The Glamorous Life of Emily's Failure: A Novel

By David J. Lythberg

Race. God. Two forces that have oppressed David's life from the beginning. As he grows, they follow him, bearing down upon his neck like a yoke.
But someone else follows him as well. There is an appointed time for them to meet.
Race. God. Growing up biracial is hard for David, being the son of an overbearing black mother and a passive white father. They've pulled him from an all-black world into an all-white one.
But someone is there also. There is an appointed time for them to meet.
Race. God. David eventually learns to throw the shackles of both away, to lash out against anything racial, or religious. He changes. Grows angrier. hates more. Still, that someone is there, watching. Waiting. Emily.
But Emily couldn't wait any longer. Her love for David couldn't be contained until that "appointed" time. She takes matters into her own hands, and makes her presence known. In an attempt to win his love, she dons his clothes and engages in his interests. But sadly, her plan backfires, and everything turns disasterous---and she is left, damaged and alone.
Race. God. Emily.
Years pass. Time shifts. When they do meet, it is a meeting like no other. The rapture they feel for one another surpasses the drudgedness of their station. For David, life couldn't be imagined without her; and at such a time as this, she is taken away from him. Is it a scrifice, or some unfortunate circumstance?
She leaves someone in her stead, to continue with him where she left off. Someone who cares just as much as she had. Someone who loved him from the beginning, just as she had. God.
It is only then that David realizes who Emily really was, and how much he'd failed to understand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469106670

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The Glamorous Life of Emily’s Failure

A Novel

David J. Lythberg

Copyright © 2009 by David J. Lythberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

1988

1974-1986

1987

1995

AMANDA

LOREN

HOSPITAL

THE SHARP INCIDENT

HIGH SCHOOL

INVOLUNTARY SERVITUDE

PIPER

X

DAVID EGGBEATER

APOCALYPSE

1989-1991

1992

TRINITY

EMILY

THE DARI-WHIP

GOD

To know where I belong.

Your shirt is dirty, Emily. Your soft white sleeves bear black, with grainy, picturesque puddles of grime across your front, like wilderness scenes of dried motor oil. Stains of life. Your neckband is a wring of filth, darkened with dead skin and sweat, and so the layers underneath. This last shirt doesn’t even say Denver College anymore, which is a shame. It’s probably your last proof of membership in society; this world that we walk along, but pretend we don’t exist in. It’s big and floppy and oversized, and has become a fixture now, something permanent, something epitomizing you; like your eyes, your hair, and your smile.

You stand here and look at me so expectantly, wondering what we’ll do next, as if I am in charge of our destiny. I am.

The Ancient Highway seems endless. From one direction to another, it stretches on forever, and you find yourself marveling at the work and the years that went into constructing such a thing. But it has life. It breathes. It widens and reduces itself; pulsating like an artery, choosing to merge and close lanes at its own free will, or add and open them in its sovereignty. But tonight it is angered, for it has squeezed one of its many branches into a trickling two-lane capillary. Still, it harbors kindness, for it saw fit to allow us the privilege of running out of gas—the engine gurgling and sputtering—directly across its belly from a twenty-four hour Dari-Whip stand.

Your tattered jeans match mine: stained and stinking, ripped and ragged, old and odd. We play this little game where we stand poised on this shoulder, ready to run across, feigning fear of the cars whizzing past. Time and again, I’ll lunge forward, faking, then pull back to watch you imitate me. Then you laugh and tell me to be serious.

You’ve always been beautiful to me. Even from the beginning, when I first met you three years ago, outside Montgomery Ward’s, where I sat panhandling in the cold. With numb hands I pulled my buttonless coat tighter, as the prospect of the parking lot sadly dwindled into a winter’s gulch. As I eyed approaching shoppers, the door opened slowly behind me. I caught the odor of your body even before I caught the look in your eyes. Without a word from your lips, you sat Indian-style on the ground—just a few feet away—and did your own begging. I tried not to notice you, though you were homing in on my territory, but I found myself taking occasional glances… and seeing you smile. I’ve always loved your freckles, how they only splatter your cheeks. On every other inch of your body not a freckle can be found, but they all seem to come together like a rally, concentrating completely on your face.

So I’ve edged our ’84 Oldsmobile along the shoulder of this road, until we came to a complete stop. The night whispered with crickets, hidden in the woods to the right of us. Further down, the entire right side of us seemed uninhabited, with the dark reflected by the gloom of the trees. The thick forest made a before-and-after photograph with the bright lights of the left side.

You were fast asleep. With your head tucked into your arm like a wing and the smudge on your white cheek, you looked like the picture of starvation: thin, unwashed, weak. I sat there for awhile, silent in the dark of the night, watching you. I can see your dingy-yellow thermal and the multi-colored tank top under your soiled Denver one. The latter is so big that it practically droops off of you, and the former seems to peek out from your shoulder for air. Funny; you can sleep through anything. Most people who sleep in a moving vehicle will probably wake up when it stops, but not you, not Emily; she continues on in her bliss of dreams. Then, without warning, a fart erupts from your bowels, and you’re awake. I chuckle when you raise your head, seeing that it was your own flatulence that brought you to your senses.

Where are we? Your voice gruff after hours of snoring.

Somewhere on 65, going toward Kentucky. I don’t offer the obvious. I just continue to watch you going through the disorienting throes of wakefulness. With a final stretch, your hands touching the windshield, and a little scraping of crust from your eyes, you are fully conscious.

Are we out of gas?

Yep.

An exhalation of breath. I’m not sure whether it was a sigh of distress or tired annoyance, or both, but she leaned back into her seat as if washing her hands of what was to come.

That just goes to prove it, I said, now a content philosopher, when you don’t need a station, you’ll see them everywhere…

Lemme guess, Emily shook her tawny head in disbelief,  . . . and when you need one, you can’t find one…

There was a faint smile that coursed her lips at that exact moment, to let me know she wasn’t upset. And I knew she wasn’t. Life was a joyride to her, a great adventure, from one experience to the next. We laughed.

