(Because who doesn’t like free stuff?)
Slowly Drifting into Paradise
(from the upcoming Strange Attractors anthology)
Slowly Drifting into Paradise
It was coming up dawn when I found Paradise, and everything was dogeared and fuzzy, like an old photograph that had been handled by generations of careless fingers. The car I’d hotwired outside of El Paso had given up somewhere on the outskirts of Bridgeport – why exactly, I couldn’t tell. My skills don’t run to that kind of mechanics if you follow me. I’m the type whose skills lead to two kinds of jobs – those I want to do, and the ones that I need to do. Vague, uncertain, and not the sort of thing that a guy builds a future on, but that’s kind of the way of it, isn’t it? Futures are for people with bank accounts and credit scores; people who go home to the same house and take vacations. Brand name kinda people.
In other words, folks who ain’t me. I could go on, but that might sound like I’m sorry that ain’t how my life is. I’m not, and besides, I think you get the picture.
Car dead, or at least dead enough, I flirted briefly with the idea of stealing another car for a ride out before ultimately deciding against it. In towns as small as Bridgeport, might accidentally steal the mayor’s car as easily as anyone else’s without even meaning to, and bring down unneeded heat. Attention of any kind but especially that of the law was something I worked pretty hard at not drawing. Get in, get out, get gone like the breeze – that was my way. If that meant no car and walking until I found a safer place to score a ride, then that’s how it was.
A quick check of the now dead Ford’s glovebox turned up a map; looking it over, seemed like the next closest place in the direction I was set on going was some place marked “Paradise”, which brought a laugh. The idea that Paradise would be somewhere in North Texas was surely someone’s idea of a joke, if not necessarily a very funny or good one. Probably a tiny little shitsplat that amounted to barely more than a signpost, but I figured it would work, at least well enough to allow me to sit and gather my thoughts before moving on. I could have stayed on 380, instead of picking up 114, but that would have made the next place Decatur, and I had no intention of ever going back, not after that last time. Besides, 114 would eventually lead me into Dallas proper and the chance to get out.
So, Paradise it was.
Now, nine miles may sound like a bit to walk, but it ain’t an impossible distance – no more than two or three hours, depending on if you’re a speedy type or more the ambling take-in-the-sights sort. Nine miles. Not enough to be no marathon but good enough to have some thinkin’ alone time, should you want it. I mean, there wasn’t anyone else in that car of course, but that didn’t count as real alone time. Everyone knows that. So, I walked on, letting my thoughts drift some, wandering in and out, here and there, between then and now, wondering when or how it all might end. I already knew it wasn’t gonna be gettin’ old in a fancy house or anything like that. That’s brand name people shit. Still, I wondered. I mean, not like I wanted to just sit down, wait to die or anything, but I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t want to have some idea about that.
Nobody goes on forever, not even they don’t know where they’re headed or when they’ll get there.
It hadn’t yet hit noon when I walked into Paradise; an easy breeze tugging at my hair as I stopped to take stock of just where it was that I’d come to. I stood for a minute, savoring the cool air as I observed just how quiet it was, letting the sweat dry a minute. The signpost I’d seen walking in claimed a population of 475; however, as I walked into town proper, I began to wonder if that was a misprint, or some fucked up joke, like the name.
There was nobody there. No cars tooling down the street, nobody walking on the sidewalk, not even one of them mangy ass dogs that can’t tell if it wants to bite you or piss on you that every small Texas town has at least two of. Just dust, the buildings of the town, and a lot of nothing. I mean, I know 475 ain’t a metropolis like New York or Houston or anything but I’d seen graveyards with more movement than Paradise.
I had begun to think that I’d maybe wandered into a ghost town when I caught sight of what was likely the only bar in town. Its lights were on, the sign above the door spelling out “Lucky Jim’s” in peeling paint that might have been red at some point in its past but was now just a washed-out depressed pink; as I approached, I thought I saw movement behind the darkened glass.
So that’s where everyone in Paradise is at eleven thirty in the morning, I thought. Makes sense I guess, as looks like there ain’t much else to this place. Guess maybe I can stop in, grab a brew, and set a minute to think out what next. Walking was indeed some thirsty work. I walked up but stopped outside the door, hand resting on the handle, suddenly hesitant to walk in. As I stood in front of the door, a bizarre sense of doubling hit me, like I was seeing two different versions of the place at the same time. Not sure why exactly – a hole in the wall dive bar in a tiny Texas town being the last place I’d expect that kinda thing from – but still I paused, wishing I were anywhere else but there.
