The Mentor (17 page)

He squeezed
the pen harder.  “Well, why…
what
?"

"Huh?"

"What'd
you say?"

"When?"

"You
said something about
my sister
?"

"No,"
I said, frowning.  "I said something about cash and condoms.  Did you hear
that as something about your sister?  That's a kinda weird."

Something
played across his face like, say, a mini-stroke.  Then he started into me
again: "Well, what'd you leave your stuff out there for, goddamn it?"

“Because I
don’t want all this oil to stain them,” I said, and plopped into a plastic chair,
an action which made an unfortunate gastrointestinal sound.

Crossing
his arms across his chest, he leaned a hand toward an ashtray.  I assumed
it was an ashtray, but I couldn’t actually see an ashtray.  For all I knew
it just was a pile of cigarette butts.  How the hell did Joe Camel even
know
I stunk?  He must have lost that sense years ago.

“You gonna
tell me what happened?”

“I was helping
with the cargo and—“

He nearly
jumped out of his chair.  “You’re not supposed to go anywhere
near
the goddamn ship!  Our guys do that.”

“Just
trying to help.”

“Do we look
like we need any help here?”

I chose to
keep my mouth shut on that because, one, it was too easy and, two, I have
standards when it comes to sarcasm.  Instead, I pushed his rage button a
little more.  Had to be careful though-- there's a delicate balance and very
important distinction between
manipulation
and
trigger
.

“I could
probably do it a damn sight better than your lazy lot here,” I said as he spit
the smoke from his mouth.  “Now, why don’t you give me what I need—“

He stood
and poked his finger into my chest.  “You don’t tell me what to do, boy.
 Go get your soggy I.D. and march your flabby ass back here.”

I threw the
rags down onto the desk, sending a few butts from his cigarette sculpture to
the floor.  

“You clean
your own mess then.”

He leaned onto
his heels, tilted his head back and gnawed on his cigarette.  I wondered
for a moment if I’d pushed it too far.  Sneaking into the Port of Los
Angeles was not the best—

“You got
five seconds to pick those up or I call security, and you’ll spend the night in
jail.  We even got one right here at the Port.   And while you're
drying out in a cell all night, we can tag your haul for Customs
investigation.  Hope you don't got nothing that'll spoil.”

I opened my
mouth, closed it again, nabbed the rags and then stormed out the door.

Once
outside, breathing fresh air, I cut quickly toward a long row of warehouses.
 Spotting a large open crate, it seemed best to slip into its darkness for
a moment, and I stepped inside.

I pulled
the short blue stack of passes out from the folds of the rags and groaned a
little.  Sure, sometimes the lamest tricks are the best ones because no one
expects you to try them anymore.  Doesn't make them any less lame. 

When ol’
boy started to calm down, the sparklers in his mind fizzling out as his hatred
of yours truly faded, he’d soon realize that I’d swiped them when I’d picked up
the rags.

Spotting a
guy with a clipboard, I sided up to him and asked to borrow his pen.  Without
looking up, he replied with a suggestion that I believe would be morally
questionable if not physically impossible.  I turned away, and just
slapped the blank patch on the left side of my chest.  Luckily, the patch
was navy blue if one were to use a pen, you couldn’t see it very well.  I
didn’t need to work long, just enough time to make it into a rig.  

If the
interior of the docks had been conceived of some master plan, its exact design
escaped me.  It felt more like the construct of an adolescent child-giant, if
the kid one birthday had been given a weekly mailing from the
Waterway line
of
Brio
.  Each Saturday a new package-- it could be a
Cigarette-Stained
Managers' Trailer ™
or
E. Coli-infused Toilet/Shower Stalls Module™
--
and the child would simply slap the new chunk down next to wherever the
previous had been plunked down.

Five
minutes later, following the smell of grease, I found a roach coach with
umbrella tables scattered in front of it.  

A couple
truckers were milling around.  

Some gave
me a once over, either giving me a shake of the head or a quick laugh.
 Still recovering from my oil-water swim-- and without a mirror, I
couldn't tell… but I'm sure I was about as welcome a sight as some oft-putting
industrial-themed minstrel show-- none of the truckers invited me for a chat.