Well, I’m hungry anyway. I hope they have burgers, I said hopefully though absentmindedly pointing in the Dari-Whip’s direction.

Me too…

Emily lifted her hips in the seat so that she could pull crumpled dollars from her pocket. She smoothed them out and laid them flat across her denim thighs. Four bucks, she said with enthusiasm.

Good.

There is an excitement, an anticipation when we know we’re gonna dine out. You smile, looking forward to the colorful food, rich and gourmet, that you’re about to partake of. We were happy. We were tired of going hungry and sitting around for hours panhandling. Gas could wait. We had a little treasure, and it was time to enjoy it! Mmm-mmm, those burgers were gonna be sooo good! We had an old gallon jug with a little water in it, so we didn’t have to worry about something to drink. With a resolute slam of the door, she hurried around to my side of the car, waiting for me to get out.

There we stood on the gravel as cars zoomed past us. They were just blinding orbs of light, shooting beyond us through the dark, followed by the dangerous sound of speeding wheels on pavement. Emily grabbed my hand with such eagerness that I would have thought we were about to share our love over an elegant candlelight dinner. Her fingers entwined tightly between mine in that occasional, intimate way that told me her heart was brimming with emotion. And together, hand in hand, like lovers on a beach, we hurried across the road to our bounty.

It was of white stucco, this Dari-Whip, compact yet complete with a patio. It was adorned by silent streetlamps situated on either side of it. The orange neon sign that said 24 Hrs, in creative cursive, called out to us from the window. We saw a few people milling about; some leaning against the walk-up window, talking to their employee friends, and some conversing with others on the picnic tables, apparent natives of whatever town this was. But all ears suddenly perked up like dogs when we crossed. Silent eyes followed us over the adjoining gravel, over the small, grassy ditch separating them from the highway, and continuing, it seemed, to dig deeper into our souls. But we were used to these stares; we’d grown accustom to abrupt silences; human heads turning into cameras.

The cool air from inside the window rushed to meet us as we approached, and it felt icy and refreshing. I cocked my head back to feel its chilling arms embrace me like a cold river in which I was neck-deep. The illuminated menu consisted mainly of ice cream specials—malts, splits, sundaes, and shakes—with burgers, fries and sodas listed at the end, almost as an afterthought. My eyes ran over the choices in a daze, hypnotized by the light. I almost forgot there were people behind the window, waiting to take my order.

What do you want, baby? She smiled at me so sweetly; a pretty genie with the power to grant any wish.

The bus was an immense green cylinder on wheels—a gigantic caterpillar—packed with people and caked with ice. It screeched to a stop at the main entrance, blowing off its steam like some terrible dragon. I peered out of the frozen window and could see that everything was chilled over, yet no snow had fallen. I heard it said once that it was too cold to snow. A small crowd awaited the bus’ arrival, clad in colorful scarves and mittens, underneath their visible breath. With silence they stepped aside, politely allowing right of passage, as we disembarked. The exhaust hissed and warmed us. We didn’t feel the whip of the air immediately, for which we were all grateful. The freeze was gradual, as is usually the case when you’re in a warm bus for a while. Christmas lights were on and gleaming festively all around the outside of the mall, selectively lighting the vast parking lot and bejeweling the department stores with pseudo-splendor. The air was crisp with cold, Old Man Winter giving us all a warning of what he was capable of.

Before us were the two stone lions which forever guarded the glass doors like gargoyles. Such common fixtures they were. I had crossed their path millions of times, had walked between them thousands more. In all seasons, at all times of day, or night, they never grew old, never complained. They just stood there, immovable. But tonight they seemed out of place, standing watch over the cluttered lot of a shopping mall. Perhaps they at least should take station outside of an old cathedral, or a church of stone, filled with history, or some gothic spiral, pointing straight up to heaven. I looked up at the great arching sign before me: a mammoth sign, with letters of gray iron, each about half the size of a man that spelled out Bel Air Mall, like the majestic entrance to some armored fortress, yet entwined with Christmas lights.

I made my way past the colorful shops of treats and apparel, dressed in my dreariest. My hair was long and tangled, to the point where combing had proven impossible. Its tendrils hung matted from the dismal brown nest of my head, blocking my vision, were it not for the unconsciously continuous sweeping of my hand to clear it from my eyes. My skinny frame, clothed in threadbare thrift-store offerings, strolled with a purpose through the bright imminence of retail’s Christmas. To the left and right were garland-framed store windows, with boastfully big signs declaring one particular special sale and another door-buster spectacular; and all the while, dangling lights hung—magnificent streams of red and green streaked above—flickering and blinking in perfect rhythm to the overhead caroling of Hark the Herald Angels Sing! Around me at each turn passed shoppers of every shape, size and color, all clad in the season’s best, looking as warm as Eskimos. I dodged and veered them, heading with determination toward the Food Court.

I saw her constantly. She was always sitting there, like a silent majority, in a corner of the Court, always with her head down, always in a book with warped pages. It may as well have been her very own table, in this canyoned Court, directly between Chic-fil-a and Checkers. Yet there was never anything at her table to show that she’d eaten, no plastic plates or utensils, no Styrofoam cups. Just herself and a book. Every Friday night I made my way here, to this mall, to see her. She was grungy, from her randomly-patched jeans, to her dusty, ill-fitting sweaters. She used to wear her hair long, I noticed, but now it hung short over her neck: reddish-brown and pushed back behind her ears. I watched her from a different table every weekend, one that was always within easy view. I observed as she conversed with her crusty entourage, squatters and gutter-punks all of them. She had friends, I had friends; everyone here had friends. But I came to see her.

Aside from the small gatherings on other days of the week, Fridays were when this entire Court was filled with the postmodern. It was almost as if every patron instinctively knew that beginning in the late afternoon, they had better finish their meals quick and vacate the premises, as the first waves, the gradual tricklings, of a darkened subculture would emerge. It was a transfer of power, seemingly, a changing of the guard. By seven pm, this wide space of empty Formica tables and chairs, this pitted beige banquet hall of tile and fast food, became populated with Grunge-rockers, Punk-rockers, thrift store shoppers and teenyboppers.