But there I was, still thirsty and still needing a place to sit and get my shit together. I was just beat from all the driving and walking, and it was makin’ me a little twitchy. I shoved my momentary bad feelings aside and pushed the door open.
The first thing I noticed, after making my way inside, was just how extremely… dark it was. I’d been in enough shitty bars in enough shitty towns to know that bright light ain’t always the establishment’s friend, but the interior of Lucky Jim’s was almost dim enough to warrant putting a hand in front when trying to order a drink. Also distinctly missing was the expected smell of a place like this – usually an ageing scent of old cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and sweat, mixing in with the smell of the building’s own decline.
My eyes eventually adjusted to the gloom, allowing me to take note of the bar’s other patrons. As I let my eyes wander, that strange feeling – like I was looking at a double-exposed negative – washed over me again. For a split second, there was a wavering, causing the bartender and the other three patrons, two men and a woman, to appear not only blurred but…something else. What that other was seemed both familiar and not at the same time but passed so quickly that I figured it just a trick of the light and my being tired.
Vision cleared, I made my way to the bar itself, walking past the table where the woman sat with her empty glass. As I passed, I got the distinct feeling of eyes, looking at me intently, staring into me. But the woman never looked up once, her gaze fixed on her drink.
The two men, sitting at the opposite end of the bar, paid the same kind of attention as the woman did, which is to say none at all. If it weren’t for the sound of my bootheels on the scarred wood of Lucky Jim’s, I might have convinced myself I was still in that Ford, dying of thirst or heatstroke or a shitty gas station ham sandwich. But I could feel the slightly cool edge of the bar, the scars and nicks in the wood making themselves known as I leaned in to ask for a beer.
The bartender took my order without saying anything, wordlessly drawing my beer from a tap so worn that the logo was gone. He set it down in front of me on a battered paper napkin that looked like it had seen a few drinks before mine, turning away without looking at me.
“Thanks,” I said. “This really knocks the dust off.”
Without turning around, the bartender said, “Glad to oblige. Walkin’ is thirsty work, I imagine.” He chuckled, picked up a glass and began polishing it with a rag about as clean as the napkin he’d put under my drink.
At this I froze, glass halfway raised to my lips. Slowly, I set my drink back down, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. “How did you know I walked here?” I said. “Pretty sure I didn’t say nothin’ about that.”
This prompted even more laughter from the bartender, who set the now dubiously clean glass down and turned to face me. “Calm down now, it ain’t like it was one of them TV mysteries or anything,” he said. “I mean, I seen you walk in here, and ain’t heard no engine noises outside. Figgered you been walkin’ a fair bit. Add in your own comment about dust, and hot damn mystery done solved itself.” With that he turned around and started wiping down the bar.
I studied his face as he cleaned; neither young nor terribly old, salt and pepper hair thinning away at the crown matched by similar stubble. His face showed some lines at the mouth and forehead, but those could have easily been the marks of living in a dying nothing of a town as much as they were age. He moved further down the bar away from me, shaking his head like maybe I should feel bad for even saying something so obvious.
Now, I like a joke like everyone else but something about that dude having a laugh at my expense made my beer taste all sour. I decided right then that I’d finish my beer and leave, see if I couldn’t figure a plan out while moving. No second drink, no thank you, just go. Wouldn’t leave him no kind of tip neither, even if I’d had the money for it.
I’d about made up my mind to push my seat back and get on out when I heard the woman’s voice from behind me. “Clarence is always like that, mister. Don’t let him get to you.”
Hearing her speak, I turned around to look. She had a funny accent that I couldn’t place exactly. While clearly a Southern accent like mine, it was also not like mine, in a way I couldn’t quite place. Texan for sure, but not like ones you heard these days.
She’d turned her chair around, and was now facing the bar, one hand idly toying with her still empty glass. “Yeah, he thinks he’s funny – one of those natural born comedians that just missed his chance or something like that.” She put the glass down and looked at me, her eyes again seeming to bore into me. “Or at least, that’s what it seems like.”
“Is that so – you think he’s funny, do you?” I said, trying to shift the weight of her gaze off me.
“Does it look like I’m laughing?” Her eyes still never wavering, a small smile playing around her lips.
