Jeremy Finley - The Dark Above

Find the humor, kiddo. Make ‘em laugh. Sometimes it’s all we’ve got.

OK Roxy, he thought. What’s that runner’s magazine with the columnist that shares funny stories about crapping his pants during race day…?

He scanned the covers and saw his own face.

He flinched as if a snake had just dropped from the ceiling and landed on the pop star with whom he shared the cover of Hello! magazine. She got the full-page treatment, drunkenly getting into a car with the words, “Rock Bottom!” Tucked up in the right-hand corner, next to the magazine’s famous red-and-white lettering, a photograph showed him wearing a black tie with a solemn expression. “WILLIAM FOUND ALIVE?” the headline asked.

The tie had been one of Grandpa Tom’s. “He’d have liked you to have worn it,” Nanna had told him, her age-spotted hands trembling as she helped him with the knot before the funeral. “Your grandpa had classic style.”

He’d taken her hands in his own and held them until they had both stopped shaking.

William hesitated, staring at the cover. It would be a mistake to look. After all, he’d managed to elude them all for a year.

The most famous boy in the world is dead, remember?

He snatched the magazine, flipping to the story and wincing at its two-page layout. The headline shouted across both pages, “The Disappearance of William Chance.”

The first paragraph was equally cringe-worthy.

“The most fascinating story of the century has taken another twist, as the young man, who many believe is proof of UFO abductions, has yet to be seen in public in a year. Sources say even William’s grandmother, Lynn Roseworth, doesn’t know where he is and fears he may have been abducted again. There have been multiple, unconfirmed sightings of him across the country, from New York to Los Angeles. One entertainment outlet has set up a toll-free hotline and a cash reward for any information leading to proof of his whereabouts–

“Don’t I know you?”

William looked up, his heart in this throat. He was still alone in the aisle.

Then he saw himself in the security mirror in an upper corner, above a row of hand sanitizers. The checkout girl, leaning on the counter, was also in its reflection, staring at him. He’d been so preoccupied that he’d zoned out, failing to realize the store had emptied.

“You work with all those Mexicans who mow the lawn at the Methodist Church in the Quapaw,” she said.

Finally breathing, he picked up the Dr Pepper and a bag of Cheetos, slipping the magazine beneath the orange bag.

“Yeah,” he said, rounding the aisle and sliding the magazine facedown on the counter.

“I’ve noticed you after church. You always have that hat on. Your hair sticks out like duck feathers,” she said with a smile as she flipped over the magazine and scanned the bar code.

“I need it cut,” he said, quickly sliding the magazine into a plastic bag and taking the chips to cover it up.

“I just can’t get over how familiar you look.” She handed him the Dr Pepper.

Make them laugh.

He kept the brim of his hat low. “Not many gingers on the mow team. We burn too easily in the sun. We’re basically albino sausages on a grill.”

She smiled, biting her bottom lip.

“So how much?”

“Oh, sorry. Eight twenty-five. That your Jeep out there? You live just down on Ripper, right? I seen it parked at that trailer.”

“I stay there when my home in the Hamptons is under renovation. Have a good one.”

“See ya.”

William tried not to scramble out of the store, even though he would smash through the glass if it meant getting out quicker. No more coming back to Uncle Steve’s.

He jogged past the pumps and set the soda and the bag on the floorboard, cranking up the Jeep and gunning it out onto the road.

She was just flirting. He downshifted to second gear. She’s bored and likes guys in Jeeps. Nothing to worry about.

Third gear and dust started flying. It hadn’t rained in a week and a half and nothing was tamping down the grit. The handle of the plastic bag whipped out the absent door, and he reached down quickly to throw the bag in the back to keep it from blowing out. He wanted to pull over and tear open the magazine inside, but the trailer was just a quick left away on Ripper Road.

The beat-up and heavily leaning sign on the corner actually read “Lee Road,” but the Little Rock police never came out this far, and everyone drove it like Bristol. William tore around the corner.

As cotton on both sides of the dirt road rushed by, the Dr Pepper twelve-pack thumped around on the floorboard in the back. He’d have to let it settle before he cracked one open. If he stepped it up, he might beat Carlos and have a few minutes to read the speculation about where he was.

When the cotton briefly broke and the trailer came into view, he saw an old F-150 on the gravel driveway, hitched to a large trailer carrying two mowers. So much for beating Carlos.

At the Jeep’s approach, a Hispanic man, his already dark skin made leathery from constant sun exposure, slid out of the truck cab, a notebook in his hand. Carlos still did it old school: He liked to write down all their yards for the week and who was assigned to which address. He kept a special red pen for the people who hadn’t paid.

“Where you been Nick?” he said as William came to a stop.

“Got hung up at Uncle Steve’s.”

“Ticktock Nickie! Mrs. Goff wants you there at 6 a.m. tomorrow, and we’ve got a shit ton more after that to schedule.”

“Why don’t you take Goff and I’ll take the Lion’s Club?” William grabbed the soda and the bag.

“Because she doesn’t like Mexicanos! ” Carlos grinned and then spit out his chew. “She wouldn’t even use us if that nice little Caucasian wasn’t part of the crew. She thinks you’re mute. Always gives extra tip for the white boy because she’s convinced you’re special needs. Why else would you mow lawns with a bunch of illegals?”

“I never see that tip.” William jangled his keys and opened the trailer door.

“These mowers don’t run on air, my man.” Carlos followed him in.

The window air-conditioner hummed as William headed straight for the fridge, sliding in the twelve-pack and tossing the chips and magazine into one of the cheap wood-paneled cabinets. Maybe Carlos will need to take a leak and give him a few seconds—

“Throw me one of those DPs.” Carlos sat down at the table, sliding over the stack of books piled on top, and flipped open his notebook.

“All shook up from the ride. Unless you want to wear it.”

“Why don’t you get a decent car? Something with doors. Something with air-conditioning.”

“My boss doesn’t pay me enough.”

“You know, I don’t get it Nick,” Carlos said, holding up his pen.

Here it comes . “Can you save me the same old speech—?”

“You’re smart.” Carlos pointed the pen at him. “My best worker and my accountant—”

“We agreed not to talk about that.”

“I’m not planning on telling the IRS. You’re a freakin’ whiz with numbers. And look at this place.” Carlos waved to the books stacked on anything that wasn’t moving. “It’s a damned library in here. East of Eden ? Never Let Me Go ? You should be in college. Getting laid by sorority girls. And yet here you are, living in this shithole and making minimum wage. I don’t get it.”

Because my name isn’t Nick Peters. Because I am not from Lonoke, Arkansas. Because I needed a job where I wouldn’t talk to or see anyone. Because no one would ever think to look for me here.

“You trying to get rid of me?” He forced a smile.