What’s the book about? I asked in that carefree way that Grunge Girls like. She looked up with eyes deprived of attention, as if she had been left on an island to fend for herself. A cracked, unexpected smile crossed her lips.

God.

Oh, I nodded as if I’d read it before, any good?

She smiled.

I noticed her thin white neck, how it curved and rounded into her shoulders. The cigarette she smoked seemed to expel rings around it, as a world around its sun. Her skin looked the color of eggshell, but with just enough coloring to show that she was human… and alive. Wordlessly, she stared with dilated eyes, awaiting my introduction first. But in that moment so divine, I found that my mouth was frozen and tightened threads of doubt had sewn my lips shut. She just stared and stared. Finally, as if waiting was hopeless, she closed her book and reached a hand out to me.

I’m Emily…

My words were still gone from my throat. They had eluded my mouth, hid from my tongue, clung so close to the walls of my esophagus that they melded in with the slick flesh itself. But she was patient, this Emily. And kind. With her brown eyes, wide and dilated, and a pretty plague of freckles covering her face, she waited for me to speak. She coaxed me on silently, ducking her head slowly, repeatedly, and gesturing with her hand for me to spit it out…

I turned from her and walked away. I left her sitting there with her ragged book, interrupted and closed, and with her hand just recently retracted from a greeting gone bad. No doubt her face, with its snoutlike nose, and those simple cheeks underneath freckles, must have twisted in confusion. Surely slight blushing surfaced under her eyes as she wondered, ‘what just happened?!’ Perhaps she was torn between the tears of rejection and the headiness of disorientation. Emily stared after me in disbelief as I sauntered back up the canyon steps of the Court and out into the mall. I changed my mind. I chose not to know her like this, beginning with the typical meet-and-greet. It bored me. I guess I just won’t meet her at all.

You lowered your head once again. Went back to your book. Peered into the pages. Tried to divine the meaning of it all; to allocate firm concentration on the many levels of hell. But, alas, Emily… to no avail. Your mind I must have bothered. I think you caught me watching You so many times before; those days past, those weeks and months. Maybe you, like me, longed to meet, but simply didn’t know how. Or maybe like me you felt somewhat unsure. Not insecurity, but an uncertainty, as if we’ve both imagined each other as possible criminal suspects. We were foreign to each other.

Every sound around you now carried weight. You could hear every conversation: the shabby couple next to you complaining about not getting the sale price on a particular item of clothing; two skinny punk-boys insolently swearing; the giggle of two body-pierced girls smoking by the exit. So, you blew a sigh of frustration and closed your book in finality. Pulling yourself up from the table was no easy chore, unwinding and stretching the legs that had for so long been crossed Indian-style underneath you. Your life-bag, tattered and worn with patches, which carried everything you owned in the world, was grabbed from below the chair and slung over your shoulder as you made your way through where I had left only minutes before. Your mind was bothered.

The air in this immense, single-leveled space, this triple-walkway of a shopping mall, was undoubtedly Christmassy, even more so than it seemed before, if that were possible. In fact, as the evening hours waned into night, it would become something of a brilliant holiday festival—a magical Christmas land. On this night the hours would be extended, stretching into the wee glow of the morning, giving spirit-shouldering shoppers ample opportunity to get what they needed. The sparkles, the lights, the garland, the colors and especially the people, would all work together, blending into such a cheerful mixture that it could second none other than Santa’s workshop.

And you got caught up in it all, Emily. As you walked the walk, peering into various stores looking for me, something of your childhood came back to you. This place, at this time of year, always was magnificent to you. You would later tell me how you sat on Santa’s lap in the middle of the same North Pole display, complete with piles and piles of fake snow, and how You idolized him, even though You knew he wasn’t the real Santa. Perhaps he was just some representative of that Great Bestower of Gifts, or a go-between that was somehow licensed to masquerade as him, taking requests like a waitress. After all, you knew that Santa was busy. He couldn’t be every place at once. His main priority was ‘making lists, checking them twice… ,’ and preparing for his midnight run. Yet every year without fail, your mother would bring you to this kiosk, right in the center of the mall, in the same old place between McDonald’s and Coconut’s. Yet you looked forward to it—got excited even—when you got to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what you wanted for Christmas. Then your mom, always in earshot, would make a mental note of all your wishes.

But your eyes were opened as you grew. Your mind changed directions. Years passed. You discovered life. And when this grand time of year rolled around again… you were too big and too old to sit on Santa’s lap.

Almost instinctively, as if something within yourself was driving, you wandered to that place. And there, as always, was the snowy scene with giant candy canes and little robotic elves, all moving sequentially. And there also, surrounded by all of this, was this mall’s Santa—the very same one you had known for years—with yet another child on his lap and overlooking the same unending line of parents and other children. He was older than you remembered, a little wrinklier. His eyebrows, which were always dark within the white, now seemed a bit more gray. You watched as the little boy sat there triumphantly, knowing that his wishes were now mainlined, that he finally made it here, to tell Santa face-to-face what he wanted. You could see the enthusiasm in his face, hear the excited words spill from his toddler mouth, feel the assurance as he smiled and vigorously nodded, certain to expect everything under his tree.

Santa held him perfectly secure there on his lap, with a strong, white-gloved hand on the center of his little back. And Santa spoke honeyed words, accented with an occasional, heartfelt Ho, Ho, Ho! And Santa encouraged him, told him he knew he was a good boy. My, what a feeling of comfort you must have felt back then, Emily. To hear these words. A peace that told you everything would be wonderful that Christmas, that you had been such a good girl all year long and that you would definitely get everything you wanted! And he never lied. Santa never lied.