“Man, you
stink,” the greasy man with the paper hat said.

“Been
hearing that a lot recently,” I said, walking up to the man behind the
register.  “Pizza and a coke.”

He plugged
his nose with his fist and walked away to get my food.

Off the
cemented patio area, there was a large stone planter doing a poor job of
holding a collection of azalea bushes gone mad.  Sitting on the edge of
the planter was a guy eating a polish sausage alone.  

“I’m
looking for a spot downwind,” I said and he looked up to me with deep chestnut
eyes, pausing briefly as he ate, watching as I settled in.

“Sorta fell
in and the fellahs over there don’t want me too close,” I added, pointing over
his shoulder.  “You don’t mind if I grab the other half of the planter’s
ledge.”

He
shrugged.  “It’s not mine.  I don’t believe I have any say in if you
go there or not,” he said in a clipped accent.  His brown hand folded
around the last half of his sausage and he pressed into his mouth until there
was nothing visible.  I was impressed: for a small dude, he had a big
mouth.

I pointed
at him and said, smiling, “You know there’s places in West Hollywood where if
you did that, some guys would probably throw dollar bills at you.”

Mid-chew he
stopped and looked at me, wide-eyed.  A moment later, he buckled over
nearly choking on his food.  Walking past him, I put my soda and pizza
slice on the planter.  By the time I’d gotten a bite or two out of my
food, he’d regained his composure.

“Hell, that
was funny,” he said.  “Haven’t laughed like that in days.”

“Glad to
hear,” I said.

He then
looked at me serious.  “Now, wait—you’re not from West Hollywood are you?”

I raised my
hands.  “No, no.  I’m a Georgia boy.”

He laughed
again and slapped the planter with an open hand.  He pointed and said, “I
was making a joke just then.  Just kidding.”

“And I know
you
aren’t from West Hollywood.”

He shook
his head, the smile melting a little.  “No.  Guyana.”  His eyes
locked on mine.

“Never
been, but I’ve always wanted to go to South America.  I hear the women are
crazy.”

His teeth
were white as sun-bleached bone.  Tipping his forehead toward the tables,
he said, “These guys think I’m Middle Eastern, for crissakes.  It’s about
time someone had a globe as a kid.”

“Yeah, had
one but, to be honest, I wanted a puppy.”

“And you
got a globe instead.”

“Had a hell
of a time teaching it to fetch.  ‘Rollover’ was a snap, though.”

Another peal
of laughter and he stuffed the remainder of the polish in his mouth, chewing
and chuckling at the same time.

“Gotta go,”
he said.

Nodding.
 I said, “Where to?”

He gathered
his trash and said, “Birmingham.”

“Alabama?”
I sipped my drink and added: “Really?”

"NORMALLY,
I DON'T LIKE to share my cab,” the man who’d introduced himself as Abe said
when he’d eventually agreed to let me tag along.  A quick look at my blue
(and blank) temporary I.D., and he probably knew something was up.  But, I
guess I just have that kind of face.  That and I offered to share the
driving.

No, I don’t
know how to drive a rig.  Yes, that would be a problem.  But, I
needed to be off the port and headed back home.

“Abe, I
appreciate you making the exception.”

“There was
a time you could pick up hitchhikers,” he said and adjusted the seat slightly,
fiddled with the mirror, propped a two-liter bottle soda up in a gray plastic
holder, bolted to the dash.  He did this all as he drove, as if he had
done it a thousand times before, like a ritual or prayer before hitting the
open road, some 18-wheeler's genuflect.

Abe’s hand
went up to a poor excuse for a mustache, and he scratched it with a couple bent
fingers.  He said, “Even back in the day, I didn’t pick up the white
hitchhikers.”

“Abe, I
appreciate you making the exception.”

He smiled
wide and nodded like he’d finally accepted his choice wasn’t going to turn out
to be a bad one.

“You hear
on the news about stuff all the time.  Out here, I can listen to satellite
radio because regular radio is so terribly terrible.  Mostly I like the
talk shows, but many of those are pretty incendiary,” he took a small hit of
his soda, jerked the clutch with his arm and we were at cruising speed.
 “The news is good, too, and you have to keep up.  But as for
hitchhikers, it’s simple… Now, anytime you hear about someone pulling a gun at
a club?  That’s a black guy.”

