Joe Lansdale - The Complete Drive-In

Crier said this soft and solemn like, and you could almost hear the organ music in the background. I think Bob was as affected as I was by Crier’s remarks, because he didn’t say anything rude, and something of that sort was always on the tip of his tongue. A lump, like a crippled frog trying to make it downhill, moved in my throat.

Crier went over to the grave and looked at the hubcap, picked it up and looked at the soles of Sam’s feet, put the hubcap back, sighed, looked at the jungle.

“I’m here to say some words about this man, but nothing much comes to me. I didn’t really know the poor bastard, but from what I could tell, he was about the dumbest sonofabitch that ever shit over a pair of shoes.

“Still, he was a man, and he deserved better than this. I’m sorry I couldn’t get him buried proper, couldn’t get his feet to stay down, but I did get his ass in the grave, and that was a job. I hope he rests in peace.

“I’m sorry about his wife, Mable. She wasn’t any better or smarter than he was, from what I could tell, maybe a damn sight dumber. But I guess she did the best she could, like all of us. She’s back at the drive-in, burned up under some lumber pieces, just in case you care.

“And listen, God, if you’re out there, how about some relief around here? Lighten up. Things are multiple-fucked-up, and if anyone can put things straight, it ought to be you. Right? I mean, you hear what I’m saying? Give us some sign of good things to come. It would be appreciated. Okay, that’s it. Amen.”

Crier walked back to the truck, and about the time he reached it, the jungle parted and out stepped a nasty red-and-blue dinosaur that was probably a baby Tyrannosaurus Rex, or something close enough to be a double cousin to one.

Whatever it was, it stood on big hind legs and held two puny forelegs in front of itself as if pleading. Its face was mostly teeth.

Toothy sniffed the air delicately, scampered over to the grave, snapped at the hubcap with its mouthful of big, sharp teeth, and managed to gulp it and Sam’s feet down with very little chewing.

After a moment, Toothy coughed and spat out the hubcap, which now resembled a wad of aluminum foil. He used one clawed foot to scratch Sam out of the grave the way a chicken might scratch a worm from the dirt, bent and bit into Sam’s corpse. With a series of rapid head-flipping motions, he proceeded to gobble the old boy so viciously that pieces of Sam flew out of Toothy’s mouth and sprinkled the grass.

Finished with his repast, Toothy eyed us, as if giving the dessert counter a once-over.

We stayed very still. Rocks couldn’t have been that still.

He let out a little honk that shook the truck, then started to turn toward the jungle.

A weight watcher, to our relief.

But before he could make a complete turn, he froze, turned his head slightly to the side and acquired a look akin to that of a patient who has just experienced the greased finger of the doctor up his ass. Then with a grunt, Toothy leaned slightly forward and cut a monster fart that was reminiscent of an air horn, but with more tonality.

When the fart was finished and Toothy had adopted a more satisfied and comfortable look, he moved into the jungle and out of sight.

After a moment of silence, Bob said, “Well, Crier, hope that wasn’t the sign from God you were waiting for.”

We drove along for a while, and finally Crier, who had been looking pretty distressed for a time, pulled over and killed the motor.

“What’s up?”

“Sam,” he said. “I can’t get him out of my mind.”

“Hell, you buried him, didn’t you? Wasn’t your fault all you had was a hubcap. And that dinosaur even gave him a musical salute after he ate him. Tomorrow sometime, Sam will be fertilizing a patch of ground. What more could you ask for?”

“Fuck Sam. It’s me I’m talking about. I don’t want to end up buried alongside the road like that.”

“You aren’t dead, Crier.”

“But I might get that way, and I don’t want to end up in some trench next to the highway where something can dig me up and eat me.”

“Something doesn’t dig you up, the worms are going to take care of you, so what’s the difference? Maybe we could just leave you where you lie and save the dinosaurs some digging.”

“That’s nice. I’m pouring out my heart here and you’re making fun. I don’t want to be left beside the road and I don’t want to be buried beside it neither.”

“Perhaps we could arrange for you to be whisked away to heaven.”

“I want to be carried to the end of the highway.”

“Keep driving, and if we don’t run out of gas, that’s a wish you’ll get. You don’t even have to be dead. Have you noticed the gas mileage we’re getting? It’s got to be super or the gas gauge is fucked.”

“Forget the goddamn gas gauge and the mileage, I’m serious here. I get croaked, you guys make sure I get to the end of the highway. Something about that appeals to me. I like the idea of finishing things. Dinosaur eats me there, so be it.”

“Crier, if you’re dead, it doesn’t matter if fifty naked girls with tits like zeppelins are at the end of the highway ready to suck your dick until your balls cave in. You’ll still be dead.”

“Promise me that should something happen to me you’ll make sure I get to the end of the highway to be buried.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“If you get killed. I’ll see you get to the end of the highway and get buried or cremated or something.”

“Not cremated, I don’t like that.”

“Tried it?”

“Just bury me. I’ll make you the same promise if you like.”

“Something happens to me, leave me in the bushes. I’ll be past caring.”

Bob rose up in back and tapped on the glass with an elbow, held out his hands to question why we had stopped.

Crier waved him down, started up the engine and pulled back onto the highway.

“I’m going to talk to Bob about it too,” Crier said. “Think he’ll do it?”

“Who knows about Bob?” I said.

We finally came to a clearing on the right-hand side of the highway. There was grass, but it wasn’t high, and I figured a lot of critters had been grazing on it. In the distance I could see the blue of a great lake. Or what looked like a lake. I still felt as if I were on a movie set. Reality was not to be trusted.

Crier turned off the highway and drove over the grass, and it seemed like it took forever to reach the lake. He parked about six feet from it, jumped out and went belly down on the bank and stuck his face into the water and began to drink.

It was real water.

I opened my door and tried to get out, but it was too far a step and too much pressure on my feet to manage it.

I sat and waited for Crier to finish drinking. If there had been any moisture in my mouth I would have salivated.

When Crier was done he came over and got me out of the truck. The grass was soft and I found I could hobble across it without too much support from Crier.

“I couldn’t wait,” Crier said. “Sorry.”

“I’d have done the same,” I said.

The water was cool and sweet, and pretty soon Crier had Bob beside me, then all three of us were lying there on our bellies drinking. I was the first to overdo it. I puked up the water and the sardines on the bank, and Bob and Crier followed shortly thereafter.

We finished puking and went to drinking again, slower this time, and when we were finished, we pulled off what we were wearing and went into the water, Bob and I entering it on elbows and knees, looking like pale alligators.

Waterlogged, we climbed on the bank and lay on our backs and looked at the sky. The sun went down-in the south, go figure-and the lake went dark and the moon rose up-in the south, go figure again-and the water turned the color of molten silver.