly because Nathan refused to answer, and also because he could think of nothing else to ask. It was difficult to come up with anything in this sweltering heat. “Was she your girlfriend?” Davies continued. “It’s only fair you tell. I told you about Erin,” he said as he scuffed along.

Nathan offered nothing but silence.

With the world bleaching under the noonday sun, Davies trudged along the Jeep’s tracks, wanting—no, needing distraction. “So this Michelle...” Davies pestered. “Was she your lover? Or maybe you just wanted her to be your lover?” The prize-fighter used her name so very casually, which suggested a great deal of familiarity—and platonic friendships weren’t nearly as interesting as the complexities of romance, subtle and otherwise. Davies hoped it was fire and thunder, the great unrelenting temper and passion of lovers that couldn’t get enough of each other, because nothing says good drama quite like a storming romance. Still, she could be anyone. “Is she your sister?” he asked, wondering how he might be wrong. “Is she you’re mother?”

Nathan smirked as Davies continued to guess, then finally broke. He told his story and as he did, Davies realized that many of his stories started with him jumping off of something. In this story, that something was Mr. Lambert’s truck, which happened to be moving.

Mr. Lambert was a neighbor, a goodly fellow, with an old truck—but that’s putting the cart before the horse, so to speak. This tale started with another neighbor, one that always dropped by rather unexpectedly—and when she did, she’d inevitably kiss poor Nathan hundreds and hundreds of times, just short of eternity; her sticky, over-applied, lip gloss getting everywhere. To accompany this embarrassment, the Widow Lorenz offered up common platitudes. “Look at you, just look at you!” she’d proclaim in a shrill voice. “You’re so handsome! The girl that gets you will be lucky indeed!”

She carried on so much so that the waitress living above Nathan used to tease him about it. “Look at you, oh, just look at you!” the girl would say as she tramped down the stairs, with an apron tied about her waist—or dolled up for another date with one of a long line of losers—the poor girl. “Keep it up, boy, and you might find yourself married to the widow!” she’d tease, then stick her tongue out before she turned and wagged her ample butt.

As if the pinching, kissing, and proclamations weren’t enough, Widow Lorenz would make Nathan sit and talk. At first he didn’t have anything to say. What do you say to an elderly lady that you barely know, especially when you’re nine, and you know that everything you say can and will be used against you? But she kept him sitting there, and he was forced to endure her insipid tales.

His mother was no help. During these internments she allowed, even encouraged this terrible torture. After the Widow should leave, Anna begged him to put up with it. The widow never had children of her own, only miniature poodles. Admittedly, his mother was far more pressed upon by the old lady, as she had to talk to the widow for hours, patiently waiting for her to leave of her own accord, unwilling to simply kick her out. His mother was in no position to do more, and under no obligation to do anything at all. Still, she would do no less than visit with the widow until she’d had her fill. Anna felt it was her cross to bear, and hoped it would keep her from becoming such a momentous bore in her own old age.

That wasn’t to say Nathan would simply roll over and be one of the Widow’s lapdogs. He eventually figured the best way out of this predicament was to tell Widow Lorenz whatever was on his mind, so long as it didn’t get him trouble with his mom. Despite how intimate this inevitably made her—and the girl upstairs, due to the widow’s uproarious repetition of everything he said—it was a sound strategy, as it offered him an early release; that is, once she’d expanded his statements and stories with long-winded retellings of her own adventures, always punctuated with some bit of inedible morality tacked to the ending. Then he only had to suffer a bit of inquisition before his blessed release. What did you learn? How do you feel about this? Do you see what life is trying to teach you?

Oh, the curse of open-ended questions! He’d shrug and attempt to leave, but she couldn’t let these precious life lessons slip by unheeded. He had to feel something, she would say; then she would keep him until she was satisfied with suitable analysis, which wouldn’t have been so bad if he wasn’t forced to fish for what she thought was the proper sentiment. He often gave her a thought-out answer only to receive a head shaking and “Tsk, tsk. No, no. Not at all.” Eventually, he learned that she wanted to hear only what she had already said, and Nathan would dig through the insipid and often contradictory banalities he’d heard ad nauseam.

Despite her self proclaimed powers of deduction, Nathan found it interesting that the Widow Lorenz never noticed how tormented he was by her pseudo-psychotherapy and persistent lesson-learning. Over the years, he hated her visits more and more—and felt guilty for doing so. After all, she was just a lonely widow. With time, Nathan realized just how much he learned from the Widow Lorenz. Admittedly, little of it was what she had attempted to teach. Instead, he learned how to minimize and also avoid those that he could not simply ignore.

Which is where Mr. Lambert’s truck came into the story. One particular afternoon, Nathan was returning home after a tepid day of elementary school. The Widow Lorenz had once again dropped by and Nathan would have stepped directly into her ambush—if he hadn’t been shocked out of his musings by the Widow’s shrill laughter. For a second he stood dumbly in front of Mr. Lambert’s gigantic Ford, parked out in front of their apartment building, when it struck him that the neighbor’s truck offered perfect cover. Nathan climbed into the bed of the truck, tucking himself up against the cab in a fetal position. Content to be anywhere but home just now, he counted the ribs of the bed several times, and then, using the detritus that littered it, Nathan devised two armies and deployed them across the ridges, as he lay on his side, unseen.