Still
trying to get comfortable, fiddling with the seat pillows, I said, “Well that
sounds a little racist.”

“No, no.
 I’m brown, so it’s not.”

“That how
it works?”

“Nobody
told you?” he said and grinned again.  “Some guy rams a van full of people
into a Chevy compact heading into San Diego, that’s a Mexican guy,” he said,
checking his mirrors.  “But, you hear about the guy who kidnaps eighteen
people, ties ‘em up, bleeds them with leeches until they’re dry and makes a
two-person tent out of their entrails--”

“White
guy.”

“Hell,
yes,” he said and stared at me.  “Crazy sonsabitches you guys are.  I
don’t know where it comes from.  Always eating someone’s pancreas and
making lampshades out of people.”

Finally
getting settled, I asked: “Is pancreas good?”

His eyes
darted toward me.  “Mine isn't.”

Chapter
Nine

We’d hit
some serious storms in Louisiana, but I’d slept through most of it.  After
Abe blew his horn at a Lexus that had weaved in front of us, no more than two
feet from the bumper, I was up for the rest of the trip.

Early on,
it had become clear to my travel companion I didn’t know the first thing about
driving a rig.  I offered to learn, but he said something about novices
frying the clutch and that had been pretty much the end of the conversation.
 Thankfully, he didn’t seem too upset nor, actually, too surprised.

Admirably,
he’d driven straight through until we finally stopped an hour inside the east
border of Texas.  Abe, my Guyanian pilot, was a machine.  

I’m sure
the White Crosses he was popping every four hours could take some of the
credit, too.  

Deeper into
the country, the sky had become dark as Midwest oil and I could see Abe was
fading.  A sign notified us that a rest stop was ahead, and I was a little
relived when he pulled the rig down the next ramp.

Before he’d
slept, he’d made me promise to wake him in exactly two hours and fifteen
minutes.

“My body
has a forty-five minute sleep cycle,” he’d explained.

“Okay.”

“And
distances like this… with the pills… I’ll need just the three sleep cycles to
make it the rest of the way.”

I popped
the door open as he slid to the back of the cab where the bed was waiting for
him.  “How’d you know you’ll fall asleep right away?”

“Right,” he
said and nodded.  “Add about two minutes to the time.”

“You can
fall asleep that fast?”

He nabbed a
pillow and punched it fluffy.  “Shouldn’t be a problem.  I fell
asleep at the wheel four times in the past half hour.”

I laughed,
dropped to the dew-damp pavement outside the cab.  “You’re kidding right?”
 The yellow windbreaker that Abe had leant me flapped slightly in the very
light breeze.

“Two hours,
seventeen minutes.  Start now.”

Walking the
lot to stretch my legs I saw that several other rigs had also parked for a
quick break, each with running lights glowing in the dark.  Closer to the
restrooms cars dotted the grass line.  One of them was small and stuffed
to the back windows with clothes, boxes, blankets… I’d moved enough times
myself to recognize someone else in the middle of that process.

When a
couple emerged from opposite bathrooms at the exact same time with puffy, tired
faces I knew they were the moving couple.  Neither said a word, a quick
smile, hands falling together like two paired magnets, intertwining briefly,
then they both headed to their respective car doors.

I found a
bank of phones next to the snack machines.  Pavan had wired me what was
left in my bank account a little after he’d hung up with me, about seventy
bucks.  

Initially,
I considered offering Abe some money for fuel but after watching him fill the
first time, I realized my donation wouldn’t get us out of the county.
 Maybe not out of the gas station.  Instead, I “sang for my supper,”
trying to keep Abe awake arguing about politics and talking about movies we’d
both seen.

The South
American Rubber Duck had lent me his phone card after I promised to reimburse
any minutes I used up.

“Glad
you’re up,” I said when Pavan answered the phone.

“I wasn’t
until the phone rang, man.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t
worry about it,” he said dismissively.  “When are you back?”

“We should
be in Birmingham by the early morning.”

“We?”

