Driftwood: Tales

Beloved Darkness

"No'sir."
No'sir. Nossir. No, sir. Freddy tried hard as he could to adopt the strange accent, and dialect Grady spoke.

It never came out a hundred percent genuine.

"So'd you hear?"

Freddy decided to lie, and shook his head. "No'sir. Notta word."

Grady examined him a moment, still peering over his spectacles. He gave a single, concise shake of the head. "Ain't goin'a move up telling halfcocked shit-stain lies like that! Work on your lying more, Feddic."

"Freddy"

"Whatever. Cooley's out sick today. Here's your assignment." He tossed a large envelope at Freddy, who caught it coolly midair. Grady looked almost impressed. "Do these right, 'might even earn a promotion."

Freddy fought the urge to ask what failure meant, but Grady clearly had it in mind.

"Y'do this wrong - well - there's worse work to do here than janitorial."

"'Won't let'cha down, sir." Freddy tucked his assignment, a fresh 8x11 yellow envelope made from heavy stock paper, under his arm.

"...an' Frieda? Y'stop talkin' like that, 'hear? No one here talks like that."

Freddy bowed his head a moment, feeling red warmth in his cheeks. "Yes, sir. Won't let you down, sir."

♚ ♚ ♚

It was true, the car itself being a relic.

It got good mileage, but Freddy suspected it had to do with the fact that the majority of the car was gutted out.

The back seat, gone.
The spare tire, gone.
Heater core? Gone.
Air conditioner? Gone.

It was a wonder his car was legal on the street, save the fact that both the breaks, and the emergency break worked well enough.

About ten miles back he passed a white sign, paint peeling, edges rusted. The sign read:

Hope Valley Fifty Miles

The car chugged along, as usual. The skies darkened somewhere along the twenty mile mark, and the winds were tossing him all over the road. It was all he could do not to lose control of his car.

Then, as though the wind were not enough, it began to rain.

The real irony, though, was neither the winds, nor the rain. It was not the fact that he could not roll up his window, or turn on the radio, or that his cellular phone was sitting in his locker, at work, fully charged.

The real irony was when his car broke down right at the forty-five mile marker.

Hope Valley Population: 78

Freddy stared at the dashboard a moment.
The plastic shield that usually protected the odometer, and all of the working gears, and dials, was gone.

The battery light was not on.

None of the dials showed any indication what was wrong.

He turned the key.
Not even a click.

Fine.

Unbuckling, Freddy reached across the cab, leaning a shoulder down beneath the passenger seat (which was mostly a seat cover over bare springs, and a patchy foam pillow), and pulled the yellow envelope free.

He opened the envelope, and put the CD back inside it.

Above, and beyond the line of duty, Freddy thought, and allowed himself a brief smile.