There were no “ifs” or “one days” any more. Eric had quit his job to pursue his dream, and was now unemployed, with rent coming due in a week. This was what he had been warning himself of for months: the idea that he could be a successful writer would come with a cost. This was a very real cost with very real consequences. And yet, to some degree, those costs did not matter in the least, because Eric was free.
Freedom brought an even bigger problem: what to do with it. Scholars have and will struggle for years with the definition of “freedom.” They will scratch their heads over the idea of “liberty”,
and what it means to be free.
Tabasco, now he’s free. I see him running over freshly dewed grass and patches of dirt or rock without a care in the world. He knows that someone is going to clean him up. I see him peeing by that tree or pooping on that sidewalk because he knows that it will get cleaned up. Or, perhaps it’s that Tabasco has never had to worry about it being picked up, and so really he doesn’t think about it at all.
These were the thoughts filling Eric’s head on the day after he quit his job. He had taken a large poop on his life, and now someone had to clean it up and spray it with Lysol, so that it would smell good again.
On that particular morning, Eric looked around his neighborhood from the surprisingly poignant view of his front lawn, and noticed the previously unnoticed. It seemed like a cliché to Eric, but it really was true what “they” said: the colors were brighter, and the world’s soundtrack was now on high volume around him. His dog returned to his leg and waited patiently for the cue to return to the house. Eric did not walk back to the house. No, instead he summoned Tabasco to the back of his Jeep Grand Cherokee, and then loaded himself into the driver’s seat. He had second thoughts, ran to the front door, opened it, and then shut and locked it.
The coffee pot’s on.
So, he unlocked the door, jogged toward the coffee pot, and turned it off.
I’m really tired from last night, damn insomnia. How comfortable would that couch feel…
So, Eric strutted over to the couch, took the cushions off, and tossed them out of his back door, onto the wet grass. Now they were wet, soggy, and outside.
Not comfortable anymore. Get the hell out of this town for once in your life.
From the backyard, he could hear Tabasco barking out front. So, Eric Dunbar locked the back door of his house, and did not return.
--
Tabasco’s tail had not been this still in 5 years. It was always moving in some way, and never rested for more than a few seconds. He was a hyper dog by nature, and had only calmed down in the last few years. In 2006 when Eric decided he wanted a companion to kick off his newly acquired bachelorhood with, he inquired down at the local animal shelter about a calm, easily manageable dog that a single male guy could take care of around a full-time job. The young, distracted girl at the counter that morning must have had an incredibly sarcastic sense of humor.
Or she had a problem with his haircut.
These were the only two explanations Eric could come up with that night as he watched a scruffy, small dog terrorize his living room with a ferocity far outweighing Tabasco’s 20 pounds. Eric had to smile in spite of the situation, and imagine the wry smile that must have parted the young girl’s lips as he walked naively out of the shelter with, what was at the time, a calm dog. As the crazed canine jotted toward him with a piece of his loafer in his mouth, expecting some sort of reward for fetching properly, Eric thought back to that morning, when Tabasco was sitting patiently in the back of the kennel, almost scoffing at all of the other typically-hyper-dogs ready for adoption.
Eric was reminded of the first time he saw Tabasco as he watched his faithful, loving dog for the last time. Eric was standing in line with Tabasco, unleashed, at the animal shelter in Portland. Tabasco did not look sad or anxious, but more stoic. Eric Dunbar was not seeing things, nor did he believe that a domestic dog was capable of feeling, much less displaying, complicated human emotions. And yet, Tabasco was doing just that.
“I’m sorry. I..I just am, Tabasco,” Eric breathed with an exhausted sigh. “IT’s time for me to move on, ok buddy? I know you can’t understand me right now, and that you’re going to absolutely hate me for leaving, but I have to take that leap. And you can’t come with me. No, Tabasco you just can’t come with me today.”
Eric was tearing up. Tabasco’s tail quivered with anticipation on the words “go” and “me”. These words triggered Tabasco’s normal response to the popular phrases, “do you wanna go on a walk” and “come with me.” And Eric knew it. He fought back a tear, and began to draw attention to them in the busy Portland Animal Shelter as he bent down, put Tabasco’s front legs on his shoulders, and embraced him. He tugged at his best friend’s furry neck and managed a tearful laugh as his dog licked his cheek. Tabasco was saying, “goodbye" to Eric.
The volume was turned up, the windows down. Eric’s head was back in Portland, but his Grand Cherokee was on I-78 in southeast Oregon, heading to Whoknows, USA. He missed his dog, but he knew he would miss the unknown more if he turned around now. Tabasco was probably not frantically scratching at the door, wondering why the tall man who has let him out everyday for the past 5 years to poop on the grass was not there today.
Probably.