“I hitched
a ride.  Trucker from Guyana.”

“Guyana?”
Pavan said.  “You guys hauling explosive vests or something?” he said and
laughed sleepily.  

“He lives
in Birmingham, so my ride ends there.”

“Aw,
Birmingham?  I suppose you want me to come get you in the morning.”

I watched
the bugs swirl above me in the lamplight.  It seemed the swarm should have
been thicker being this far out in the sticks.  That’s when I finally
noticed that just above the collection of flying insects were a smaller, albeit
far weightier, group of bats swooping down and eating the bugs.

“No, not
right away.”

“That’s
good.  I hate getting up early.”

“No, still
get up,” I said.  “I want you to go into the library.”

“Ugh, too
much library time lately.  It’s gonna make me lame.”

Several
cars had come into the rest stop.  Riders and drivers dribbled from the
cars like drunks, heading toward the bathrooms.

“Get all
the books on tape you can,” I said, watching the zombie-like people.
 “Anything science related.”

“This about
your listening trick, Rainman?”

“Definitely
about my listening trick” I said.  “Get all you can get.  And I need
to borrow your portable CD player.”

“Busted.
 Only one channel works.”

“No, that’s
perfect, actually.”

Over the
phone, his yawn sounded a little like a deep-jungle reptile seeking a mate.
 After Pavan finished, he said.  “Anything more specific.  You
know; science… sort of a broad field.”

I thought
for a moment.  “Man, I wish I knew.  Physics, I guess.  But, not
only.  Biology, Geography.  I think a majority of the stuff at the
library up the road is fiction.  Whatever isn’t, clean them out.”

“Okay, that
shouldn’t take too long,” he said.  “I’ll gas up and head to Birmingham
after that.”

“I’ll be
headed your way from Birmingham.”

“What?
 How’s that?”

I shrugged.
 “Gonna walk a bit.  Chance to think.”

“You’re
walking from Birmingham?  On the interstate?”

“I probably
won’t even make the interstate, but yeah, I gotta walk a bit,” I glanced down
at my dirty shirt, and I looked about five months pregnant.  Obviously,
it'd be breech.  “I need to start losing weight.  Sooner the better,
I think.”

I gave him
Abe’s home address.

After we
hung up, I looked longingly at a Three Musketeers bar in the snack machine but
convinced my fingers to punch in the number next to some trail mix.  It
landed in the metal basket below with a thunk, and when I lifted it out it felt
like used kitty litter.

Holding it
to the light, hell, it looked like used kitty litter.

This was
going to take some getting used to.

I grabbed a
Coke from the machine—baby steps, right?—and walked vaguely in the direction of
Abe’s rig.

My shadow
grew large along the concrete sidewalk but dissolved into the blackness when it
met the road.  To my left was a large swath of brilliant green grass— in
the sodium lamp light it was the most emerald green grass I’d ever seen.
 I headed toward it with the idea of maybe laying down on the soft earth
and eating my half-healthy dinner.  When I saw the sign next to the
stretch of lawn that indicated this was a “dog run”, then looked down to see a
pile about ten feet away that was as large as the spare tire for a Honda Civic,
I decided to hit a nice, hard bench somewhere.

The air was
still good, not yet thick with summer’s oppressive humidity. In the weeks
heading closer and closer to the solstice, the night air still whispered
stories about the fury of winter, ice and wind that can stop the flow of time.

The night
air's sharp edge felt good in my lungs and I took in as much as I could then
breathed it out slowly.  It left me a little light-headed, and when I did
it again, slower this time, the haze of sleep lifted from my mind a little.

The bench
was colder than the night air but, within a few moments, it warmed beneath me,
no match for my bulbous bottom.  Elbows propped up on the back of the
aluminum bench, I looked upward, taking in the stars that peppered the night
sky.  

The cosmic
late-show was dulled by the very bright lights of the rest stop—the lamplight
seemed more appropriate for a prison yard, searching for reluctant tenants.
 Naturally, it was for security purposes—to protect anyone traveling,
especially foreigners who were dumping Euros or Yen or whatever ducats they
carried into our shops and stores.  You’d never see lights like these,
say, at a bus stop on Fourth and Lake in Minneapolis or anywhere down Ponce de
Leon in Atlanta.  You know the sorta places where many folks would welcome
the opportunity to turn night into day.  But out there in the middle of
nowhere, the lights are so bright the people on the International Space Station
have to pull the shades down if they want to get a good night’s sleep.