I studied her face as she spoke: dark brown shoulder-length fair surrounding a face with a slightly pointed chin, straight nose, and a mouth that looked like it could talk perfectly with a cigarette in it. Her eyes were brown and clear and sparkled like they liked a joke, but better if it were mean, like where the punchline involves violence or cryin’. It was a pretty enough face, but cold.
“Like what you see, stranger? Come sit down, drink with me. I promise, I won’t tell you any jokes.”
I shook my head. “Ain’t stayin’ that long, but thanks for the offer just the same.” This was met with a shrug, another smile and that same look of deep appraisal. “Suit yourself then.”
I found myself unable to break her stare; as I looked at her, that weird doubling sensation hit again, this time giving the impression of a face underneath the one I was seeing. A face that wasn’t the same as the one talking, or even one that appeared fully human. Like the previous times, this passed quickly, leaving only doubt that I even saw anything in its wake. “Ah, so then, it’s something he does for the benefit of visiting folks, then?” I heard myself saying, from somewhere far away.
She shook her head. “We don’t see too many people here these days. It’s pretty much always just us.” Another smile twitched at her lips. “Certainly not ones like you, anyhow.”
There was something in the way that she said that last part; it wasn’t the words themselves but how she said them, almost wistful- like. I said, “Ones like me? What exactly you mean by that?”, my tongue feeling suddenly weirdly thick in my mouth.
“Oh,” she said. “I mean, still living.” She picked up the glass again, turning it around in her hands. “At least for now.”
That weird doubling sensation came again as she stood up, set her glass on the table, and started walking towards me, smiling. Only this time, that feeling didn’t pass, but lingered, revealing a face with an impossibly large mouth and far too many teeth, grinning hungrily as it approached. “I think for now is about to become used to be, though.” She laughed cruelly, teeth glinting. “Clarence might like a slower lead up, given that he still thinks he’s some kind of comedian, but I hate to be kept waiting for long. I’m not much in favor of delayed gratification.”
“You really should have had that drink.”
Shit. Of all the bars in all the deadass Texas towns I could stumble into, I just had to go and find the one that had not only lame bartender comedy but also hungry vampire…things. I knew I should have stolen a better car, or at the very least, stayed in the one I’d had until I’d thought up a better plan.
Stalling for time, I said, “Okay, but what about them two boys over there?”, indicating the two men at the far end of the bar who hadn’t moved or said anything during all of this. “Oh, those two?” The woman shrugged. “Ray and Bobby there just do whatever Clarence wants or says. At least Ray does. Bobby mostly just sits there. He might actually even be dead.” She turned her gaze back on me. “You want to run or beg, this would your chance. I mean, I’m still going to get you, kill you, feast on your corpse and all, but I admit – I DO like it when you try to get away. Just gives it that extra something, you know?” she said, rubbing her hands together and laughing again.
At this, Clarence started, looking upset. “Hey now, Rhoda, don’t you be messin’ my place up now –”
“Shut up, Clarence,” snarled Rhoda. “He’s my kill, so I do it however I damn well want. You just stay back there and see if you can’t finally learn how to make a Manhattan that doesn’t taste like sewage.”
At this, Clarence visibly wilted and picked up another pint glass. “Well, don’t gotta be so mean all the time, Rhoda. Just…try not to break stuff, okay? And maybe leave me a lil, if there’s any leftovers.” Sighing, he turned back around, facing a bar that I belatedly realized had no mirror.
Rhoda sighed. “Fine, you get whatever I don’t want.” She turned back towards me. “Now as I was saying – you want to run or beg, maybe even try and fight me a little, now would be the perfect time.” She stopped and stood facing me, looking at me appraisingly. “Or perhaps you just want me to get it all over with. I mean, you do seem like the type who isn’t much for prolonging things.”
Rhoda licked her lips and winked. “So, stranger…what will it be?”
“Think you might reconsider, if I change my mind about that drink?”
Rhoda just shook her head. “It would have been nicer if you had, as company is pretty hard to come by. But no, I’d still kill you, drink or not.”
Shit, I thought. All the damn signs were there that something about this place wasn’t right, and I just kept trying to pass em off. I get eaten here, I may well deserve it.
Still, the idea of just plain surrendering to whatever nasty ass thing Rhoda wanted didn’t sound appealing. No matter how bad I’d messed this up, it just wasn’t in me to go quietly. If she ate me, she ate me – but I wasn’t handing her no knife and a fork.
