Helen

He sat on the bed and looked around at the room, then stood and walked over to the glass doors, looked out at the pool and the sky. He watched the cloud formation: a chasm hanging on the horizon, suddenly shifting and the inside of it turning green. He watched it begin to rain and thought about his life and wondered what it all meant, then stepped back inside and closed the glass door and sat back down on the bed and ordered room service on the phone.

In a little while, a woman knocked on the door and delivered a hot meal, and he sat and ate it on the bed and thought about the fact that it represented the last of his money. That night, he dreamt, as he always did, of his last day with Helen. A bright sunny day, riding in the car with her, with her legs out; the countryside going past and her looking at him, lipstick on and her hair pulled back. Sunday rides with Helen, always finishing up at a park or a beach or some secluded spot; these, the best times in his life.

It was the last time he would ever see her alive: that longing look in her eye, reserved just for him, the last image he would have of her, before her body was smashed by the semi-trailer that hit the car head on, slamming it in the opposite direction, killing her instantly; all that was left of her, spread out on the road in multiple parts, and then they pulled him away and put him in a van and kept him in hospital…

The next morning, he woke, sweating, as he so often did, after his dreams. Helen. You killed Helen. How are you going to live that one down, m**********r?

He lifted himself up and sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the glass sliding door. Pavement and a pool, a blue sky beyond. He reached into his pocket and checked his bank account on his phone, knowing full well that it was nigh on empty, then stood and looked out at the day. There was nothing left for it but to shower and get dressed and pack his things, so that is what he did. In any case, if he didn’t leave, they would kick him out. He sat on the bed one last time and thought about his stay. The water was hot, and the room service was good; he would miss the place. Even though he had spent the last of his money, he considered it a smart move, resting here, easing his mind, trying to recover, but now, he was back to broke, and the road was unforgiving for the destitute, he knew that much. He put the pack on his back and closed the door for the final time and walked the shag-pile carpet in his boots, then admired the wall-nut craggy face of the woman at the reception desk, then stood and looked at the road. He adjusted his backpack and started walking, thankful that he at least had clean clothes to wear.

A perfect blue sky, the sound of his boots crunching on the stony ground by the highway, trucks roaring past, blowing hot gusts of wind in his face. He stuck in his thumb out as he walked but nothing and no-one stopped. He passed a sign that said the nearest town was 50 km away.

In a previous life he had been a paramedic, back when he lived with Helen. They were renting a three-bedroom place and were even planning on having a baby. Now, he had let his paramedic’s license expire, and didn’t rightly care, about hardly anything anymore, except, maybe death. But that didn’t really work either.

He had had his bouts with alcohol; had spent the last of their money that they had saved on it, roaming bars. And it had gone surprisingly quickly, and now, all that was left was just him and the road, and his expired paramedic’s licence, and his clothes that he wore on his back, and his search for something, he didn’t know what: meaning? Reason? Absolution? Death? Now, he walked. A hot day. His boots crunching on the dirt beside the road.

He held his thumb out at intervals; could feel his shirt begin to cling to his back and his thighs chafing. A truck roared past and honked its horn, as though, mocking him. A raven flew over his head and landed on a broken lamp post, looked down at him, squawked. The day dragged on, but he was used to it all, this existence, trudging along with nothing, except that it was beginning to tire him, this living constantly on a precipice. He kept walking.

He came to a petrol station made of corrugated iron that was rusted and looked set to collapse, then walked past a family sitting inside a station wagon, a little girl inside of it. The girl, catching a glimpse of him, suddenly looking wary. He stepped inside and felt the relief at the cooler temperature, his eyes taking a moment to adjust from the blinding glare. An old man stood behind a bar where another man sat, sipping a glass of beer, his face grimacing at the sight of him.

‘Can I help you, mister?’ said the man behind the bar.

‘Am wondering if I could use the toilet, and then, maybe, get something cold to drink.’

‘It’s out the back.’

