The once-heavy backpack banged against my knees as I slipped in
the roadside mud.
"Damn," I thought, too tired to vocalize my frustration, "hope it's
still okay." I could have opened the flap and checked, but I needed
both hands to regain my feet and scrape off the worst of the yellow
Missouri clay. I was getting close to home. I'd take it on faith that
the Gods wouldn't shit on me _again_.
There was no particularly good reason for faith, and the recent past
surely contained no Deific-crap-free pattern . . . but there it was. "
Hope springs eternal."
Life seemed to be on an ever-upward spiral just weeks ago when I left
for a weekend convention in Southern California. I kissed Val goodbye
and wiped the corners of her eyes with a fingertip.
"Don't worry, My Funny Valentine! I'll be back in a few days and I'll
bring you something special from the Coast."
She tucked her head into the hollow of my neck, I hugged her, then
climbed into my cold pickup, shivering in the icy predawn January fog. The
heater would barely get warm by the time I arrived at the little airport.
The airline should have been my first omen of coming doom. When I
arrived in St. Louis, I was told my flight had been canceled. I had to
wait three hours for another, screwing up my ground-transport arrangements
out on the Coast. Sure enough, Larry and Chris had long since left, it
never having occurred to them to check with the TWA counter to see what
flight I was actually on. What can you expect of writers, though --
practicality? Certainly not in many cases I've seen.
After griping with the airline service desk over their delays, they
finally agreed to give me a shuttle-bus coupon to the hotel where the
Jacksonville West Writers' Punathon was scheduled. I knew it had to be
the right place when I spotted eight overweight women dressed in nun's
habits dancing in a conga line, singing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" to
a calypso beat. The hotel staff seemed to be frozen in shock.
Stage two of the "shit on Mark" process began at the front desk. "We're
sorry, Mr. Matthews, but we show your reservation as canceled."
"CANCELED?! That was a prepaid reservation!"
"Sorry, sir."
"Sorry don't cut it. Just get back into your computer and UN-cancel me!"
"We'd love to, sir, but we're full up, sold out for the weekend. You
could go next door and they'll honor our convention rates."
"Swell. YOU have my money, y'know."
"No, we don't. We mailed a refund back to Missouri yesterday."
Damn! MasterCard and Visa were in their usual state of nearly-maxxed-out,
and I knew that touching American Express would bring a flying hit-squad
down on me. I carefully calculated, and decided I could still get a room
and survive the weekend if I was frugal with my cash.
I smiled at the desk clerk. "Thank you for your assistance. Now I
understand why people out here take Ak-47s to schoolyards. They're
afraid the kids will grow up into Californians."
The Gods seemed to have found a different toidy-target for most of
the weekend. Puns flew fast and thick through the hotel, prompting a
run on barf bags. Karen Rhodes, Guest-of-Dishonor, had 'em puking in
the aisles at the banquet. A local TV news crew came to do a report
and left in a state of nausea. Strangers recognized me: "Hossie? The
prime horse-pun _artiste_?" I could usually dodge the sucker-punches
aimed at me although one kid with a ball-bat got closer than I liked.
Known as the best when it comes to leading people into pun-traps, I won
the Master Baiter award.
Sorry. I almost forgot this is supposed to be a tale of pathos and
romance.
* * *
Anyway, things went well -- until time to leave. I even had enough money
to buy Valentine the present I'd promised to bring her. The airport gift
shop had a small heart-shaped box of oat-bran chocolates . . . only in
California, huh? I knew Val would appreciate the goodies and the thought
behind them.
With almost an hour before boarding time I checked in the luggage
and just kept my backpack with the candy and a few items of
personal jewelry that I didn't wish to trust to TWA's tender
mercies. I went outside where there were a few designated
smoking areas and chatted with the skycaps. The first time a bus
passed and made the structure rumble I jumped in alarm. "Was
that an earthquake?" Rodney, a middle-aged black 'cap smiled at
the ignorant "Missouri mule."
"Naw, that's the way the building's designed: to give a little
instead of cracking up. Don't worry, sir, you're perfectly
safe."