I looked Rhoda dead in the eye, backing up a bit while feeling around to make sure I didn’t run into something. Mustering all the calm I didn’t really have, I said, “Well, it’s funny – not like one of Clarence’s attempts to be funny or nothin’ but funny all the same – but I ain’t really the running or begging type. Any more than I’m the stand here and let some mouthy bitch talk about how they’re gonna kill me type.” At this, Rhoda hissed. “So, you wanna come eat me or whatever, you best stop talking and come give it your best. I warn you though, I ain’t that tasty.”
Rhoda laughed mockingly. “Feisty, I see. I like that.” Grinning even wider, she said, “I promise that this is going to hurt…a lot!” and closed in. As she lunged forward, I stepped back to avoid colliding with the edge of the bar behind me. As Rhoda lunged again, I hit back with the first thing I could find, slamming my empty beer glass as hard as I could into her face. I was more than reasonably sure that wouldn’t kill her, or even seriously injure, but I figured it might throw her off enough to buy some time or trip up.
The glass met her face with a satisfying crunch; as she jerked her head back, hissing, I could see I’d caught her at just the perfect angle as to score on both eye and nose. Rhoda pulled back, glass bristling from both nose and cheek, a thick black foul-smelling substance oozing around the punctures. A large sliver had managed to penetrate one eye, remaining stubbornly lodged as she shook her head to clear it. “Ooooh, you’re going to pay for that,” she snarled. “I will make you die in ways you can’t even begin to imagine!” Enraged, she picked up her chair and hurled it at me, missing my head by a bare inch as it shattered against the bar.
Damn. Even with one eye gone and a face all fucked up with glass in it, she had plenty of strength left. I tried real hard not to think about that as I looked around the bar for something to help me.
“Think I fucked up your aim a bit, what with that missing eye and all,” I called out. “Maybe we ought to reconsider the whole “you killing and eating me thing”, huh? I mean, given the circumstances,” edging over to the remains of the chair while trying to keep in line with her now bad eye. “I’m game if you are. No hard feelings.”
This provoked more snarling laughter from Rhoda. “Oh, not so tough now, are we, with that pathetic attempt at begging off?” She worked her mouth for a moment, spitting both broken teeth and glass on the floor. “I don’t need that eye to kill you. I don’t need any eyes to kill you – your blood is practically begging me to come drink it!” Hissing and screaming, she dove at me again, arms pistoning out to grab.
I threw myself back toward the floor as Rhoda lunged at me, raising my arms as I went. The combination – my backwards slide and her downward trajectory – made it impossible for her to avoid collision with the bits of broken bar chair clutched in my fists. I slammed the one in my right hand deep into her neck as she struggled in vain to free herself from the wooden spike lodged deeply in her chest.
I shoved Rhoda off me, and quickly slid to get away from her. Last thing I needed was to be trapped under some angry vampire thing trying to kill me, dying or not. As I stood, trying to regain my balance, I heard her jagged laughter, whistling around the wood jammed in her neck. “Missed, tough guy. You MISSED!”
Christ. What was it going to take to get this murderous bitch to quit? I was turning around to face her when she sprang, driving us both back to the floor, pinning me under. I struggled to free myself of her grip, but Rhoda held fast, leering. “Oh, looks like you’re out of tricks. How sad.” She leaned forward, a mixture of that blackish crap and spittle dripping from her chin. “Guess the fun is over, huh?”
“Well, shit, I guess it is,” I said between gritted teeth, her sneering face inches from mine. “I really didn’t wanna end like this.”
She nodded. “A pity you don’t win anything for guessing right.” Cocking her head to the side, she laughed, opening wide to show a mouth full of fangs. “Oh, I guess you DO. You win death!”
Fuck, the people in this town and their shitass jokes. It might actually be better to die here if it meant not having to listen to this shit anymore. I steeled myself in preparation of her teeth as she bit down, tearing into my neck. From the corner of my eye, I could see Clarence just standing there frozen, a tormented look on his face, like he wanted to join in or run away and couldn’t decide so figured it just better to do nothing. He still had a glass and that nastyass dishrag in his hands.
Ray and Bobby were still just sitting there, unmoving. There might have been a fly sitting on Ray’s nose, but I couldn’t be sure.