He walked around the back of the bar, down a darkened hallway and found a door with a broken handle; a room that stank of s**t and piss; a toilet bowl with a broken seat. He sat on it gratefully and was happy to find toilet paper, then made his way back out to the bar of the petrol station. He looked around the darkened room and wished that he could afford something to eat and drink and the barman looked at him as though he had read his thoughts, but there was nothing more to say, and so, he stepped back out into the heat.

Traffic roaring past. He passed motels and thought about trying to pull a scam, but it wasn’t his style and the last thing he needed was to be thrown in jail for destitution, so he kept walking. He looked down at the side of the road that was an embankment, saw that there were tents down there; others, living off the grid, outlaws without homes.

The day was fading, the sky turning peach. The light dimmed on the horizon and still he held his thumb out but no-one stopped. He looked down at the embankment and realised that that was where he was going to be sleeping for the night, and then finally had to stop, his legs giving way. He sat on the gravel and wanted to cry but it was no use, then got to his feet and started toward the embankment, his stomach growling. The embankment became a ditch and he lay down in it and covered himself with leaves and looked up at the night sky, stars like diamonds, and wondered about the creator and tried not to cry, and eventually slept, and dreamt, as he always would, about Helen.

The sound of traffic woke him. Trucks and cars roaring along the highway. He lifted himself up and looked around, stood, and brushed the leaves and the dirt off. The embankment led off into the horizon, in both directions. He tried to remember the direction that he was heading in, then realised that it hardly mattered, then got to his feet and started walking.

The sun came up on the horizon, heralding what was going to be another blisteringly hot day. He started to walk and could feel his body chaffing against his clothes, could feel his feet beginning to hurt in his sneakers, then stopped and decided to get changed into the only change of clothes that he had; knew that he would need new shoes soon; knew, also, that if he couldn’t find a job soon, or some form of income, he would have to start stealing things which he hated doing.

The sun came fully up, and, after a while, he could feel himself sweating. He kept walking and stuck his thumb out and couldn’t believe it when a semi-trailer pulled over, a giant leviathan, groaning and twisting and coming to a halt. He walked towards it and saw a cabin door open, climbed up a set of steps and looked down into a hull where an overweight man in a singlet was sitting, the cabin, draped in cherry shag-pile carpet.

‘Well, you gonna get in or what?’ said the man.

He looked back at him.

‘I guess so.’

‘Well, hurry up about it. I’m on a schedule here.’

He got in and closed the door and the man started the engine and the truck roared to life. A hairy arm moved a gear stick into place and the truck started groaning and moving, and suddenly, he was in the cabin of a truck and moving down the highway in the heat of the day. The man looked at him from the corner of his eye.

‘So, where you headed?’

‘I couldn’t really say.’

‘That’s not a place.’

The man adjusted his cap and then snapped the radio on, and they rode down the highway listening to country music. After a while, the man turned and looked at him.

‘You don’t say much, do ya. Well, that’s alright with me, probably better that way…Thought, I’d stop in and get some grub; you’re welcome to join me, if you like.’

‘I haven’t got any money.’

‘What!?’

He turned and looked at him and raised an eyebrow, his face forming a scowl.

‘I said, I haven’t got any money.’

 ‘I heard you the first time.’

They came to a diner, and the man eased the truck to a stop, then opened the door and left the cabin, and he did the same and saw that the man was walking in the direction of a place that had a lit-up sign above it that said, ‘diner’, and he followed him, and stepped inside and saw that the man was seated at a table. He sat down opposite, and they looked at each other for a moment, and then a bosomy waitress came over and took his order, and the man ordered for the both of them.

