Carver Pike - Scalp

You can shove that comfort up your ass.

He wished like hell he’d left an emergency bottle of one of the brothers around here somewhere. Those brothers would be Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, or even their foreign cousin Jose Cuervo. The thought of that family reunion was really nice. He would drink away his sorrows and not show up for work tonight.

His job seemed pointless really. He needed the money, and it was easy work, but driving around the forest all night made no sense to him.

He eyed his pistol on the table, right where he’d left it at eight this morning before settling down to a turkey with gravy TV dinner and season three of 24. Hal had the entire show on DVD. It was the last gift Sheila gave him for Christmas. He’d always been a fan of that show. He wondered what its star character, Jack Bauer, would do in his situation. Would he bite a bullet?

It was a tempting thought. All he had to do was put the muzzle in his mouth and pull the trigger. Then all this would go away. He might not make it to where his angel was, but he’d be able to meet up with Sheila again. It was that fear of the unknown that stopped him from doing it. What if?

What if you pull the trigger and somehow don’t die?

What if you pull the trigger, you do die, but you never see your daughter again?

What if you pull the trigger, don’t see your daughter, and can’t find your wife?

The truth was, he was a coward. That’s why he didn’t do it.

Deciding not to waste his time with thoughts of things he’d never accomplish, he shuffled his worn-out, lazy carcass over to the freezer and pulled out a couple of blueberry waffles. He stuck them in the toaster and then crossed the trailer to his reclining chair. It was the only piece of living room furniture he owned other than a coffee table and the stand holding the TV.

Having slept all day, Hal was left with only the news to watch on his rabbit-eared TV. He refused to pay for cable when there was never anything on. Instead, he retrieved his waffles and ate them without syrup while watching the horrendous events going on around the world. It seemed there was always some kind of terrorist attack, race riot, war… the list went on and on. Gone were the days of seeing stories such as “neighborhood kid sees a classmate in trouble and runs to the rescue” or “a family in need is given assistance by unknown strangers.”

Hal glanced back at his gun once more and considered leaving the world behind.

This place is becoming a dumpster. Someday, maybe someday soon, something is going to come along that will force us to unify. Race won’t matter, sex won’t matter, religion won’t matter… only the human race will matter.

He chuckled as he imagined the spaceships from the movie Independence Day hovering over West Virginia.

“Ain’t nothing here worth blowing up.”

With his finger on the power button, Hal was about to turn off the day’s negativity when a picture of the pickup from last night flashed on the screen. The camera was positioned right around the same spot he’d been standing.

“Yes, Mark, authorities are saying the truck must have flipped over the guardrail and plummeted down here into the ravine. With signs of no other vehicle present, exactly what caused this accident is unknown. The vehicle has been identified as belonging to Andre Pete from right here in Clydesville, but there has been no sign of Andre, so exactly what happened is very much a mystery. If anyone knows Andre’s whereabouts, please get in contact with the police department so they can verify his wellbeing.”

The scene flashed to a cop Hal recognized. He’d gotten pulled over once by him when he was still hitting the sauce pretty hard.

“It’s kind of crazy,” the cop said. “There’s quite a bit of blood on the scene, but it’s almost like he just got up and walked off. Anyone who knows Andre knows he’s one tough son of a gun, but he really needs to get checked out in the hospital.”

Andre Pete. What happened to you, man?

“Again,” the reporter continued, “if anyone knows the whereabouts of Andre Pete, please get in touch with authorities. Back to you, Tom.”

The next few stories passed in a blur. Hal was worried about Andre. They weren’t friends, not really, but they’d attended AA meetings together. Andre had started drinking while still in the military. His injured leg made him feel inadequate, and as it usually did so well, the rum made him feel invincible even if only for a little while. Hal had gone for coffee a couple of times with Andre and some others from the group.

Andre was the type of man who didn’t understand people who were capable but weren’t willing. Once, they’d even argued about it, over coffee, when Andre asked Hal why he wasn’t a cop anymore. Hal told him the truth, and Andre said, “I don’t understand you at all, man. If I were able to go back into the field, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I think it’s pretty pitiful that you’re able to do the policing but just don’t feel like doing it anymore.”

They didn’t go for coffee anymore after that, but that didn’t mean Hal wished him dead. He might be a little too opinionated, but he was a good man.

Overwhelmed by the feeling something bad had happened to Andre, Hal prepared for work early. He knew where Andre lived and wanted to stop by his house before clocking in. Once, after one of those post-meeting coffee meet-ups, Hal dropped Andre off at his trailer only a few blocks away. Andre’s car was in the shop at the time. They talked a little, mostly about hunting and the right to bear arms, until Andre started talking about his next get-rich-quick scheme. This time it had something to do with selling ladybugs to organic farmers. The whole concept was ridiculous, but Hal sat and silently listened. Hal had become the quiet type. He spoke when spoken to or when in need of information. Other than that, he felt better keeping his thoughts to himself.

His beliefs didn’t always mesh well with the opinions of others.

If you won’t eat the fish, throw it back.

Be kind. There ain’t no reason, nor is there time, to waste with meanness.

Watch when someone’s laughing. Remember that face they make. You’ll miss it when they’re gone.

If you can eat more, ask for seconds. It’s a great compliment.

Apologize when you’re sorry.

Only shoot what you’ll eat.

Hold the damn door open for the person behind you.

Wash your hands after you piss.

Tell your loved ones how much you love them. All the time.

Fight hard… until you win. Then your fighting should be done.

Those were the rules he followed. If others did the same, the world would be a much better place.

Driving up the hill to the Cloud 9 trailer park, Hal wondered how some of these people made it up such a steep incline in the winter. He could imagine someone gunning it from the bottom, speeding up the hill, and then sliding on ice all the way into the living room of some poor soul’s trailer. That would never happen though. Folks around these parts were so well-versed on snow driving. The changing of the seasons meant very little to them other than the fact they couldn’t go mudding on backroads or kayaking on the lake.

At the top of the hill, Hal drove around the giant circle at the inside, noting the Circle of Hope at its center. He’d partied there a few times himself. Twice when he was still drinking. It wasn’t the best place for a recovering alcoholic, so he kept his distance now. The last time he was up here, some chick named Saucy kept trying to get in his pants.

“You can have the sauce anytime you want it,” she’d offered.