For a whole two seconds there was a dead silence in Lucky Jim’s, like all the air inside wooshed out, followed by a sucking sound. I could feel Rhoda’s teeth click together as they bit for better purchase, causing black sunbursts to go off behind my eyes.
Fuck. That really hurt.
There was a sudden strangled hissing scream as Rhoda withdrew from my neck. I could see her mouth rapidly blackening, lines radiating outward over the rest of her face. “What…what is…what IS THIS?!” she screamed. “What are you?!” I could see smoke starting to come off her as I pushed her away, scrambling to get up.
“What’s the matter, Rhoda – you eat something that disagreed with you?” I said, moving away from her. She groaned, whether in pain or from my lame wisecrack, I couldn’t say. “I done tried to give you a chance. I warned you and everything, but noooooo, had to be all “I’m gonna enjoy killing and eating you”, didn’t you?” To this she said nothing, her moans becoming more indistinct as the blackness spread, her flesh starting to peel away in raggedy strips. “Couldn’t just let it all go, maybe have another drink, listen to more of Clarence’s shitty jokes, could you?”
The flesh started to fall off Rhoda’s body faster, not so much meltin’ like a candle but just falling off in chunks, leaving her skeleton exposed as she crumpled to the floor, the air filling with the smell of shit, vinegar and old menthol cigarettes strong enough to make my eyes burn.
I stood up, kicking what was left of the rapidly decaying Rhoda as far away from me as I could. I turned to look at the bar, where Clarence stood, still transfixed with horror or indecision, glass frozen in mid-polish.
Ray and Bobby still hadn’t moved.
I looked over at Clarence. “Strange blood, Clarence, strange blood. Less than one percent of the world’s people have it, giving em a concentration of metals and other things that leave em more proof against well, folks like y’all. I tried to convince your friend to back off, but she wanted to try me all the same. Hopefully you and your two useless dick licks there don’t feel like that.”
Clarence said nothing. Ray and Bobby just sat there.
Trying to hide my relief, I put a smile on my face, like having a crazed vampire thing biting my neck wasn’t no more than a mosquito bite, or a tick, albeit a really fuckin’ smelly one. “Right then,” I said. “I kinda hoped y’all might see it that way.” I looked around at the mess – broken chair, overturned tables, broken glass, and a pile of blackish goop that resembled a large dust bunny made of shit, only worse-smelling – before turning back to look at Clarence, Ray, and Bobby. “I think here’s where I take my leave. I think it’s probably best y’all not get no sudden changes of heart about that.”
Clarence and his human bar decorations kept their silence, apparently in agreement.
I started to walk towards the door but stopped midway. Turning back around, I said, “Hey, Clarence. How ‘bout a drink for the road? Make me one of them Manhattans – surely can’t be as bad as ol’ girl was making it sound.”
Clarence didn’t move or say anything, but just stood there, still frozen.
“Unless of course you want me to stay here longer, hang out…maybe meet some of your other friends or something?” I said, louder.
At this, Clarence jumped. “What?” he stammered. “Oh, Manhattan. Yes, yes, coming right up.” I could see his hands shaking a little as he dithered around behind the bar. At one point I was sure he was about to shake the shaker out of his hands completely, he was so flustered. I guess watching a stranger brutally slaughter a regular can have that effect. Or could be he was just jumpy, or simply had bad shaker technique, I wasn’t sure. But he finally finished, pouring it with only a little slopping over before sliding it nervously at me.
I picked the drink up, smiling to show that the fight was over, and I meant no further harm. I took a sip, causing alarm bells to go off in both tongue and brain.
That was one seriously nasty cocktail. It tasted the way Rhoda’s remains smelled.
I could feel his eyes on me, watching nervously, as if Clarence either expected me to leap over the bar and kill him or drop dead in my tracks from the drink. I briefly toyed with the idea that he might have indeed poisoned me before deciding, nah, Rhoda was right – Clarence was just a shitty bartender whose Manhattans tasted closer to the sewers of New York than actual whiskey. I put the glass back down on the bar gently, to avoid spilling any on me and subsequently being forced to amputate.
“Well, while I appreciate the effort, I gotta say – Rhoda was right on that one.” At this, Clarence’s face drooped. “I mean, damn it man – what are you doing, shaking it with rat turds or something?” He mumbled something about bitters and how maybe they weren’t good anymore. “I think maybe you wanna check and make sure them things is actually bitters and not…I dunno. Gawd, what a taste.” I spat.