Your mind’s eye changed a lens at that very moment, for right here, right before your very eyes transparent ghosts from the past suddenly filled the scene. They surrounded and took over, replacing the present ones with their older ambience. Little Emily in pigtails and pink flowered galoshes sat right where that little boy was just sitting—on the stable, red velvet knee of a younger, slimmer Santa—with your dark-haired mother standing by, proud and laughing, among the kids you grew up with, enveloped snugly in warm snowsuits, hats and scarves, enviously awaiting their turns. Your hazel-brown pigtails bounced happily as you shared your heart with Santa, told him about the new Barbie Dream House you’ve always wanted. He bellowed his trademark chuckle as if calling it into being, and your heart rested easy. Your family had known him for years—this Santa—and you looked upon him with a mythical reverence.

The very air around you smelled of candy canes, with its biting peppermint. Seeing your toothpick legs in pink tights, floppily bouncing to the music; seeing the oversized knit hat your mom made you each winter; seeing your smooth but speckled toddler cheeks and how they almost gleamed they were so clean, made your right eye itch with emotion. It blurred suddenly, dousing everything before you, as if the ceiling was opened and turbulent showers flooded this mall. The left eye followed suit, until all was a wall of tears. Your heart’s memories blinded you.

Instinctively you brought your hand up to your mouth, and it wasn’t until then that you recalled the crumpled, tiny cigarette between your dingy fingers. With an exchange of the fading ember and a slow wipe of your right hand, the curtain of water was pulled back, and the scene became dry again. The ghosts made their exit, repositioning their future counterparts like players on a stage. And Santa saw you there, the little boy still on his lap. Could he recognize you? He was gazing so intently, he hardly seemed to hear anything the child was saying anymore. You could tell by his eyes that his mind was reaching back, pulling forth those past holidays like clothes out of a closet. Did he really remember you? After all those years? Even after you awkwardly grew into prepubescence? Then slowly evolved into your rebellious teen years, when your body became sleeker and slimmer? When the mall Christmases approached and passed before his eyes, and only your mother came to see him here, sadly, without a child to escort? With a weeping smile and an ill-disguised longing in her heart, she always offered an update on where you were or what you were doing. But in time she too stopped coming… for she no longer knew.

When the hazy smoke of reverie and the watery condensation of memory cleared, he saw you for what you saw of yourself: a squatter. A gutter-punk. One of the hordes of homeless youth so harbored within these Gulf States. You stood there—a good fifty feet away—with weak eyes and lack of worth plugging your mouth. A ragged bag over your shoulder, carrying everything you owned in the world. The prettiest silk-spun tresses of auburn, which hung long and shiny down your back as a child, Santa now must see uncared for: Dull. Dry. Chopped off. Those freckles of yours are what gave you away; that faint spill splashing over your gentle nose, as if from an artist’s purposeful brush, then luxuriantly spreading outward, seeping across your cheeks with golden brown color. Oh how he would tease you about them as you sat on his lap! He would ask, So Emily, have your freckles been good this year? And you would laugh and laugh, as if those very words could reach out with fingers and tickle you. His eyes fell on your life-bag of tired denim, slung heavily across a frail collarbone. Santa remembered the vibrant Christmas sweaters your mom made, for you’d wear a new one each year. He remembered the little candy-cane earrings you’d wear, or the cheerful red-and-green mittens that were made to look like little stockings. But now you wear rags. The layered clothing drooped from your shoulders, hung limp from your back, pulled away as if to escape your body, the very touch of you. ‘Dear child,’ he must have muttered silently.

Shamefully you took a last pull from the cigarette butt as your weary eyes of brown reluctantly connected with Santa’s. You would have cast it aside long ago, but it seemed glued to your fingers, as if it were a thing of dignity. It occupied you in this uncomfortable moment, when the fatherly face of this family friend peered searchingly into yours. You squinted back as if he were the sun, with its glowing rays of light to burn through your very eyeballs. You glanced, then looked away, feigning interest in your dead Camel. With the child growing impatient on his knee and a long line of waiting children, Santa could only offer a knowing nod and a little smile, much like a grimace.

You tore yourself from this. Remembered me and moved on. Scanning the stores ahead and pushing through the multitude, you urgently gazed over faces and into backs, searching everywhere for my coat, my sweater, my hair, my color…

Your mind was bothered. You could feel your heart beating that night, couldn’t you Emily? As ferocious as a tribal gong, your chest ached from its violence. You worried that I had left the mall; that too much time had passed in your reverie. It flattered me when you spoke of this, years later. Strangely, I became your jewel, you said. And in your poetic voice, you likened me to one both found and lost, at the precise same moment, on the bank of the Nile.

Your head rotated on its axis, your eyes scrutinized in their sockets. With tired feet and frayed pant legs, you tread through department store after department store, distracting the shoppers who chose to stare. Black-painted converse low-tops. Uneven hems worn ragged by the ground. Smelly teenage girl going up and down the escalators, driving customers away…

JC Penney, Dillard’s, Sears. By the time you reached Montgomery-Ward, you had all but given up. I was gone.

A face, captured on canvas, you were. Your lips were dry but your heart was good; searching for the one thing that might make it all worth while, somehow. A trembling riddled your bony frame, and anxiety clutched at tender insides. If you had never gone into Wards, if you chose to end this search, if you listened to the protest of aching feet that walked the freezing miles of Mobile, where would life have carried you? Where would you have slept tonight? Or the nights to follow?

You peered through the glass before opening it. Practiced your composure; thought of what you would say and when to say it. Studied the back that faced you, with its head of disarray. Simple seconds earlier, a fiending which you thus took pride in, led you toward this exit onto the ground level lot. And as you moved with purpose, no doubt gaining momentum, your slender fingers had already found and held its half-empty box of Camels, with the cheap lighter inside. So there you stood at this door: the Electronics Department at your back, your hands idly clasping the metal bar, your shoulders slightly pushing forward with indecision, and thoughts swimming in your head. Within the richness of floodlights, you stare into complicated whorls of a tangled mass. So much is your concentration that you have unwittingly memorized every seemingly congealed clump.

Excuse me sir. Can you spare some change?

