Unintentional Assassin

Two

Hours later, we're making our way down highway 149 to Clarksville. You would think, if I were being forced on this trip, I wouldn't have to drive, but no luck. How is she ninety five without a drivers license? I've changed from my Gin soaked Paramore band tee to a semi clean Versailles tee, I think it's clean anyway. I pull my pack of clove cigarettes out of the pocket of my ever present flannel shirt.

"Couldn't you have made yourself...presentable?" Siobahn asks, grimacing at the mud still clinging to my boots. "I think I look fine. Not everyone walks around looking like a goth Cinderella you know." I ruffle my copper hair, just to annoy her further. "Goth Cinderella," she snorts. "That's rich, you could at least attempt to look like you didn't dumpster dive at Goodwill for your outfit."

That's it. Any lingering crush I may have had went out the window with my cigarette butt. I don't need that level of negativity in my life.

Turning up the volume on LP's "Lost on you," I belt my way through the first verse. Siobahn hangs her arm out the window, making annoyed tutts at my taste in music. "What Gran? Need something with a banjo? Maybe some Bob Dylan?"

"Nope, just someone with actual talent." She said, turning down my radio. Smacking her hand away, I crank it even louder. "Never touch my radio."

I am normally a rather timid person, not the type to respond to confrontation but, this is my truck. Kelpie, a black '98 Dodge Dakota, is my sanctuary. Don't fuck with me here.

As we pass by Palmyra, the song changes. Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun" comes on, totally appropriate right now. I tap out the baseline on the steering wheel, drawing on a fresh cigarette. She stresses me out. As if I didn't think the Gods disliked me enough, the rear tire blows, sending me swerving across the highway before limping back to the shoulder.

"For fucks sake," I shout, kicking the tire. "We're stranded in The Hills Have Eyes country. Just great!"

"Why don't you just change it? What's the big deal?" Siobahn says, rolling her eyes.

"Can't change what you don't have." Sighing as I pull out my phone to call Hertzag. "Ay, Hertz, can you bring me a tire?" I pull out yet another smoke, waiting for him to decide he'll help. I'm going to need another pack by the time we hit town. "Yeah, about two miles past Palmyra. Thanks, I owe you." I hang up the call and scroll through my social media, trying to ignore Siobahn's complaints.

"How much longer is he going to be? This rain isn't going hold off forever." she says, cleaning some imagined dirt from her nails.

"It took us about twenty minutes to get this far, he'll probably make it in ten."

Exactly ten minutes later, the rumble of a ATV let's me know I was right. Flags flapping in the breeze, it's every country boys dream. Jacked up to holy high hell, rebel flag on one side, American flag on the other, because you know...'Murica! Some random country song blaring from the speakers, Hertz' ride is every ounce Tennessee.

He pulls up behind us, looking for all the world like a walking contradiction. Stupid horned red helmet and studded biker boots are paired with a cowboy style snap front shirt over a white tank and a pair of bootcut jeans, sporting at least ten pounds of motor oil. Rebel Redneck Roadside. That kinda has a ring to it. Maybe he should trademark it. "I told you it'd blow, Lani," he grunts, spitting a wad of dip to the ground and hefting the tire. "I know, I know. What do I owe you cousin?" I look sadly at my empty Nehi bottle, knowing he's going to say something dumb. "The usual, three hairs from the howler and blood of a virgin," he laughs, sliding the tire home.

"How about you come with? I'll buy you a pint and you can freak out the pixies?" "Two pints and I'm in." "Deal!" Damn, I got off cheap.

We are pulling off of Riverside Drive so I can buy a pack of smokes, when a light rain starts again. That taken care of we head off to the bar. It used to be called the Lighthouse, for the you know, the lighthouse on top. It's called Reasons now, don't ask me why.

Hertzag pounds on the door, kicking gravel impatiently. "Open the damn door, it's raining out here." The door cracks, and a grumpy looking hipster pokes his head out. Brushing strands missing from his sloppy man-bun out of his face, he looks us over and shakes his head. "Not open, come back at ten."

Hertzag wedges his foot in the door, growling. "Let us in you spineless, kombucha drinking sissy. Or I will break you." Confused, the man stumbles back and we push in.

So much for civilities.