He pointed to the busses and I felt the rumble each time they
passed a particular point. I settled my nerves and lit another
cigarette in a foredoomed attempt to load my bloodstream with
enough nicotine to last four hours in the air. I took my first
drag when the biggest bus in history must have driven by.
By now you know that the earthquake of '95 was "The Big One"
everyone had talked about for years. At least, I hope it was. I
can't see how there could be a bigger one without totally
wrecking the planet.
After an eternity of noise and motion, the world went nearly
silent. The air was clogged with dust, the sun making only a
sickly-yellow glow in the haze.
By some perverted miracle I found myself still holding my
cigarette, still lit, only half burned away. The quake couldn't
possibly have lasted such a short time.
The terminal buildings were rubble, all the high-rises I
remembered seeing only moments before were gone, the highway
overpasses lay flat. As the dust began to settle, the glow of
flames became visible all around the area. Jetliners, cars, gas
mains, filling stations -- all seemed to ignite at once. My
hearing returned and I realized the silence had been illusion.
Fires roared, people screamed; the earth and the city groaned.
I had no idea how far the damage stretched, or how big a quake it
was. People on the East Coast knew a lot more about the quake a
lot sooner than the people who were in it. Although it took a
couple of hours, the news vultures were eventually flying over
three utterly-devastated counties. "Greater Los Angeles" was
wiped out. Lacking their aerial viewpoint or a means to receive
their live telecasts I could only see what was in my immediate
vicinity.
I looked down into Rodney's smiling . . . dead . . . face. A
piece of concrete canopy had landed on him. I could see the
reinforcing rod which had pierced his brain, likely killing him
before it pushed him down. I couldn't see anyone else still
erect. I couldn't even see human movement.
I shit my pants.
Fantasies are very human things. Idle moments are spent
daydreaming of the perfect love, winning millions of dollars,
revenge, or even Rescuing The Fair Maiden. I'd whiled away a few
hours visualizing what I'd do if I was nearby a disaster: how
I'd dig through the rubble with bare hands and save an infant and
his grandmother from Certain Death, how I'd brave the flames of a
burning building to bring out a 7-year-old girl's kitten, or
apply CPR to the President after all his guards had been wiped
out in a poison-gas assassination attempt. In every case I would
graciously accept the kudos of officials and public with obvious
modesty and heroic mien.
Somehow fantasies aren't real. Hmmm. . .
Maybe it might be different if I was on the outside of a
disaster, looking in. Maybe then I would summon hidden reserves
of courage and selflessly risk life and limb to Do The Right
Thing. Maybe. But in the '95 Quake, I was no hero. I hadn't
grown up on shaky ground, didn't have any idea what to expect
next. Give me a tornado, give me a flood; I know what to do.
Car wrecks? No problem. But I was stranded in a city which had
frightened me _before_ it fell down. Too much traffic, too many
roads, TOO MANY PEOPLE!
People. People! They would be scared, too. They'd be hungry.
They would rob me, kill me, eat my fat-marbled flesh.
I ran as best I could. It was really pretty easy now that the
urban terror had been instantly converted to wilderness. Years
of deep woods hunting experience, years of fence-jumping at night
while dodging farmer's watchdogs and rural patrol cars--I made it
to the edge of the city intact, although it took a few days. I
hoped Val was all right. She'd be worried about me, but the
neighbors knew where I was going and would look in on her, making
sure she had all she needed, doing the things she couldn't do for
herself. I hoped so, anyway.
I ran until I encountered a National Guard aid post at the edge
of the destruction. I later found out I could have gone a few
hundred yards west to the beach and been picked up right away,
but instinct made me head east towards home. The Gods were doing
their number again.
I still carried my backpack. Tobacco was long gone, but the
Guardsmen gave me a hard time about the jewelry until I showed
them my initials engraved in it. They said they'd started
shooting looters on sight two days before.
I got a bowl of hot soup, a quick medical checkover, and a truck
ride to a refugee camp in the Valley. I waited in line for six
hours for the chance to send a message via ham radio to the
neighbors, telling them I was alive and trying to return home,
asking them to make sure Valentine was eating okay. I hoped it
would get through. There were no phone cables, most microwave
links had been broken, and the few satellite channels available
through portable uplinks were reserved for official business and
the news media. Publicity Hath Its Privileges.