As I spoke, I could see Clarence’s face getting sadder and sadder – almost to a point where I felt bad about everything, maybe tell him with practice and some new bitters it would be okay. Then I remembered that he was some sort of undead vampire thing who would have eaten me, along with his now dead friend who’d tried to kill me – all for just stopping by their hangout. Him, Rhoda, and presumably those two dick licks Ray and Bobby, a bunch of blood drinkin’ somethings that I probably shouldn’t apologize to.
They did want to kill and eat me after all.
I didn’t really want to apologize to someone who, while not directly trying to kill me would have happily feasted on my corpse, but damn if Clarence’s sad looks made me feel like I done kicked a puppy while wearing pointy-ass boots.
I also did not want to have to drink anything else.
Clearly, it was way past time to leave. I turned around to avoid any more of Clarence’s sad puppy looks and headed to the door, calling out, “Y’all remember what I said now. Strange blood, hear me?” I shoved it open, the bright light and heat of a Texas afternoon hitting me hard enough to make me wonder if Rhoda wasn’t going to be the only thing reduced to ash.
I stepped out of Lucky Jim’s onto the still-dead streets of Paradise, trying for all the world to look like everything was fine, or at least as fine as it gets when a person has a near-death encounter with not just the undead, but the worst fuckin’ Manhattan ever made. I made my way up the main street to get out of sight of the bar, walking like a hardcore drinker one point away from losing his license. I was pretty sure Clarence, Ray and Bobby weren’t gonna suddenly grow balls or initiative and come after me, but pretty sure ain’t much. I mean, I’d been pretty sure most Texas bars didn’t have no vampires either, and well, look how that shit went.
I’d gotten about four blocks away from that bar before I figured I could pause a second and get my bearings. I’d been exhaling pretty heavily in my exit from Lucky Jim’s, not only to get my heart to stop leaping around in my chest like a meth-addicted frog, but also to help purge every bit of Clarence’s Manhattan from my system. I stepped in the shade of the overhang of Bob’s Sunoco, and after checking to make sure there wasn’t no hungry Bob hiding somewhere, I took a look at my hands to make sure I’d walked all them post-fight jitters out.
My hands appeared perfectly still. “Well, would ya look at that? Steady like a goddamn surgeon, y’all!” I said before proceeding to vomit all over the gas pump to my left in what felt like an unending shower of residual fear, adrenaline, vampire spit and Clarence’s turd of a Manhattan. My knees buckled and I fell face first into the dust, narrowly avoiding my own mess as everything went black and away for a moment.
After what felt like an eternity, my vision finally cleared, and I sat up. As the world came into better focus, I realized that no matter my prior hesitations it seemed that I was again going to have to boost a car and ride out. Walking was out of the question. Even though I felt better, I seriously doubted I would make it out okay, what with the heat, the walking, the vampire bar fight and alcohol poisoning, and everything. It’d be just my luck to survive all that only to fall down, knock myself out cold and end up being sad sack Clarence’s snack after all.
Besides, if everyone in Paradise was like Rhoda and her friends, I doubt they were going to miss or care much. Somehow, I didn’t feature on things like that being the type for road trips.
Two blocks further up, I found an old Chevy pickup truck that looked like the engine had turned over at least once since the last presidential election. There were other cars there of newer vintage but way I saw it, an old pickup truck tooling around Texas at any given hour wouldn’t raise no eyebrows and allow me to move on with no issue. Don’t think I could have gotten more “typical Texas sight” with that pickup unless I were an armadillo driving it while eatin’ a bowl of chili and listening to Willie Nelson sing about them blue eyes cryin’. So I jimmied the window, crossed a couple of wires, and boogied on out, Dallas bound.
I was heading down 114 coming up on Boyd when it occurred to me that I didn’t have to ride in silence. I switched on the radio in time to hear the DJ enthusing about a classic from a “Dallas boy who made it pretty big” before the first strains of “Paradise by The Dashboard Light” filled the truck’s cab. Ahh Meat Loaf, I thought. If you only knew that the only thing better than the dashboard light was seeing Paradise disappear in a dust cloud in the rearview mirror.
I put the pedal down to give the Chevy some more gas and drove south towards destiny, the Texas sun blazing and winking with the hot fury of Rhoda’s hungry grin.