The old gray gentleman in the blue tweed suit soundlessly sighed. As he made a show of reaching into his coat pocket for a wallet, silent air seemed to push from his lungs, through his throat, and out his mouth. The bushy mustache under his nose proved it. Slowly he overlooked the billfold—snug with Christmas shopping currency—turning it over for access to his change purse. The disgust was evident in his eyes. These aged eyes, which surely knew both hard work and prosperity, lifted skyward for a quick moment, with the smallest shake of his head. It was a quick shake, no more than two movements, undoubtedly meant to look as casual as possible, and in no way intended for my eyes. Perhaps he was simply shaking his head—in sympathy, in displeasure—at himself. After depositing two shiny quarters into the jobless palm of my hand, this southern gentleman moved past me toward the door.

I heard a ‘Merry Christmas’ behind me, as he opened the door. I would have thought he wished it upon me, as a last-minute gesture of goodwill, before leaving me to the elements. It would have lifted my spirits to know that he suddenly had a change of heart. But this ‘Merry Christmas’ was female. The voice of a girl. The door closed behind him, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

There was a dropping of my heart when I saw her. I know because I could feel it quiver within my chest. She moved slowly, stepping over the icy concrete as if it were a frozen lake about to give; without a single word, without a ‘hi,’ or a ‘remember me from the food court?’, she crossed in front of me to the other side of a nearby trash receptacle. Laying her dirty bag down, this strangely imposing girl sat on top of it with legs crossed underneath her. In the beginning, she refused to look my way, and I hers, but I knew why she was there. She had followed me.

Long minutes of silence passed, long enough for me to trace her profile in my mind: the doll’s nose the color of fresh-baked bread; her lips, pretty pink and perfectly proportionate, standing out above a fair background of speckled golden brown; I noticed her lashes were long, as she looked straight ahead, batting against the cold, bowing down against the chill.

A relatively young woman, in her early thirties, hurried from the parking lot with two small children in tow. They were all tucked away in winter’s finest: wooly hats pulled snug over the kid-heads, little bodies buried deep within pillowy coats, and frothy scarves concealing throats as if they were something indecent. Before the woman could avoid eye contact with us, Emily broke our silence.

Merry Christmas…

The three of them stopped as if struck. With a weak and unexpected smile, she returned the greeting. Their approach resumed. ‘Good technique,’ I thought to myself. ‘It summons benevolence.’

How are you this festive evening? I chimed in. Her smile grew wider, albeit suspicious.

Oh, she sighed, tired… cold… Her voice trailed off as she just acknowledged the intensity of the weather. Yeah, I laughed, nodding, tell me about it. With a dawning, Emily’s eyes lit up!

Are you gonna take the kids to see Santa? Hmm. By saying ‘the kids’ she implies kinship, which implies oneness, which further promotes benevolence. Hmm. Smart…

Well yes, the woman’s eyes lit up in return.

Have you ever taken them before?

No. In fact, we just moved here from Georgia this past summer. This will be our first Christmas here in Mobile. I just read in a flyer that Santa would be here tonight so I decided to let them see him in person.

Oh, it’ll be the most amazing experience for them. Hi, what’re your names?’ Emily playfully waved at them. These kids, a boy and a girl, laughed and giggled. In broken childish English, the little boy proudly proclaimed that he was Steven and he was three and three-quarters. Immediately Sharon stretched her little arm with five green-gloved fingers showing prominent. —but I’m five!"

It was evident, as I watched the interaction between Emily and these people, that she had stolen the show. But I was far from upset. More like amused, as I listened to her describe, in explicit detail, the goings on of her treasured Santa display. I saw and heard the mother laugh, and her children, and I myself smiled, as I saw, before my very eyes, comfort cover them like an enormous quilt.

Then finally, after rapport was built: Uh, I don’t suppose you could spare a little change? By this time, the mother, having dropped all her suspicions, reached searchingly into her purse with an enthusiasm rare to see. I’m sure I do… And with a smile both pleasing to her and us, she pulled out two crisp dollar bills. Merry Christmas, she added, amongst our Thank-You’s, and escorted her children through the door.

Silence again. What was wrong with me? I turned my head toward her with the greatest of effort, as if it were an ancient mill grinder. Already in my direction was her hand.

I’m Emily…

What do you want, baby?

I pulled my eyes away from hers with much difficulty…

Just a burger. Maybe some fries. What’re you gonna have? She read the menu like a crystal ball, peering into our immediate financial future. Well, she said, I’ll just have a burger.

Get you some fries too. Don’t we have enough for two fries?

She shook her head, eyes still fixed on the board. A burger is one-fifty, and one small fry is fifty cents. Tax’ll probably take what’s left. So, she lifted her hands, half-massed, almost in defeat, I’ll just take a burger. I’m not really that hungry anyway.

Bullshit. I know you’re hungry, Emily. We haven’t eaten since Little Rock.

I know, shrugging her shoulders, showing her coy side, but you’re a growing boy. You deserve the fries more than me.

She was like that: so giving in, so giving up, so forgiving. Always content, always accepting of the cards that were dealt to her. I don’t think I ever remember her truly complaining about anything, nor demanding anything. And it was such a quality as this, such a virtue, that made her better than me.

May I take your order? A grandmother of a woman glared at us from behind the window. There was no smile to grace her powder-white cheeks or to stretch her lips into exercise; only dead politeness. Either her eyes, gray and cataract, were blind and unseeing, or she just chose to stare straight ahead, off into space, at some vantage point on the road behind us. Whatever the case, she just seemed unable to comprehend us…

Emily spoke. Yes ma’am. How are you tonight?

Those blind eyes seemed to roll around slowly in their sockets, getting a feel for movement again. ‘Unaffected,’ is what her expression said. That blank face, looking ancient and exhumed, froze even tighter. No words, no answer. Poor Emily. Always trying to make friends wherever she goes. Sorry though, obviously this woman’s not one for rapport.

 . . . okay then… , the nasty silence fell off her back like rainwater, We’ll just have two burgers and a small fry please. Thank you. That indelible smile. Oh, the way her lips curl upward, push back against her teeth and lift her cheeks like the most natural of plastic surgery. Such a pleasure to see, even in the most grueling of moments. I’ve often told her how unforgettable her smile is, but I don’t quite think she gets it.

$3.86.