The minutes thinking about Tabasco turned into miles left behind him, helped along by Eric’s diverse, yet equally popular-filled music collection. His hands beating along on the steering wheel, left foot tapping near the brake pedal, Eric scanned the road back and forth as he sang as loud, and badly, as possible, not a care in the world.
Except all of them.
During the break between each song, Eric had no job, was hundreds of miles from his safe, comfortable bed, and had just given away his best friend. However, once the hypnotizing down beats started rattling his cheap speakers, Eric was lost in the world of the lyrics, not a care in the world. It was incredibly cliché, but Eric became lost in the music. The high, melodramatic voices of Phoenix, MGMT, Passion Pit, and even a little Dave Matthews became laden in the cloth interior of Eric’s Jeep. He burned through three CD’s before the 1000 mile mark, switching to radio in every substantial town he came to in order to get a little local culture.
The first stop he made, other than a gas station in the middle of Oregon off of Interstate 84, was at the Idaho welcome station. Normally, he would have just passed on into the potato state, given the courtesy two honks, and moseyed on down the road. Today, however, he was leaving his home state of six years, and Eric thought it fitting to stop and see what all the fuss was about. Why was everyone telling him to get out? Why was his “positional” elsewhere? What, exactly, the hell was wrong with Oregon?
--
“That’s why I’m asking you,” Eric exasperated one last time. This welcome center employee was surely making less than minimum wage, because her job certainly reflected that.
“Listen, I am simply inquiring as to the most basic of facts about your fine state here, and you seem hell-beant on underwhelming me with ‘I’m not sure’ and ‘I wasn’t told about that’. Just give me a damn answer as to what is so great about the state I just drove over 350 mile to be in!”
The poor girl stammered. Eric knew he was being unfair and unkind, but this was his reaction to realizing that maybe he should not have left, after all. Sure, he had doubted his decision hundreds of times since the day before, but now he was truly regretting it, and Mandy from Cute Town, Idaho wasn’t helping.
“I..I…I’m terribly sorry, sir.”
“Don’t call me that”, Eric almost snarled. He was dangerously close to being rude. Being rude to innocent, stupid as they may be, but innocent nonetheless, people was one of his pet peeves.
“I just mean…I’m not that much older than you. I know you’re trying to be polite, Mandy, but you can just reply. You don’t have to put the traditional formal address on the end of each of your sentences.” Now, Eric was being a smart-ass.
“Well sir, if you’re asking me to recite facts about Idaho, then yes, I can do that. But that’s not what you want now, is it?”
Good Lord, this girl has figured me out within three minutes of conversation. How’s that possible, Eric frantically thought. No one was supposed to know about his journey South. Not even Mandy, the cashier at the Idaho Welcome Station on I-84 East.
“You called me sir again. I guess I can live with this ironic rudeness if you’ll help me out with this map.”
Eric plopped down an old, musty map on the counter, haphazardly pushing aside the brochure holder and the phone book. He unfolded it to show the entire Pacific Northwest, and jabbed an impatient finger at the state line, messily tracing the route of I-84 East, down through Idaho and into Utah. Mandy nodded along nervously as he mumbled out towns he intended to pass through, ones that also showed up on the map.
He looked up at his audience upon reaching the Salt Flats of Utah, slightly off track. He had always wanted to go there, ever since his boyhood fantasies of fast super cars turned into an honest study of them.
There. How do I get there?
“There,” Eric said out loud, finger still covering the Salt Flats, “I want to go there.”
The door dinged, and in walked a road-hardened trucker with salted sweat stains on the brim of his cap and down the sleeves of his denim long-sleeve. He was on a mission, and that mission included at business-only conversation with the help at the desk: whether that be a old man named Earl, minding his business as well as the lobby of the center, or a cute young thing named Mandy.
“Well ‘cuse me, miss, but I need to borrow your phone and the yellow pages, got a sorta important call that’s ten minutes past due.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Mandy said, almost too sarcastically, with a wry smile at Eric, “but the phone is restricted to employee use. I can offer you the phone book, but I’m afraid we have no public telephone for free. Pay phones just there behind you,” and Mandy motioned with a nod and flip of her brunette hair.
This girl was not ditzy nor dumb. Lazy, yes. Immaturely unmotivated for her job? Probably so. But not dumb.
The gentle smile quickly faded from the trucker’s face, and he whipped his upper lip before continuing. “Now look here, young lady. I don’t intend to pay for this call. This is important business, something that you wouldn’t understand at your age,”
Mandy scowled, obviously offended, and fired, “I’m 23 years old. I’m quite sure that I can understand and handle any little problem that may cause you the need of this phone so badly.”
“Do not interrupt me, ma’am,” the trucker thundered with an abandon clearly fit of his situation. He didn’t give a damn who he upset, or who heard him get upset; he needed that phone. He continued, “I’m a citizen of this country, and I’m passing through your otherwise-fine state here to get north: to get home. I need to use your phone right now, or I really will get rude. Now please.”