The truck driver adjusted his cap and looked at him and said that he wasn’t even going to ask how he had gotten himself into such a predicament and they sat and looked out the window, at the road and the cars, dimming in the fading light. The waitress came back and put down two bowls of fries and two burgers and two cokes and he sat and ate ravenously and considered how long it had been since he had last eaten, and the man looked at him and asked him what he was going to do, but he didn’t have an answer, and, after a while, they got up and left the booth and walked back to the truck and got back in. The man started the truck and looked at him, then told him that he was going to drop him off at the next town. They drove through the night, and he fell asleep to the sound of country music, and dreamed, as always, of Helen, then felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake, and he looked around and didn’t recognise the dawn light and the looked at each other and the driver told him that it was time for him to leave and so he thanked him and opened the cabin door and climbed down the truck and stood on the road. The truck pulled away and he saw that he was standing at the foot of a country town. He walked towards it and came to a war memorial, then stood, looking at the list of names, and thought about the soldier’s lives cut short, and then his stomach started growling and he remembered that he had to look after his own life before he was going to begin to think about the remnant of anybody else’s. He looked around and wondered, as always, what the hell he was going to do next, and realised that a good place to start would be to hunt for a food van or some soup kitchen somewhere. He knew that these places often resided in churches, so he went on the hunt for one, and it didn’t take long.

The usual line up of people, waiting for a set of doors to open, outside of a church. He stood in it and could smell the other people standing in it; the acrid smell of the unwashed, all standing there, in the heat, and could feel himself becoming tired, and then, suddenly, felt the earth hit him in the head, and then everything went white, and he was in his dream world again.

In his dream, he was sitting opposite Helen, at their dining room table, as though they had just sat down to dinner, like they used to do, except the dream was so real that he felt as though he was there. She sat, looking at him, her eyebrows knotted, and her mouth set in a frown. She looked angry.

‘It’s time to stop, Greg.’

He looked back at her, and he was surprised to find that he could speak to her, in his dream.

‘Stop what?’

‘All of this.’

‘All of what?’

She looked at him, and suddenly looked as though she was going to burst into tears.

‘You need to let me go, Greg.’

He looked at her, and now she was really crying.

‘But I can’t.’

‘It’s been twenty-five years, Greg.’

He looked at her and knew that it was all a dream but had trouble comprehending what she was saying.

‘What’s been twenty-five years?’

She looked at him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘You know what.’

He looked at her and couldn’t believe what she was saying, couldn’t understand it. He looked at her and she sat with her head in her hands.

‘Please, Greg, you’ve got to let me go.’

He looked at her and caught an inkling of what she was talking about and started to become afraid.

‘What’s been twenty-five years? Helen, please, you’ve got to tell me.’

Suddenly, she took her hands away and jumped over the table and grabbed him with what was a vice-like grip, choking him, making it difficult to breath.

‘I tell you, if you don’t let me go, I’ll kill you, I’ll find a way, I swear it, I will.’

And, suddenly, he woke up, and saw that he had somehow passed out on the pavement. Someone was standing over him, blocking out the light of the sun and holding out a hand. He grabbed it and he could feel hands, lifting him under his arm pits.

‘You alright, old timer?’

He looked around to see where the voice was coming from, saw that a woman was looking at him with a concerned look in her eye. They were lifting him and talking to him at the same time, and he wondered what he had done to warrant such concern, and he came to a park bench, where they sat, surrounding him, talking amongst themselves, as they he was deaf or mute, and he couldn’t understand what was going on.

‘Poor old fella, looks as if he might have had a heart attack.’

‘Maybe we should call the hospital.’

He looked at them at them and suddenly realised that they were talking about him, and then he remembered his dream. He looked around and looks of concern in the group that had rescued him, and then the reality dawned on him, and it was almost too much to bare. Had Helen really died twenty-five years ago? He recognised the thought for what it was and threw it away. Some thoughts were plain toxic.

He got to his feet and looked at them with indignation and started walking again, looked out at the open road, and headed towards it, could feel his momentum returning. Who were they calling old timer? Kids these days and their sarcasm. Couldn’t anyone see he was mourning the recent death of his poor wife? He made it to the open road and felt the familiar roar of trucks going past; looked up at the sky. 

A truck driver saw an old man trudging along the side of the road and couldn’t believe it, the state of the world these days.