All business, this grandma was.

My love dug into her front pocket and pulled out the whole of our treasure—those four sweaty, crumbled dollar bills. She silently offered them up to this elder like some kind of sacrifice. We watched as Grandma snatched it up in one hand, punched in the proper keys, and stuffed it deep within her cash register. Our scrawny bodies were then pushed aside, more by appropriateness than force, as other locals meandered forth, seeking late-night snacks. Again their silent stares, the obvious wrinkling of noses; as if these people were any better than us. As if the few patrons of a lone Dari-Whip stand, in the middle of nowhere, overlooking some Southern Highway, were so much higher up the Societal Totem Pole. Without so much as asking us whether it was ‘for here’ or ‘to go,’ our food was handed to us in a bag, topped with prejudice.

Do you want to eat it in the car? Emily asked, as local-eyes persisted.

No, I said, staring back at two young guys, possibly our age, sitting at one of the picnic tables, let’s eat here…

I approached slowly, daringly, with Emily in tow. They caught my eyes, lifted themselves up and stepped away from the table. Excuse us.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t feel I had to.

It felt good to sit some place else other than a car seat for so long. The hard wood of the chipped benches felt cool underneath us. We both exhaled together, then laughed at our simultaneousness. Emily dumped the contents of the bag onto the table, and with a fierce eagerness, we grabbed at our food. The precious scent of well-cooked meat overwhelmed us; the crinkling of the bag, the sight of melted cheese on the wrapper enticed our senses. And I watched in quiet compassion as my love tore her burger from its paper with a hungry impatience. I watched her small, tobacco-stained hands enclose around the toasted bun as her mouth greedily attacked it. With each mighty bite, between each chew, she looked up at me and smiled.

How’s your burger, baby? her brown eyes indicated my food, uneaten before me. Without words, I dumped a portion of the fries onto the wax paper next to my burger, and handed the rest of the small box to her. Her mouth stopped in mid-chew.

We enjoyed our feast, Emily and I; an equal feast for both partners. Partners in crime. That’s what we were, Emily and I. Like in that Aerosmith song. I watched her lips move, and I got sucked in. They charmed me like cobras. Amazing. Two thin pieces of flesh, pretty-pink and watermelon-colored, could speak so to my heart. Her words were like God’s. I know I didn’t follow God… but I followed her. And she followed me. We followed each other. We were partners. Partners in crime. Like in that Aerosmith song.

I love you.

I love you too.

I saw Emily’s halo again. There it was, shining right over her head like Lady Madonna of old. I smiled because I hadn’t seen it in a while. She saw me smirking between the chewing of a fry.

What? she asked, truly concerned.

Your halo’s back. Emily had never seen it before. Whenever I tried to point it out to her, she would run to a mirror or window glass, but I guess her eyes weren’t meant to see her own deity. Or perhaps only my eyes were. It appeared only at certain moments, most of which were common, insignificant ones. It got to a point where I was so used to seeing her halo that I would often just point it out in nonchalance. Towering above us, like a thin god illuminating our meal, was one of the streetlamps that stood on either side of the Dari-Whip stand. Its light stretched far and wide, not only over us patrons, but splashing also onto the road beyond. One could see truck after truck pass, as in a procession, with vivid detail, though it was late in the night. A strange haze surrounded the light at its head; a kind of a mist. After a time, I watched unconcerned as this mist seemed to lower, gradually. As we conversed, it continued to lower still, and collect around us. Then, as my eyes glared glassy, this mist condensed tightly above the head of my Emily, and compressed a light in the shape of a ring. One may call this a figment of one’s imagination, but I know what I saw. I know because I blinked twice and it never went away. I don’t think anyone else saw it. Or maybe they did. Maybe that’s why they were staring in the first place.

I’m tired, baby, she murmured as she crumbled the paper and dusted off the crumbs.

Let’s go back to the car and sleep.

What about gas?

We can crash for a few hours, I said, then come back to panhandle. She nodded as we stood, stretched, and prepared to cross the road again. Her halo still hovered above her, motionless.

Our mood suddenly became solemn. We crossed in silence. No playful pretense or dodging. Our thoughts pervaded.

Emily stood to the right of the rear driver-side door while she watched my crouched figure reaching in and out, making the back seat look as much like her cozy, comfortable bed as possible.

The blankets she brought with her were once fluffy and quilted, with cute little pictures in them. The day after we met she bought them for a buck a piece at a local thrift store: one for her, one for me. I was busy looking for a change of clothes, maybe an insulated shirt or some thermal underwear—something to keep me warm on cold nights in my car, when I looked up from the men’s aisle and saw her at the check-out counter, holding up two identical quilts. She and the check-out girl were looking at me and giggling… which made me smile. And I overheard Emily say, ‘ . . . he’s not going anywhere without me…’ And she’s been with me ever since.

Now the blankets, like us, are dingy and brown. The color has faded. The yarn is frayed. Darkened from the grime of our bodies. I spread a blue sheet over the whole of the back, tucking it into the crevice between. I found her pink little heart-shaped CareBear pillow hidden under the passenger seat. I pulled it out and fluffed it for her, like clapping, and set it snugly at the head of her bed. Then came the quilt, spread and fashioned like you would find in any hotel. I turned and looked at her. When Emily gets tired, she gets quiet. She stood still, her head lowered, almost melancholic, with her hands clasped together in front of her. Behind her the semis whizzed by, and with them went her halo. These trucks were just streaks in the night, and they yanked her light from her. It’s okay. It’ll be back.

I pulled myself out and stretched tall. There you go.

Thank you, baby, she said with a little voice, almost like a chirp. She kissed me with lips unusually cold.