Nathan would have stayed there in the truck all afternoon, and possibly into the night—staging mock battles between the Sultan’s well trained armies and a mass of revolting peasantry—attempting to wait out the widow; except that Mr. Lambert needed a drink, and a few games of pool. Nathan didn’t realize what was occurring until Mr. Lambert opened the door to the truck and stepped inside. As the engine turned over—as the Sultan’s cavalry caused wanton slaughter among the poorly armed uprising, while his infantry was ground to powder under the sheer number of their opposition—Nathan considered making a quick exit. Instead he stayed where he was, simply too petrified of Widow Lorenz to leave the truck as it pulled away from their apartments.

The truck began down a residential street. The movement of the truck shook Nathan’s current battle to bits. The armies intermingled and helped each other as they could, hoping only to survive this thunderous quaking brought upon them by the gods. So many peasants and soldiers died, thrown about like peas on a trampoline. With each bounce of the truck, Nathan grew more anxious. Finally, Mr. Lambert braked at a stop sign, several blocks from their apartment. Nathan knew an opportunity to escape was at hand. He paused for only a second before he committed himself. Abandoning the battle, he sprang up, just as Mr. Lambert started to pull the truck through the intersection. Nathan dashed to the end of the bed and jumped to hurdle the gate. He would have made it easily, landing a bit heavy in the street, perhaps skinning a hand or knee—except Mr. Lambert saw Nathan Marvelous in the back of his truck and instinctively slammed on the brakes. Nathan’s jump came up short. Inertia carried him back and the truck simply stopped in it’s tracks. His left shin slammed into the raised gate of the truck, and he tumbled out with a bang and a thump. The Sultan’s army and the newly subdued peasantry watched in horror as the juvenile god of their world tumbled forever from view.

Caught low on his legs by the gate, the young boy pitched forward, spun head over heels, and smacked his head on the trailer hitch (which should have killed him). He landed on his side in an awkward heap as pain burst through his melon. Immediately, he thought of Tommy Anderson, whom he saw break his wrist when he fell off the monkey bars and landed a little funny. Poor Tommy wore a cast for nearly a month. He felt so bad about it, that Nathan signed the cast twice. Would it be that bad? He thought of other injuries he’d witnessed. Megan Anderson cut ribbons down her face when she fell out of tree into a patch of rose bushes. Ki Rayh ran into the tetherball pole, giving himself a concussion, and didn’t come back to class for nearly a week. Clay Mitchell threw up after his little brother sucker-punched him—and this seemed so much worse than all that! Nathan wondered what kind of a cast they might put on him. Would he have to endure the Widow’s stories as she signed it? Who else would sign it? Would James sign it twice?

Distracted by his musings, it took Nathan a moment to realize the most bizarre of things, that he didn’t hurt, not even a little. Oh, it all hurt at first. Hitting his head inspired bursts of light and pain—but now, as he lay on the asphalt—the pain was gone. There wasn’t less of it. No. It was completely gone. He knew he should be crying, that pain should course through his entire body, but it didn’t, and he wasn’t. Although he’d scared himself terribly, he felt as good as ever! Better actually, since the pain had come and gone, and in the process reminded him just how healthy he was!

“Hey!” called Mr. Lambert as he stepped out of his truck. “If that don’t beat all!” he muttered, since he’d just seen Anna Marvelous’ little boy tumble out the back of his truck—and from where he sat, it looked really bad. Pretty little Anna Marvelous, he thought as he scratched his head. She’d be furious, knowing he’d just hospitalized her little boy.

Mr. Lambert approached the back of his truck, expecting to find the child bloody and crying. He just hoped the stupid kid wasn’t dead. Why was he in the back of the truck anyway?!

Nathan could tell Mr. Lambert wasn’t happy by the tone of his voice. He didn’t recognize the concern and fright in his words, the fear of Anna’s poor opinion. Nathan only recognized the negativity, the element of anger. He expected Mr. Lambert would drag him home and get him in trouble with his mom. On top of that he’d have to deal with the Widow Lorenz. Well, Nathan, what did you learn about messing around in moving vehicles? What did we learn about respecting other people’s property?

There had to be an alternative, and so Nathan jumped to his feet and ran like the wind, bounding across asphalt and grass, pushing through bushes. Nathan didn’t plot a course, he simply got away.

Mr. Lambert stood in the intersection, confused. He’d nearly killed Anna’s boy, who had beat off like a spooked cat. Mr. Lambert leaned against the truck trying to decide what to do next. Should he tell Anna Marvelous and hope the boy was fine? Did he keep this little secret knowing that most likely Nathan would also? Did he go after the boy? If he did, it’d cut into his time playing pool and drinking beers down at Ted's... Was that blood on the trailer hitch?!

Mr. Lambert was all for beer and pool, but he’d heard somewhere that adrenaline does amazing things for people—especially the young—and that if Nathan was badly hurt, it might not show until the adrenaline played out. When hunting, this was how deer ran after suffering a killing blow, and then, far from where they were wounded, the deer dropped dead. If this was the case, what were the chances Nathan would have somebody to take care of him?

Hoping he might not have to tell Anna Marvelous, that he might find the boy good and healthy despite all his worries, Mr. Lambert got back in his truck and went searching for Nathan. Where did kids go at that age? He had no idea. He drove in the direction Nathan ran, and after a few blocks, hung a left. He never did find the boy, but gave it a good hour of drive time—before heading to Ted's, where he drank until he forgot the child altogether—then won his first three games, and made eighty bucks with his effort.

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