Eric’s mind processed a several different things at once. If the trucker was going to become violent, which seemed unlikely but nevertheless, Eric would be expected to act. Gender roles and the absurdity of “manliness” in general flashed across the screen in his mind, and he brushed them away with an almost-laugh. He sized up the trucker: dirty, sweaty, and unkempt on top of a 6’2”, 215 pound frame, with enough tension built up to support the Golden Gate Bridge. Eric’s eyes then flashed to Mandy, and saw her anticipation, her anxiety.
Eric started forward, “Listen man, I don’t know why you need this phone so badly, but this has gotten way out of hand. There’s just no need to make a big deal out of this. Mandy? I’m quite sure an exception could be made in such extenuating circumstances?”
Mandy quickly looked up from the counter where she had been fighting back the tears of embarrassment, that two men would come to insults and arguments over a minor problem concerning her. She caught Eric’s pleading eyes, eyes that told her to let this one go. Those eyes looked past Mandy the Help Center desk clerk and found Mandy, the 23 year old struggling college student, working part-time days and nights trying to fund her junior college classes where she was studying for bigger and brighter things. Somehow, this entire episode just was not worth it any more.
“Alright then, make it quick please sir. Dial “9” to get out,” and with that, Mandy slid the black office phone set across the counter practically onto the truck driver’s outstretched hand. He yanked the receiver up with a scalding glance at the both of them, and then proceeded with his ever-so-important call.
Eric needed to get back to the road with the map. Mandy had to catch up on visit reports for the week. However, neither could look away from each other as they each listened intently to the truck driver’s call. Truth was, neither of them had the right nor the time to listen to the truck drive’s urgent call. Well, actually, Eric had all of the time in the world; he was free. They just had to know.
Then, right as the ring tone could be heard through the speaker of the hand set, Eric realized that the truck driver would have to inform the call receiver as to the identity of the caller…
“Hey, sweetie? It’s Mack. I just wanted to check in one last time?”
Mandy gave Eric a sympathetic nod in the direction of Mack. She was noticing the same thing that he was, the longer Mack talked.
“Oh yea? That’s what the doctor said? Ok, well baby I’ll be there in just a few hours, but you be sure to tell our little Kayla to wait until her dad can get there,” he finished with a smile. “Ok. Ok then dear. Bye….love you too.”
Eric knew what he heard, and he knew that this was not a shocking scene, that expecting fathers called their wives everyday on their way to the hospital. However, one of these men was one step from getting violent over a phone only five minutes ago. It was sobering to find out that this man was capable of love, and probably a little bit of fear as he listened to his wife’s updates on the fast approaching birth of their child. Witnessing this scene of raw emotions erased Eric’s previous view of Mack. After all, what was the point of a first impression that started off like that?
Eric realized that a truck driver wouldn’t waltz into a welcome center and demand the phone for personal use just to check on his fantasy football lineup or set up a lunch with a friend down the road. He also understood the urgency in the truck driver’s actions. He had never been a father, or anything close to it, but if something equally important was going on, say the hospitalization of a close friend or loved one, Eric would certainly go to any means necessary to check on that person. That was all Mack had needed to do anyway, just check on his pregnant wife. Eric ventured a friendly comment.
“Is, uh…is everything alright there? Mack?” Eric accented the truck driver’s name, feeling weird knowing it before Mack himself had privileged the room to that information. It was almost as if Eric had stolen Mack’s identity. He was using his name without an introduction, almost without permission.
“You’re…you’re going to be a father? Well, congratulations. I’m….wow I feel like such a jerk about the phone now,” chimed in Mandy.
Mack rolled his eyes and gave a dismissal wave. “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I’ll just be on my way now. Sorry for the trouble you two.”
Eric spoke up quickly as Mack’s work-hardened hands gripped the door of the welcome center. “Hey Mack!” The truck driver stopped, turned and looked at Eric with an expectant, almost annoyed look on his face.
“Yea?” Mack was ready to be on his way.
“Oh well, nothing really I just… I just wanted to introduce myself. Eric Dunbar.”
Mack the trucker gave a sad sigh, cocked his head back slightly, and answered, “Eric Dunbar huh? Well, it is lucky for you Eric that I now know your last name.”
“And why is that?” Eric asked suspiciously. Mack was giving off extremely unsettling vibes.
“Because now that I know your last name, I can’t shoot you,” Mack said, matter-of-factly.
Eric gave and awkward laugh of relief, and then watched in disbelieving horror as Mack reached under his shirt and produced the Colt six-shot revolver that his father had left him many years ago.
Mack pointed the gun two inches past Eric’s left ear, depressed the hammer, causing a . and fired as Mandy let out a scream that could wake the dead.
Behind him, Eric heard her groan in agony and slink to the cold, tiled floor.
Gender:
Points: 793
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