I lay there a long time, my body wedged somehow between the steering wheel and the seat. My head was parallel with Emily’s, and I could hear her faint snoring, light and breezy. Earlier, after she had settled into bed, I stretched out on the front seat with only my quilt. I didn’t need fluffy pillows or any kind of cushion underneath me. That was all for Emily. And I did it for her every night. I didn’t need anything but a blanket… and sleep. I listened to her for quite a while, hearing her occasional mutters and fragmented sentences, wondering what she was dreaming about, ready to wake her immediately if it appeared she was having a nightmare. Emily always talked in her sleep. After a time, I myself finally drifted away. Sleep is so intoxicating when you haven’t slept for so long. It drinks you in, swirling you through its eddies, floating your mind through its many mazes, making you light as air. Sleep can pin you so deep in its grasp that should anything from the realm beyond try to wake you, it will only succeed in making you aware of its attempt. Yet, for the gutter punk, this is rare. One thing about living on the road and shuffling from place to place is that you can’t sleep for very long. Unlike the comfort of a bed, in the enclosed security of a room, you can only get so comfortable on the narrow space of a car seat. You will toss and turn more than sleep it seems, always looking for that perfect position. And if it’s not the sun, making its presence known like an uninvited guest, shining with heat through the windshield, it’s the continual awareness of your station and all its possible dangers.

I dreamed about us that night. It was vivid and strange, clear and sad. We stood outside a school of some sort—a college it seemed. The buildings around us were brick and new, as if recently erected. Everything was completely empty, no cars in the parking lot or students meandering. You and I had just met, standing out by the curb, both waiting for someone to pick us up. In our strikingly new and introductory conversation, you made clear your hopes of being an actress and that you wanted us to star together in a new film that you would soon be working on. ‘In it,’ you said, ‘we would never be apart.’

Instantly we fell in love. It grew within seconds, expanded with every heartbeat. And in the blink of an eye, our scene shifted, time changed, and we were seasoned lovers across a dinner table. Everything around us we owned: this table, this food we now partook of, this unfamiliar kitchen, even the pictures on the wall. I was aware that maybe this was our future, which didn’t come as much of a surprise to me, but we didn’t appear to have aged at all. Physically, nothing seemed different. You still had your hair buzzed and reddish-brown, with freckles coloring your face; you still wore an oversized, ill-fitting sweater over your frail, starved frame. My hair was still mangled and nappy; my shirts were holey and dirty.

With plates in front of us and glasses never empty, you looked at me with eyes I couldn’t ignore. You were somber again, almost preparatory, like you were when you awaited your bed. Then your expression changed; your eyes became wide with urgency, wild with seriousness, peering at me with your x-ray vision! You grabbed my hand from across the table with such intense desperation. You coddled my fingers with yours trembling, folding and bending them this way and that. Then immediately, as if the heat of our hands was just too much, you yanked back yours and said something I hadn’t heard since we met:

You’re not going anywhere without me. And with that statement—a milestone in our relationship, something pivotal in our love—your head began to bleed. A dark red, almost burgundy, slowly trickled down the side of your face, which again grew somber. Blood flowed from the red in your hair, over your eyes, which now lowered, depressed. It splattered the table; fell in the food. And I just sat there. Within this dream, it just seemed like a common occurrence, or, if it wasn’t, I didn’t seem too excited about it. My dream-self chose, instead, to sit and listen as one would a philosopher. You, my bleeding oracle, spoke those words again, You’re not going anywhere without me…

A hand shook me. Had my love again reached a bloody hand over to touch me? No, you were immobile, sitting there with crimson spilling over your body, pooling the floor. Some invisible force shook me…

My eyes snapped open to darkness, and cold. Beyond the windshield the wind blew fiercely, shaking leaves off trees, making the forest move like marionettes. Emily, leaning over the front seat, continued to shake me until she saw my head rise.

What is it?

Emily, her head and shoulders but a shadow, spoke through the grogginess of sleep, We’re out of water…

My blind eyes refused to adjust to the black all around us. My mind of sleep refused to comprehend. I forced out an answer through dry lips, We have some in the jug… Short, terse and sweet. Anything to get back to sleep.

No… she held up the empty plastic as evidence,  . . . there must have been a hole in it. It’s all wet back here… She indicated it with a stamp of her foot so that I could hear the slosh of water. My head fell back into its bundle of clothing.

Great, my sigh of impatience was unmistakable. Well, I guess we’ll just get some more in a few hours. Please let me get back to sleep…

In silence now, dimly settling in to this solution, Emily turned her own sleepy eyes toward the Dari-Whip. It was bright and alluring, buzzing and alive; a lighthouse in the midst of this paved sea of black. She squinted in the light, forcing her eyes to adjust. Her throat grew tighter with the quiet of every passing moment. Her tongue was parched and cottony; it clung to the roof of her mouth. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep…

From the front seat my snores could be heard. He’s really tired, Emily said to herself, he hasn’t gotten very much sleep these past few days.

The road was a black sea of solitude. Its borders, its outlines were almost perfectly unified with the night, both entities blending, mixing and running its properties into the other. And beyond this voluminous dark—over the pavement, over the rocks and gravel, past the sparse grass and trees—lay the shiny beacon, as still and immobile as it was inviting.

There was a pause that seemed to last a lifetime. Her head turned this way and that, in accordance with her thoughts, from the pillowed warmth of the Oldsmobile to the uncomfortable path of the Dari-Whip. The grainy dryness of her mouth finally settled the argument. So, with the removal of wet socks and the placing of bare feet back into ragged shoes, she prepared for the journey across the chasm.

Where’re you going? My crumpled head didn’t rise.

To get more water… came her whisper.

Can’t you wait at least until first light?

No, came the reply to end all other discussion on the matter. It was less whispered, more throated. I gave up and rolled over. Okay. Just be careful. There’s a lot of trucks on this road.

Her slow fingers were already on the door handle, but she stopped long enough to observe the road again. Still. The highway was still.

The door closed with a click, and my eyes rolled behind their lids. With that sound came the worst kind of silence ever experienced. The car became a tomb, whose airless quiet is deafening. An eerie buzzing filled my ears, unable to be heard by anyone else, and as much as I desperately wanted to lift my head in the dark and finally see Emily’s absence, something held me down. Something like surrender.

