Eric Dimbleby - White Out

“Yeah. You were in your wedding dress, but I had already changed into a sweat suit. We must have looked like we just escaped from an institution. We were at that bar,” he said, pausing to consider all the names of all the bars he had ever been to.

She had responded without a moment’s hesitation, “Luke’s Tavern. Janice and Bill wanted to meet us there after the wedding, for a toast.”

Christian had laughed. Annie loved his laugh; it made her feel comforted, reminding her that the world wasn’t always full of such sourness. “That’s right, some toast we had. Bill puked all over his tuxedo and Janice got a bloody nose from somebody opening the bathroom door too fast. I don’t think we ever got a proper toast in.”

“And the homeless guy,” she started to say, narrowing her eyes at him across the table. “He was…”

“He was handing out roses to all the ladies. He was just standing outside the bar. I’m not sure where he got all the flowers from, but he was one of the dirtiest looking guy’s I’ve ever seen.”

“He was smiling at me, as soon as I walked outside. I remember that much. He kept telling everybody something when he gave them the roses.” Annie had stared at her tropical drink, churning through her memory, one bit at a time. “What was it he said?”

Christian nodded, clearing his throat, “He said something like: Don’t look so sad, the night ain’t over yet, day ain’t over yet. The world ain’t over yet. Love yourself and someone else. ”

“That’s right,” she had replied, an embarrassing excitement slipping into her voice. Christian had a great memory, something just short of an elephant’s. He had said, “All those drunk girls kept coming out, keeping their distance from him. He smelled pretty bad, looked like he was living in a sewer pipe, and he probably was. But you were different. I think he noticed it, too. You went right up to him, still wearing your wedding dress, holding up the frilly parts so you wouldn’t step on them, and you started talking to him, asking him where he lived, what he did. He didn’t say much, but that look on his face was something else—probably the first time anybody treated him like more than some worthless hobo in a long time. I knew right then…” Christian trailed off, his eyes turning a little wet around the edges. “I knew right then that I had made the right choice. That we’d stay married forever. You were so sweet to that guy, and it made me think that no matter what happened to me, you’d still love me.”

Annie hadn’t been able to help herself. She felt some moisture near the corners of her eyes as well. Annie hated to cry, especially in front of Christian, but when she did, it always felt good. Always felt cathartic.

“Jobless, toothless, hairless, you’d still love me. Even if you treated me like that homeless guy, then that alone would be enough to keep me happy for the rest of my life.”

In the here and now, though, Annie’s heart felt out of place in her chest.

She wanted one more night like their wedding, another night like their first “parent date” at the Thai restaurant. Annie wanted all of that back, to feel those moments once again. Memories alone would not be enough, not with everything that was happening.

She pushed forward on the throttle, averting her eyes away from the sign, focusing on the other businesses’ signs a bit further down the road (a Toyota dealership, a veterinary clinic, and a used furniture store called Mac’s), directing herself towards that fantasy of returning to the good times.

The best part about seeing that blue and green sign—scripted fancily with the words DREAMS OF BANGKOK—was that it represented a marker that she was desperate to see. She was going in the right direction, no doubt about it. Even better than that, she was less than a mile from home now.

This is the time, Annie. This is the stopping point. This is where you pull off the road and face those bastards, one on one.

She couldn’t help but stare at the sign, wishing for a bowl of spicy coconut soup, fantasizing that things would be okay with Christian again, that he would reach across the table, grab her hand, and squeeze it so tight that it hurt. She wanted him back. The way things used to be, before everything had gone to hell.

That won’t happen if you don’t face what’s coming.

“Shut your mouth,” she said, unsure of who she was actually talking to. She was going crazy and it was easy enough to blame the storm.

Face the music, Annie. Face it!

The motor halted, releasing oily fumes into the air as the skids on the bottom of the snowmobile slushed through a frosty bank of snow.

“No. No.”

You don’t have much time. Face them or you’ll never face anybody ever again.

Annie tried to turn the engine back on, but it refused.

That isn’t going to work. You’re out of gas, dumbbell.

She cursed beneath her breath, lifting her leg over the seat. She leaned in closer to the gas gauge to find that it was true. Her inner voice wasn’t just blowing smoke up her ass. It had some salient points.

Annie was out of gas.

And in the distance, the hum of two engines slowly came into earshot.

The Shiny Bald One and The Yeti were coming to eat her.

Annie decided that she wouldn’t let them.

It looked pretty convincing—not the most craftily formulated deception she’d ever created ( likethosetimesyoufuckedTonyyouslut ), but it might work.

She didn’t have much time to spare, moving frantically between sobs of fear that they would be coming around the bend at any moment. Something frenetic was rising in her chest… something she couldn’t get a grip on.

Her snowcrow (as she decided it would forever be called, whether it saved her ass or not) was composed of her jacket, zipped and stuffed with a burly block of snow. It was hunched over the handles of the snowmobile. From a distance, it could have easily been a woman to any onlooker. It would be more obvious to the approaching marauders that she wasn’t reacting to the sound of their approach. They didn’t come off as the brightest pair of dunces, but surely, they wouldn’t fall for an immobile snowcrow . By the time they realized that it wasn’t her, she’d have to take her first shot at them. She only had four bullets left, so they’d have to be true and straight.

Annie couldn’t help but recall the old “trickster” tales that the slaves used—their way of undermining their white superiors, in telling tales that would sink deep into the conscience, fueling eventual rebellion. Or at the very least, it might break their power in a way that felt good enough to allow the slave a warm night’s sleep. Here she was, trying to play the role of trickster, no different than the Tar Baby and the Br’er Rabbit, hoping to catch a couple of nasty monsters.

She couldn’t see The Shiny Bald One’s face, but she could feel electricity in the air, preceding him on his path to destroy her. He was on his way.

With a huff of cold air, she planted her knees in the snow, clutching herself tight to repel the cold. The nearly useless sun was just beginning its descent. The world was covered in shadows from the trees on either side of what was once a major thoroughfare.

Annie steadied herself, staring at the darkening horizon.

Something inside of her told her to act just like the ice, to be like the snow, to emulate the whole damn world. It was the only way she’d survive—through pure coldness.

The copse of trees sheltered her, providing a clear line of sight to her snowmobile. The moment they stopped, she’d unload on them. Any hesitation and she’d be dead, same for if she jumped the gun. Timing, more so than ever before, was the essence of her survival.