Falderal

By A. M. Langston

After a nasty blow to the head, Bert can't understand what anyone is saying. What's worse, is all of his friends now think he's dying. What do you do with a friend who doesn't have much time left? Road trip! It starts as a quirky adventure, but quickly morphs into a surreal disaster, brimming with death and confusion. Bert's just along for the ride as new friends and drinking buddies try to tie up loose ends of their own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. M. Langston
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393338512

A. M. Langston

A. M. Langston is a restless millennial searching for meaning inside the wires and waves that make up the technology surrounding us during our every waking minute. Born in Illinois in 1988 and raised across the United States, he has called New Mexico home since 2004. "Couch to Couch, Never Leaving the House", Langston's first poetry collection, was published on June 21st, 2017.

Book preview

One

BERT COULD SIT IN HIS boxers and he could write. It was the only hobby that still made him happy. He flung a worn pastel quilt onto the shore of the lake. His typewriter sat on the quilt. Bert tapped away. It was a portable Royal Dart, black. The paint was chipped off in some places, showing rust. The finish on the typewriter matched Bert’s hair and eyes. There were a countable number of gray strands mixed in with the rest of his hair. Lines on his face would stay behind after he laughed or squinted. People always said he had a cheerful disposition. Strangers enjoyed approaching him. Despite those niceties, the writing was what got him through his destined solitude. Bert wasn’t dim-witted, depressed, or hateful. His loneliness was the lingering result of an injury that ruined his own capabilities and soured social interaction. When anyone spoke to Bert, since he was in the accident, he couldn’t understand them. Other people's words sounded like gibberish.

Bert’s friends believed he was dying. Doctors told them he was dying. Because everyone thought he was dying, he was in Patagonia State Park, Arizona. It wasn’t an overnight trip to the lake. His two closest friends, Durham and Khaki, were driving him to Seattle. Bert had seen quite a bit of the United States, but never the Pacific Northwest. Back when he was able to effectively communicate, he expressed interest in visiting that part of the United States.

Durham and Khaki were not great friends to Bert. They were his only friends. Despite that, Durham and Khaki were hoping to be Bert’s social lubricant. The two young men wanted to help him truly enjoy the trip. They planned on taking their time heading up to the Emerald City.

They felt he needed a push in the right direction. Everyone he knew had begun to believe he was dying, so they all planned the trip for the three young men.

Khaki moped in the driver’s seat through most of Southern New Mexico. Durham felt obliged to show Bert the time of his life. North of Las Cruces, they pulled off the road into a Border Patrol checkpoint. They followed a line of cars up to the guard shack.

American citizens? the guard asked.

As the car left the checkpoint, Durham grabbed a small bottle of vodka from his bag. He poured shots down his and Bert’s throats. The pair’s heavy drinking enraged Khaki.

You need to cut that shit out, Durham. I wanna have a good time, too. he scolded.

Dude, this is why they call us drinking buddies. We fuckin’ drink.

Khaki spent the last few hours at the wheel before Arizona calculating how much gas money they needed to make Seattle. The pair were so hung over in Tucson that they didn’t leave the hotel room for two days. Khaki became furious at the tremendous waste of everyone’s time. Once he figured out how much the fuel would cost, he pulled all the cash from their wallets. He separated out what they would need to make the round trip. He spent the rest on silver, coral, and turquoise jewelry at a small shop. The owner of the shop was an overweight, well dressed Native American woman. He lugged the bag of necklaces and rings back to their hotel room and filled Durham's backpack with it.

Bert was still asleep when Durham found out about what Khaki had done with their money. He'd reached into the back pouch of his backpack to fumble around for his toothbrush. Not recognizing the items, he felt, he pulled out a fist full of beautiful chains and stones. He whispered as loud as he could, scolding his friend with wide eyes and booze scented teeth.

What about money for food? Durham asked, passing bills back and forth between his hands, counting them.

Fuck if I know, Khaki responded, We can steal what we need, I guess.

Steal it? From whom are we going to steal a month’s worth of food? We’re going to be in a different city almost every night!

I didn’t think about food, okay?

Imbecile! All we have is a single box of granola bars. They aren’t even flavored! I have to eat nothing plain granola bars for a month now! You don’t get any.

Fine. I guess that’s fair. Khaki mumbled, defeated.

We should head back to El Paso...

They both quieted down as Bert shifted in bed. When they’d started arguing, they forgot he was there. Bert sat up, rubbed the back his neck, then looked at them both wearing a puzzled expression. Durham and Khaki were both clad in an inconceivable number of necklaces. Adorned upon each one of their fingers was a ring. Their necks bent forward like tree branches beaten over for years by high wind. It was one of the many times in his life he would ignore the actions of others, as curious as they were. Even if he had cared, Bert wouldn’t have understood what they were saying.  Nothing anyone said had ever made sense to him. Had Bert been awake to hear it, the conversation between them would have sounded like this:

Try for when can light?

