Brian Keene - Jack's Magic Beans

“W-what?” He tried to sit up again, but I shoved him back down, hard.

“They were Exit Four. You are Exit Five. Hold still.”

I pulled the knife from my jacket and cut his throat. There wasn’t as much blood as I’d expected, most of it already having leaked out while I kept him talking. I wiped the knife in the grass and placed it back in my coat. Then I fished out his wallet and found Robin and Kurt’s address and phone number. I smiled. They lived just off the Interstate, at Exit Twenty-One.

Twenty-One. And this was Five. Sixteen more exits, and I would keep my promise to him.

I walked on into the night, the distant wail of fire sirens following in my wake.

I am an exit.

Many readers tell me this story is one of their favorites. “I Am An Exit” appeared in my second short story collection, Fear of Gravity , and was reprinted in A Little Silver Book of Streetwise Stories . Both of those collections are now out-of-print, and people who don’t own them and don’t want to pay an exorbitant amount of money for them on eBay keep asking me to reprint it, so here you go.

The tale came in a single, sudden burst. I usually write to music. The night this was written, I was working on the first draft of a novel called Terminal , and listening to Johnny Cash’s “Give My Love To Rose” and Nine Inch Nails’ “Mr. Self Destruct.” When the story idea came, it was the perfect fusion of fatigue, music, coffee and creative energy. The lyrics from both songs kept running around in my head. I thought about Cash’s protagonist dying along the railroad tracks, begging the stranger to give his love to Rose, while in the background, Trent Reznor whispered “I am an exit.” I wrote the first draft in the next half hour, and the second and final drafts the following day.

The story was so well-received that I eventually wrote a sequel to it (which follows).

“You ever kill anyone?”

He licks his lips when he asks me, and I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t really want to know. His eyes dart around the hotel bar before coming back to me. No matter what I say, my answer will barely register with him. The question is perfunctory. He desires the act of confession. He’s killed, and it’s eating at him. It weighs on him. He needs to tell.

“What?” I pretend to be shocked by the question.

The young man is maybe twenty-one or two. Still learning his limits when it comes to alcohol. His slurred words are barely noticeable, but the empty beer bottles in front of him reveal everything. He leans closer, nearly falling off his stool.

“Have you ever killed someone?”

This is his conversation starter. A chance to unburden. Or to brag. This is a beginning.

An entrance.

I close entrances.

The first person I ever killed was named Lawrence. I’ve killed so many people over the years that they blur together—a nameless, faceless conglomerate. But I remember Lawrence. Pale and pasty. Hair on his knuckles. Rheumy eyes. He drove a red Chrysler mini-van and the glove compartment was full of Steely Dan cassettes and porn. Lawrence cried when I cut the sigils into his skin. Mucous bubbled out of his nose and ran into his mouth. Disgusting back then, but oddly amusing now. It brings a smile to my face, like thoughts of a childhood friend or first love.

In the years since, I’ve streamlined my efforts. I no longer bother with sigils or ceremony. I no longer speak the words of closing. The mere act of killing accomplishes my work. Spilling blood closes the doors. I don’t need the rest of the trappings. Indeed, I prefer to act quickly these days. A shot in the dark. A knife to the back. Burn them as they sleep. Over and done. No muss. No fuss. Move on up the highway to the next exit. There are miles to go and doors to close before I rest, and I am getting older. Robert Frost took the road less traveled, but I take all roads. Speed and efficiency are the key. I didn’t know that, back when I killed Lawrence.

I know it now.

I am swift. My avatar is a hummingbird. Metaphorically speaking, I move through the night at eighty miles per second, traveling from blossom to blossom, taking their nectar and then moving on.

I tell the young man none of this. Instead, I say, “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”

“I have. A few years ago.”

I sip my scotch and dab my lips with the napkin. When I respond, I try not to sound disinterested.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Seriously. I’m not bullshitting you.”

I say nothing, waiting, hoping he’ll unburden himself soon so that I can go to my room and sleep. Dawn is coming and I must be on my way.

He signals for another round. We sit in silence until the bartender brings our drinks. The man glances at my half-full glass of scotch and I smile. He sets the drinks down and helps another customer. The young man picks up his beer and drinks half the bottle. I watch his throat work. He puts the bottle down and wipes the condensation on his jeans.

“My girlfriend’s name was Janey,” he says. “I was eighteen. She was fourteen. I mean, that’s only four year’s difference, but people acted like I was a fucking child molester or something. I wasn’t, dog. I knew Janey since we were little kids. Our parents took us to the same church and shit. We were in love. Her old man freaked when he found out we were doing it. Somehow—I don’t know how—he got the password to Janey’s MySpace page and he read our messages. He told her she wasn’t allowed to see me anymore. Then he called my folks and said if I tried to contact Janey again, he’d call the cops and have me arrested as a pedophile. He actually called me that—like I was one of those sick fucks Chris Matthews busts on that show. You know?”

I don’t. The only television programming I watch is PBS, and only when the hotel I’m staying in offers it. But I nod just the same, encouraging him to continue. I hope he’ll hurry up. I am bored.

“Well, Janey sent me a text message the next day. Her dad found out and he smacked the shit out of her. So I went over there and knocked on the door, and when he answered, I told him I wanted to talk. He was mad. So mad that he was fucking shaking, yo. But he let me in. Said we were gonna have this out once and for all, and then he never wanted to see me again. He made Janey stay upstairs in her room. I heard her and her mother arguing. I asked if I could get a glass of water and he said yeah. So when he went into the kitchen to get it, I followed him. They must have just gone grocery shopping, because there were a bunch of empty plastic bags lying on the counter. I picked up two—double-bagged, like they do for heavy stuff, you know? There was a little bit of blood inside, probably from steak or hamburger or something. I remember that. And while her dad’s back was still turned, I slipped those bags over his head and smothered the motherfucker.”

There is no regret in his voice as he says this. There is only grim satisfaction. His smile is a death mask. He takes another sip of beer and then continues.

“Upstairs, Janey and her mom were still hollering at each other, so I grabbed a knife from the drawer and tip-toed out of the kitchen. Janey’s little brother, Mikey, was standing there. He screamed, so I stabbed him, just to shut him up.” He chuckles, but there is no humor in it. “Yeah, I shut him the fuck up, alright. I remember when I pulled the knife out, blood just started gushing. It was hot and sticky, you know?”

I do indeed. I know all too well what another’s blood feels like on your hands. How it smells. How it steams on cold nights and turns black when spilled on asphalt. How it dries on your flesh like mud, and can be peeled away like dead skin.