From where I lay, the floor dropped from underneath me, carrying my stomach with it. The earth itself opened up like a mouth, guzzling everything down its gigantic chute; a rocky whirlpool that spins all things along its sides, faster with every turn! Faster! Faster! Faster! Until they disappear, as in a black hole, never to return! And lastly, my sweet Emily; I hear her screaming as she spins! Around and around and around until she vanishes from me; and I see that image of her in my mind, with her feeble arms reaching out to me, crying to me to pull her free so that we can share our next adventure together!

My heart rattled within my chest and my palms grew damp. The things in the Oldsmobile, our rumbled batches of clothes and blankets, our cigarette butts and bottles, our plans and purposes, strained under their own vibration—a tremble microscopic and unable to be seen with the naked eye. I heard the slow-tread of her gentle feet on the pavement, walking away from me, and I thought that she should run. Emily, I said to myself as I lay beneath the windows, entranced sleepwalker that you are . . . run . . .

In the distance I could hear a rumbling, like something under the earth was angry. Run, I said. Her little feet still paddled. And I heard the rumbling rise in pitch; higher, louder.

Run . . .

I listened for her feet, and they stopped. There, in the middle of a huge four-lane highway, they stopped. Knowing Emily, she probably paused to observe the night, to admire the moon. Perhaps she got lost in another reverie, as she was often so inclined. Maybe a valiant poem tickled behind her eyes, or a duster of inspiration brushed her face. I will never know. The rumbling grew louder still. I couldn’t tell whether it was a tremor or recoil of a tremor. But I whispered again,

Run, Emily…

Then there were lights, magnificent lights! Brilliant and evil in the same instant, shining through this night, piercing the peace of the road! With my eyes closed I didn’t see them, but I felt them, illuminating the interior of our car, splashing across the dashboard, announcing the coming of some immense entity like a glorious doomsday angel! The highway beyond was likewise illuminated; I sensed it behind the flesh-caves of my lids; could see the unbearably bright streaks of light rushing past, like supernatural flashlights, making the night like day.

The bellow of this ground-crushing creature tore through my ears, shaking the car! Its loud, low bawl was a wailing for all within its path to hear, and know, that it traveled the highway this night in search of blood. Its lusty moan continued, repeating ill-tuned notes like a misshapen oboe, and at last I heard the pitter-patter of Emily’s tiny feet. Whew ! ! ! But as soon as my breath finally released in relief, as soon as my heart slowed within two relaxed beats, the giant rushed past the Olds, leaving a torrent of wind as violent as any tornado in its wake!

Ruuuuuunnnnn ! ! ! !

The aftermath was a calming, a warm kind of ominous comfort. My head remained fastened to the bundle of clothes upon which I slept, my eyes still glued shut. My entire being tingled with fear, yet I moved not. The wind slowed, the smoke cleared.

The invisible fetters that had so adhered me prostrate to the front seat were instantly broken by a sudden uproarious human din, emanating from across the highway, from the Dari-Whip. The shouts of alarm, the horror in people’s voices, the screams of benevolence are what whipped me to attention, casting away my crumbled, imperceptible bonds, and springing me forth, like a jack-in-the-box, to a sitting position. In those few moments, my fear escalated. I turned to the driver-side door, to the window; refused to let my eyes wander to the center of the road, and what may lie there; instead I trained them forward, straight ahead, to the dozen or so late-night patrons who were screaming at the top of their lungs. They were edging toward me now, heading toward the pavement, some running, some walking casually, and some stepping cautiously, as if they were barefoot and every inch of ground was broken glass.

Call the police!

Call 911! Did you see that?! I couldn’t believe it!

He just kept on goin’ ! ! !

The door opened with a creak; slow and old, rusty and dry, in desperate need of WD-40. The passenger door was like that a few of months ago, but I borrowed some from a gas station attendant when we got a fill-up. He was reluctant to hand the can over, judging from our appearance and all. (I guess he thought we would just take off with it). But honestly, these guys are cousins to squatters. Gas station attendants, I mean. We have the same stains. The same rumpled look. They just have a job and smell better, that’s all. So I eased the guy’s mind by slipping him a dollar. We had a little bit of money in those days—a few months ago. It was easier then to make Emily smile. Emily. My Emily.

The smell of diesel swept through the car like an evil spirit. I sat there, exposed to the night, weakened in the opened door, hearing voices pointed at me, arresting me, yet I couldn’t understand a single word. Any minute now, my companion will be crossing the highway with a plastic jug of water in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other, which she probably charmed off one of the cashiers. Then she’ll begin with, ‘you’ll never believe what just happened! I bet you slept through the whole thing, didn’t you?!’ I’ll nod meekly, because she knows me better than anyone, and she’ll continue, telling me about a dog that ran out into the road, or a cat, or even a person, and how ‘this huge semi just sped by and SPLATT ! ! !(and she’ll say splat) it’s all over the road. Look!’ Then I’ll tell her that I can’t look, I refuse to look, and she’ll look at me with those searching eyes, those eyes both inquisitive and skeptical, and ask, ‘Baby, what’s wrong?’ to which I won’t answer, I can’t answer, and then she’ll hold up the coffee and say, ‘You just need your coffee. Here, I got you some.’ And I’ll look from the cup to her eyes to her head and I’ll see that pretty band of gold again.

Your halo’s back, I’ll say and she’ll just laugh.

The road is quiet again. No more trucks, no more cars. The people of Dari-Whip, workers and patrons alike spill out onto the pavement like wandering ants, with mouths wide and eyes even wider, but none choose to cross a certain point in order to investigate the shabby ’84 Olds on the other side of the highway. Strange women, with eyes of sympathy and condolence, continuously look in my direction, wondering whether they should try to cross and comfort me. I can see their minds working, the wheels turning, confusedly considering the reason why I haven’t moved from my seat yet, with my feet already on the gravel.

I watch you drink from the jug, admire the clear skin of your throat as it moves, swallowing the precious water. Perhaps your throat is the only part of your body that has managed to remain clean. In all of our time together, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single speck of dirt on your throat.

You stop drinking to look down at me. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah…’ I say, still staring.

‘That’s a weird thing to say.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just weird…’ You seem rushed