Fuck tuna some. Insert astronaut identity yes.

Roshambo? Tide light frisk sleeping bag action to leaves on dart? Saguaro backgammon are quite quaint trombone!

Yo-Yo cram box nautical, gasket?

Cork! Film yikes sexual phone rampage upset dike. Way in out traveler! Grand cranky flickering ain’t cramps diligence intrigue! Difficult occult area.

Beer. Rake ache chicken bake.

Weight forensics Yankee...

Thirty seconds after waking, Bert grabbed his fishing pole and shook it at the other two. To Bert, the waggle of the pole meant he wanted them on the road again. Durham took it to mean he wanted to head down to Patagonia. As soon as they were all packed, the trio drove the few hours south the next morning to fish.

On the yellow bank, Bert typed up some things he’d been thinking about since Las Cruces. He left the other two out of his retelling of the trip. In fact, Bert had never included anyone except for himself in anything that he wrote. Most of the time, his writing featured a single character, also named Bert. He did this whether he was recounting actual events or fictitious tales. If he felt it necessary to include other characters to advance the plot or break up the monotony, they were also called Bert. Once he wrote a story about a character named Berta, but the character didn’t feel right to him. He tore up the paper he’d written Berta’s story on and tossed the shreds over the Mexican border, bit by bit. He figured a native Spanish speaker would make less sense of it if they found the paper and pieced it together since he was writing in English. There was a greater chance of the pieces falling into the hands of a Spanish speaker on the other side of the fence.

Bert peered deep into the crystal-clear water, thinking about how chilly it would be. The fish must find the temperature intolerant. He decided then that he should put his fishing pole together. With it, he could save a few trout from the unbearable cold of the river.

Two hours later, Durham and Khaki tromped out of a group of small trees across the inlet from Bert. They chortled. Durham sang a medley of Christmas carols with nonsense lyrics.

"Later on, by the fire

there’s a streetcar named desire

they all swing both ways

but don’t call them gay

sucking on my winter wonder loins..."

"In the ghetto, they all hung a snowman

it’s funny because he’s white

and they’re all brown

cops want justification

they say, ‘no man’

he fucked my baby mama

last time around!"

You jackass! Khaki shouted, shoving Durham with one hand. You’re everything that’s wrong with this country.

Oh, shut the fuck up. Chuckling like a friggin’ baby over there.

You’re lucky Bert can’t hear you, you know. It’s depressing that you’re singing such hateful things. He’s already dying, he doesn’t need to be around racist bigots. 

Bert always liked my jokes, man, Durham assured his upset friend. Bert did like seeing his friends starting to enjoy each other’s company. They’d always been hesitant to be themselves around one another.

The two goofs went upstream a bit to cross the river at a tree that had fallen across it some time ago. When they got to the spot Bert’s quilt covered, they saw he had three fish cleaned and ready to cook. Bert was sitting there looking at them like he didn’t know what to do next.

Shit, Bert, I took the lighter. My fault, man. Sorry. Durham smacked himself on his ball cap.

Jesus, Ham, you’d think you’d pay a little more attention to what you put the poor guy through.

Durham swung a fist at Khaki, missing by a few inches, then losing his balance. As he hit the ground, he landed on their tackle box. Two of Bert’s fishing hooks planted themselves in the forearm he used to soften his fall.

Yow! That looks bad, Ham. Khaki quipped.

Durham gritted his teeth together and let out a long grunt. He drew in a heavy breath, then looked at the wounds, holding his injured arm in his opposite hand like one holds a child.

Five minutes. Damn it. I gotta get these things out now. Durham rambled a bit while processing the pain. Fish blood is coursing through my veins. I could have walked off for five minutes and calmed down. Son of a bitch.

Oh, it’s not that bad. Look, one of them popped right through. That one will be no problem to take out.

It was a dark a night. Their flashlights were horrible quality. The three of them struggled with the embedded hooks for a half hour before getting them out. It took another half hour to find their first aid kit and dress the bloody arm.

Once they finished and Durham had taken a few pain pills, Bert and Khaki built a fire. They waited for the coals to burn down enough to cook over. Khaki told stories about injuries he’d supposedly seen in the past. He said his grandfather was a saltwater fisherman. It was always something Khaki wanted to grow up to be when he was younger. While studying marine life during high school, he developed a fear of everything in the ocean. At the end of the night, Khaki saw Bert had fallen asleep sitting up.

Durham. Hey, Khaki nudged Durham’s knee.

Sup?

I saw Bert messin’ around with his fingers in the car earlier. In the mirror, you know? At first, I thought he was pickin’ at his nails. I think he’s trying to learn sign language.

Why would he do that? Durham asked.

I bet you a hundred bucks that’s how he wants to talk to folks from now on.

What the shit would he want to do that for?

