Enveloped in Mist and Bourbon

There is something exhilarating about the rubber of tire sliding through the mucus of mud caked on the slick road of November, pavement wet from the fresh weep of the sky, breathing in the icy wind as it frosts around my nostrils. Roland and I soar down the hill at dangerous speeds, passing napping twenty-five mile an hour cars, rounding their glaring headlights and trailing the breath of the wind, the irritated honks behind us consumed by the six o’clock fog.

The lights of the town below appear like fireflies in the mist, burning bright where there was once nothing but sand and tree. The stadium lights of the football field are the concentration of the evenings display, and already as we near the concrete vale of Flagstaff the sirens of ceremonial cheer are chirped into existence and the roar of chatter and applause becomes more coherent.

A mile down the road is where the hill flattens and joins the rest of the vale. Trees thin and waver to the brick of society. Stop signs become more abundant. The first speed limit sign materializes out of the liquid haze, a twenty fiver, and yards ahead I see the silhouette of Roland throw back his head and laugh cynically at the pathetic suggestion. Within a half of a minute we trail the entire mile at an estimated fifty miles per hour. The first red stop sign stands silent before us, sticking its hand out and shouting STOP.

The change in altitude hits me, pressures pop out of my ears and the bedroom whiskey fizzes in my stomach. I feel a chemical change within me, a heightened inebriation forms. I scream out the ghost of sobriety. Roland has the influence of the gods surrounding him, drenched in whiskey and liquid life. He bellows a hearty response.

Roland approaches the intersection at the belly of the hill where all the fog has settled to be digested by the burn of Ford exhaust. He brakes slightly but there are no cars around and he signals that it is okay to come through. Crossing the intersection is the threshold of life in this dead town, for beyond the stop sign lies everything else. I follow Roland.

Coffer’s gas station is the first building we see, the last building on the edge of town. The smell of acrid oil and gasoline envelopes us.  It was one of the first buildings constructed and probably one of the last to go.

“Let’s stop here real quick. I bet you I can squeeze a bottle out of Old Man Coffer.”

Roland turns into the station and pedals over the bell hose, the ding-ding of his wheels echo around the station. Mr. Coffer appears in the doorway of the shop.

“Evening, boys.” said Coffer, covered in grease and stained overalls. I braked next to drunk-eyed Roland. He waved a hand at the old man and he trudged over to us.

“Fill her up, sir. We need to get out of dodge, and quick.”

A congested laugh screeched, and Coffer slapped his knees.

“Roland Major, you damn hooligan of a human.” He spat black chew onto the ground and traces of it splattered on my shoe.

“How’s business you old coon? Keeping them commies out of here, hopefully.”

“It’s slow as s**t. Hell, if these damn soviets drove through and needed gas, I’d happily be of service to them.”

“That’s the spirit.” Roland regarded me. “You remember good ol’ Jacky boy here, don’t you, Coffer?”

The old man looked at me for the first time. He had a heavy brow that weighed down his eyes into a glare, and for a moment it looked like he was going to strike me in the temple, but then I saw the color of his eyes, the way the lamp light reflected off of them and subdued his age and his pain. He smiled and I did too.

“Why, of course. You’re Frank Williams’s boy. I remember you. You and your father used to come down here every weekend and fill up the jalopy and speed off like the law was after you."
            I forced a giggle as a response. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to not think of my father.

“He was a good man, son. A respected member of this community.” He set a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

It was quiet then. Roland was not the sulking sentimental type. If he couldn’t laugh or crack a joke he couldn’t breathe. I could see the pressure in him build up so I said, “It’s a thing of the past.”

“Five years is a century.” Roland spilled himself. “Now, Coffer, I know you got something to lighten the mood. You had to go and burst out bubble and bring up familial ghosts. We were on our way to the school football game. The homecoming game, in fact. Now that only happens once a year, we were planning on have a splendid evening and all, and you had to mention Jack’s dead father and soil our--“

“Oh, shut up, okay you damn kid.” Coffer turned and walked away. “Hold on.”

Roland slapped my shoulder and smiled. “Sorry I had to use your dead father as a method of obtaining liquor, Jack.”

“It’s a thing of the past.”

“A relic.”

“Yeah.”

A moment later Coffer opened the door and walked over to us with a brown, glass bottle. He handed it to Roland.

“It’s half empty!” Roland almost yelled.

“No, son. It’s half full.” Coffer grinned a black tooth and turned to me. “Now don’t tell anyone I gave you this. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Roland mounted his bike and started peddling. “What’s the fun in that?”

I got on my bike to start after Roland. Coffer grabbed the handle on my bike.

“How I wish I could be your age again. Don’t race through life too fast now, you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of seventy pretty soon.”

“I won’t.” He let go and I started off.

“Hide that glass, now.”

Roland was already at the next intersection. The cap was off too.

Reviews

[Ariana Omnomnom]

Never stop writing or I'll cry

[Gaston Villanueva]

These guys are always fun to read about
They're so believable and entertaining
I like it Max, I like it a lot

[ZackOfBridge]

These characters have got more chemistry than Mr. Erickson