At the camp, I learned that it could take weeks before transport
was available since all traffic west of the Rockies was under
Federal control, limited to essentials due to fuel shortages
caused by the quake.
I couldn't face the thought of such a delay. I listened to the
rumors of plans to form the refugees into "voluntary rescue
brigades" and couldn't face the thought of going back into that
massive graveyard, either. Again I put my stealth skills to work
and found a railroad switching yard. Most of the eastbound
trains were empty cars, so I had little trouble sneaking a ride.
The switchman who found me was nice enough about the whole thing
and even shared his lunchbox with me, but that only lasted until
Eastern Arizona where yard detectives gave me the bum's rush.
Even Arizona was under modified martial law as far as food
supplies and traffic were concerned. I managed to trade my
diamond ring for a couple of pounds of black-market beef jerky
and a ride in the back of a cattle truck. It wasn't so bad once
I got used to the stink, and the warm bodies were welcome as the
road climbed.
I must have gotten close to one percent of the ring's value. I
was satisfied with the deal.
It would have been nice if my coat hadn't been checked in with my
baggage -- but it would have been nicer if the quake had hit two
hours later than it did, or never happened at all. I stole a
coat I found hanging in a Texas barn.
The beef jerky held out to Oklahoma City. My watch brought a
better return at a pawn shop, enough to buy a bus ticket home.
I lost it.
The Gods were still playing with me, I suppose.
I counted the few dollars that remained, shrugged, bought a pound
of bologna and a loaf of bread, a pack of cigarettes, and headed
for the turnpike. Home was only four hours away.
Like hell.
Three days of sleeping under bridges, short rides, hiking,
dodging Highway Patrol cars, and muttering at fate brought me to
Joplin. I called a friend with my last quarter. He gave me a
ride to the airport where I found my truck still parked, still
intact. I had my wedding ring, my backpack, my clothes, a stolen
coat, and that silly box of candy for Val. I was alive, and had
a wealth of material to write about. My ordeal was over.
Until the engine locked up, a blown piston two miles from home at
three in the morning.
I pounded my forehead against the steering wheel a few times,
sighed, and began to walk. It was warm for the middle of
February -- warm enough to thaw the ground and turn it into slime.
I walked on the blacktop. I almost made it when a drunk driver
came swerving down the road, inspiring me to make closer
acquaintance with the roadside ditch.
Back on the road, I paused to recover my breath, then began
laughing. The Gods' plans must not have included killing me,
because another drunk driver -- or a sober one -- could have knocked
me off as I staggered down the last mile, laughing crazily.
One last hill up the private gravel road and into my driveway.
Home at last! Scrape the mud from my battered tennis shoes,
unlock the door, step over the cats demanding a treat, and walk
back to the far end of the trailer.
I opened the door and turned on the light. Val awoke with a
start, blinked, then stood and walked away. She stopped, turned,
and glared accusations.
"Val! My Funny Valentine!"
Silence.
"It wasn't my fault. Honest!"
Silence.
"Look, I even remembered to bring you a present. Candy! Today's
St. Valentine's day, and I brought Valentine some Valentine's
candy in a Valentine's heart."
Silence.
I opened the box and held a piece out for her to see.
Finally, she slowly approached. She sniffed the oat-bran
chocolate then snuffled it from my fingers, munching
appreciatively. At last she broke the silence with a low
whicker.
We shared the candy there on the back porch stoop, then she again
rested her head in the hollow of my neck. I rubbed her ears and
scratched her mane.
My Pretty Pony; My Funny Valentine.
Copyright 1994 George Willard
========================= # # # ============================
Rather like the description of the Marquis deSade in some dictionaries,
George might be defined as "an American writer and pervert," but he'd
rather be known as someone with a twisted, curmudgeonly sense of humor.
42-going-on-ninety, he lives in rural Joplin, MO with two cats, three
horses, and the occassional stray writer or other pets.
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