Standing
again, my knees complained.  But, I wanted to move to a darker area, away
from the bright lights of the rest stop, so that the stars were easier to see.
 

The long
cement sidewalk darkened with my every step and with each shade toward black
took with it another degree of heat from the air.  I zipped Abe’s yellow
coat to my chest.

My eyes
fell upon a silver Chevy about a hundred feet ahead of me.  The vehicle’s
sole occupant was the driver, who’d leaned the seat back, apparently hoping to
catch a few z’s between long stretches of blacktop.

If it was
dark enough to nap over that way, should make for some good stargazing.
 And, checking the watch he’d given me while he slept, I saw that Abe was
still in his first sleep cycle, leaving me with time to burn.

Taking
another scoop of trail mix in my fingers, I was thankful it was already too
dark to see exactly what sort of treasure the cellophane bag had given me.
  As I chewed, I couldn’t identify most of it because, while there
were many, many bits to get stuck into each and every tooth, there was little
taste one could savor and enjoy.

Anxious to
rinse the dry, bitter taste away, I tipped the Coke into my mouth a little too
quick, and it foamed up, and froth and bits of trail mix bubbled up to my lips
and began dripping from my chin.  I looked better suited for the green,
green path next to me rather than the sidewalk designed specifically for the
non-frothing humans.  Wiping my mouth with the jacket’s sleeve, I came
about thirty feet away from the driver napping in the Chevy.

I perked up
a little because from the curvature of the person’s body, it was apparent this
was a woman. 

And,
no
,
for my part there were
not
any illusions that a car-seat-canoodling rest
stop-rendezvous was slated for my evening's near future.  

But after
sitting next to a little brown man hopped up on speeders, which squeezed an
odd, chemical smell from his pores into the cab’s air, it was nice to see the
sensual shape of a girl’s body.

Up to my
left, the shape of a picnic table began to form in the night’s dark blues and
purples, and I planned on making that my cot for about two hours.  But,
after seeing the super-doo back on the dog run, the sidewalk seemed the best
path until I got a little closer.  

When I was
just a few feet away, the woman in the car stirred.  At first, she just
seemed restless; it’s tough to fall asleep in a car, for sure.  Then, with
the seat back, her hair draped over most of her face, I could see that she had
an eye open; now watching me.  

Instantly,
feeling horrible because she seemed to be afraid of the man coming down the
sidewalk, I thought about making my turn into the grass toward the picnic
table, but with just the one pair of shoes, and the very real possibility of a
fecal landmine, the sidewalk was still the best choice.

A moment
later, she sprang up and started the car.

“Hey!”
 I raised my hands up, arms bent at the elbows, as if she’d pulled a gun
on me.  “I’m just going to the bench up there,” I called out and pointed.
 She wouldn’t turn to me, terrified, and slammed the car in reverse.

Inside the
car, her arm flew up to the back of the passenger-side headrest and she gunned
the engine.  Seconds later, she clipped the back end of a station wagon
that was just entering the rest stop, splitting the faux wood paneling along
its doors.

The injured
car blared its horn as it spun clockwise two, if not three, times.

I said
under my breath, “Holy cats…”

As the
spinning car came to a halt, the two people in the front seat of the station
wagon fought off an avalanche of clothes and black trash bags and boxes and
what was likely the entire contents from their previous residence.  The
passenger maneuvered the front door open and a waterfall of shirts, pants and
shorts cascaded over his head, as he fell onto the ground.

In the
Chevy, the woman I’d scared to death was fumbling with the keys, trying to fire
the ignition after it had stalled.

“Are you
okay?” I called to a kid, who was trying to stand, stepping out the open door
and over a pile of clothes.  “You guys okay?”

“Shit,” he
said, stumbling.  “Yeah, I think.  Lemme check my bro’ here,” he said
and wobbled in front of the car to the driver’s side.