He’s smart, man. It’s more efficient than writing shit down all the time. Making sure you got a pen and paper every minute of the day. Wasting all that space in your notebook. You think? Khaki reasoned.

I suppose that does make sense, buddy. He’s obviously not deaf, I think. Who the hell wants to write shit down all day?

Dude, see. Bert’s smart. We should help him learn it.

How the hell am I supposed to teach somebody I can’t even talk to somethin’ I don’t know, Khaki?

Easy, we don’t have to learn it, Bert does. We just don’t let him cheat. No reading anything he writes down.

That doesn’t make any sense, Durham said.

Ham, it doesn’t have to. Bert’s got the whole thing figured out. Trust him.

Alright, Khak. I’m gonna trust you, and I’m gonna trust Bert. No passing notes back and forth. Let me know if you see him getting pissed off, though.

Sure, Ham. Of course. Kahki agreed.

Two

BERT WAS AN INSPECTOR for a large corporation’s home improvement department. He was the one called in to fix mistakes in contractors’ completed jobs. He did that job up until a month before the '05 Passat wagon pulled up to the lake in Arizona. Bert was the only inspector for the company in the entire Southwest territory. He took care of Texas west of San Antonio, all New Mexico, and the southern parts of Colorado. He liked to tell his friends that management forced him to move to El Paso two years earlier. The reality of the situation was that he agreed to move from Illinois because of a substantial pay increase. He also felt that he was in dire need of some sun. He spent the first thirty years of his life on the Mississippi River in an area known as the Quad Cities. The Quad Cities were Davenport and Bettendorf, Iowa, Moline and Rock Island, Illinois. All together, they were the 2012 All American City. This didn’t mean much to Bert, though, and change of scenery was quite welcome.

About a year into Bert’s time in El Paso, the managers of the corporation began treating him differently. They assigned a ticket dispatcher in Florida to schedule his work. The dispatcher took great pleasure in scheduling Bert for large or complicated jobs. They were usually at the end of the day. Other dispatchers called Bert every hour to account for his whereabouts. To protest, he created a rule that he would push every job scheduled for the end of the day back a week. He did it without telling anyone, except for the customer. In the time slot scheduled by the dispatcher in Florida, Bert would sit and do nothing in his office. Sometimes, instead of doing nothing, he’d watch an old war movie. He pretended he and his coworkers replaced the main characters. His managers and the Floridian dispatchers replaced the enemies. Because his closest coworker was in San Antonio, no one would ever know that was the way Bert handled things. Unbeknownst to Bert, his peers in San Antonio hosted bar-b-ques in their warehouse. At the end of every day, his boss would bring a bucket of just-add-tequila margarita mix, tequila already mixed in.

Bert’s way of retaliating against the dispatchers by doing nothing led to him meeting Khaki. There was a small event hall next door to the corporation’s office. Every weekend there would be a quinceañera in the hall where Khaki worked. His job was to help set things up and serve food if necessary. Then, he waited until everyone left and help break everything down. During the quinceañeras, Khaki would sit out back on loading docks, smoking cigarettes. He watched Bert’s movies through a small window.

After they got to know each other, Khaki and Bert would go back to Bert’s studio apartment after work to get drunk. One night, about two months after they’d met, Bert’s new neighbor, Durham Outpost, came by to introduce himself. They knew Outpost wasn’t Durham’s real last name, but they didn’t want to start an argument. Instead of asking about it, Khaki introduced himself to Durham as Khaki Trouser. Durham squinted one eye and turned his head. He didn’t want to bring attention to the fact that he’d also given them a fake name. It wasn’t like he was on the run from the law, but he figured it was better to play it safe with the two young men. This was especially because he wanted drinking buddies. These two were less than ten feet from his front door.

Less than two years later, a set of iron bars on the outside of a window in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico fell. The bars landed on the top of Bert's head. It was one of the few rainy days of the year. When he plopped down onto the ground, the reddish mud splashed across his face. The customer, Rich Less, was grumpy that the injury happened on his property. Mr.  Less was also unhappy that Bert did not have a partner or assistant who could attend to him. Mr. Less didn’t like helping people at all if avoidable. He waited half an hour before going outside to see what had happened.

What the fuck are you doing? Rich asked, annoyed that the fall had interrupted his concentration.

Being hurt, Bert responded.

You don’t need anything, correct? Mr. Less wasn’t offering help. He wanted to make sure he wouldn’t have to aid in any way.

No. I’m fine. I need a towel from my truck.

Bert stumbled to his work truck and pulled open the rear door. He used a raggedy towel from his back seat to wipe off his face, then became dizzy and plopped down in the mud again.

I have to come back another time to finish this, Bert slurred.

Rich Less had already gone inside and couldn’t hear Bert. He’d been such a grump throughout the entire morning that Bert was happy to have a reason to leave. He would drive back to El Paso and notify the dispatcher