PRODIGAL BLUES

Gary A. Braunbeck

Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

© 2011 Gary A. Braunbeck

Copy-edited by:  David Dodd & Kurt Criscione

Cover Design By:  David Dodd

Background Image provided by:  Deena Warner

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I would like to thank Geoff Cooper, Alex Aminoff, and Lucy Snyder for their invaluable assistance, expertise, and support during the writing of this novel.

Dedication:

For Ed Gorman, one of the finest human beings and writers it has ever been my privilege to know; and also, with respect and admiration, for Stephen King, who may not have invented the road-trip horror story, but most of that particular dark highway was paved by him; thanks for letting me travel in your tire tracks.

"…at some stage a machine which was previously assembled in an allover manner may find its connections divided into partial assemblies with a higher or lower degree of independence."

—Norbert Weiner, The Human Use of Human Beings

"Everything passes away—suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence.  The sword shall pass away too, but the stars will still remain when the shadow of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the earth.  There is no man who does not know that.  Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars?  Why?"

—Mikhail Bulgakov, The White Guard

"When I face myself I'm surprised to see

That the man I knew don't look nothing like me…"

—John Nitzinger, "Motherlode"

1. The Biggest Part of the Mess

I was in a bar called The Blue Danube on the OSU campus that was filled with too many, too-loud, too-pretty trust-fund college snots, all of them pulling hernias as they sucked on their clove cigarettes and tried to impress each other with how terribly individual and iconoclastic they were; one prick in particular, his mesmerized harem of prickettes in tow, was holding court near the end of the bar where I was seated.  He was wearing a black T-shirt with the words I SWEAR I DIDN'T KNOW SHE WAS 3! printed in big white letters across the chest.  To emphasize the depth of this wit, a pair of baby booties dangled from the exclamation point.  One of the harem whispered, "He's so controversial!" to the prickette beside her, then both went back to staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed; viewed from the right angle, when the light hit their eyes, I could actually see the backs of their skulls.

Until the guy noticed me, he'd been spouting opinions about everything from Skinner to Faulkner to Kierkergaard and Hayo Miyazaki's Spirited Away.  Then he happened to glance over his shoulder, recognize me, and grin.

"Hey, I've seen you around campus, haven't I?"

"Probably."

He stared at me for a moment, then tilted his head to the side the same way a dog will when it happens upon a virgin fire hydrant.  "You're one of the maintenance dudes, right?"

"That's right."  Actually, I'm the supervisor of the entire maintenance department, but I didn't think he'd find that little tidbit of much interest.

He looked at his harem, gave a quick wink, then turned back to me and said:  "I got a great joke for you, the other guys on your crew are gonna love this:

"A pederast is walking through the woods one night with a six-year-old.  The kid looks around, then whispers:  'These woods sure are dark.  I'm scared.'

"The pederast looks at the kid and says:  'You're scared?  I gotta walk out of here alone!'"

The assault charges were thrown out after the judge (an ultra-Conservative—first time in my life I'd ever been glad of that) listened to the guy repeat the joke through what was left of his mouth, but I still have to pay the emergency room bill, plus all follow-up medical expenses (within reason) for the next six months.

Money well-spent.

When she came to post my bail that night, Tanya, my wife, wouldn't even look at me.  It wasn't until we were driving back to the house that she gave any indication I even existed:  her right hand flew out like a stone from a slingshot and hit between my nose and mouth.

"That's for the embarrassment you caused me tonight, forget about the money—which, in case you haven't glanced at our bank balance recently, we can ill-afford."

"Ouch?" I said, rubbing my face.

"Look, Mark, I'm sorry I did that, okay?  But... dammit, you haven't been yourself for a while now.  You don't just pummel someone like that—I'd expect it from any of those goons you work with, but not you.  This is twice you've hit someone since you got back.  What's made you react this way?  You're not a violent man."

I muttered something under my breath—an old tactic I use whenever I don't want to talk about something—but she was having none of it.

"Oh, you will not pull that with me, buster, understand?  I'm your wife and I deserve better than to be treated like this.  You haven't been the same since you came back from Kansas.  You're not eating, you've been going to bars way too much—you've drank more in the last ten days than you have in all the ten years we've been married—your sense of humor's been in the toilet, you don't sleep worth a damn and when you do, you have nightmares…

"I've been good about it so far, haven't I?  I haven't pushed you about things and I haven't bugged you.  You told me not to worry about the broken nose you walked in with; you told me never mind the cuts on your face and the bruises on your arms and wrists; you said forget about the blood on your shirt, you'd explain everything to me, you just didn't feel like talking about it then.  I've respected that—I haven't liked it, not one damned bit, but I've respected your wishes.  Well, guess what?  It isn't then anymore!  I just pulled your ass out of the slammer and Tanya's 'respect-his-wishes' gauge just hit 'E'!  My patience has been stretched to its limit, I am all out of understanding, and I'm done being quiet about this.  Something terrible happened to you during that trip; I want to know what and I want to know now."

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

She sighed.  "Pretend you're cleaning one of the buildings, then:  start with the biggest part of the mess and work down to the details."