Chris Lynch - Kill Switch

A couple of times I get worried enough to bang on the cab’s rear window. When Da looks at me the first time, I give him a turbo octo-shush, which only makes him wave me off and launch right into another killer story to his new pal. The second time, after my knocking frantically, I figure it is futile when the two of them spin in my direction and give me dual, synchronized octo-shushes.

They laugh so hard I fear we are in for the third crash of the day. So I slink back down low, under the big built-in storage chest behind the cab.

The end of August is some of the loveliest weather of the year. If you are not in the open bed of a pickup truck going seventy, northbound when you are already north of probably forty of the continental United States. If you are not already weakened by exhaustion and unwelcome excitement you could only have ever dreamed of before. And especially if you are not a confused and stupid and fragile and helpful and helpless mess of a nowhere man who just happens to be badly in need of his self-prescribed medicine on top of all of the above.

I lie down on the floor of the truck, in front of Jarrod. I back up into him so that as much of my body surface is contacting as much of his body surface as is decently possible. And then a little more. We huddle there that way, for dear life, for survival, for the duration of the trip.

Everybody has a kill switch, Da said.

Same as a car with an immobilizer. The power is there, it’s just interrupted. You just have to find the kill switch that reconnects that power.

Once you flip your kill switch, you can do anything. Everything you thought you couldn’t do, and many things you never even thought of.

What if I don’t want to kill anything, I said.

You don’t know that until you’ve flipped the switch.

When the big truck finally stops, and the engine cuts, it still feels, underneath me, like the motor is vibrating. I suspect the left side of my body will feel like that for some time now, and my right side will feel like defrosting chicken. Jarrod clings to my back like a baby marmoset as we hear the doors of the comfortable part of the vehicle bang shut, one-two.

Next thing, the two men are hanging over the side of the truck bed, observing us as if selecting tonight’s slab of halibut.

I look up at the Golfer, and he looks the way you look when you get off the best carnival rides. Grinning, delirious, stunned, disheveled, possibly a bit nauseous but unwilling to admit it, and ready to sign up for more.

“That is a great American,” he says, and I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about Buzz Aldrin.

“You are right about that,” I say, creaking myself into an upright position. Without my insulation, Jarrod instantly goes into teeth-chattering mode, sits up, and clings again to my back. Every sinew of the boy quakes like an electric charge is being bolted through him.

“Here,” the Golfer says, peeling off business cards for each of us, “I know a couple people in this town. Don’t know what you’re looking for here-don’t know if I want to know, either-but if you mention my name at the ferry office or at the pawn shop called Bread and Waters, these folks will treat you right.”

“Thank you,” Da says, and the two men hug like two old war veterans parting ways.

“Yeah,” I say, hopping over the side. “Thanks for this, and for the lift. You really bailed us out.”

“Just being a good neighbor,” he says. “Pass it on, pay it forward, whatever.”

I help Jarrod down as the Golfer ambles back to his cab, climbs in, and then takes off with a three-toot salute of his horn and a big wave over the gun rack.

We have been deposited in the savage beating heart of the place that is Lundy Lee. We are in front of the Episcopal church, looking straight ahead down the road to the ferry terminal. Straight down the other road to our left is what appears to be the commercial part of the town. To the right is a lot of nothing, leading to a large, clinical-industrial fright of a squat yellow-brick building that automatically makes you feel like walking in the other direction. We walk that way.

It is getting dark, and most places are closed up. We pass a drugstore, a dry cleaner, a fast food shop that has a long menu in the front window, though the one and only scent wafting out of the open front door is boiling grease. That doesn’t hurt its popularity any, though, as there are a dozen teenagers pimpling around out front and several more at the counter inside. We pass a Salvation Army thrift shop, right next door to a Salvation Army mission. Every place other than the fast food joint is closed.

There is a very narrow alley running between the two Salvation Army operations.

“I gotta take a leak,” Jarrod says.

“Go on, then,” I say as he slithers down the alley.

Da and I take up matching poses, arms folded, leaning on the corners of the two buildings. A couple of pagodas, guarding the sacred piss alley.

“What now, Da, do you think?”

“Don’t know,” Da says, “but I like it here.”

“You do?”

“What’s not to like? Look, there’s the ocean.”

He points, across the street and down a couple of blocks, where indeed you can see the open water leading out from the ferry terminal to the wide, watery world.

“So it is,” I say. “What are we going to do with it, though?”

“Well, can’t drink it. Too salty.”

“True enough. But I was thinking more along the lines of you can’t sleep on it. We are pretty well homeless right now. We have to work something out.”

“We will. This is the exact kind of place where things work out.”

“It is?”

“It is.”

We wait a bit more, silently, until I run out of patience.

“Well,” I say, “nothing is going to get worked out with numpty peeing down his leg all night.”

“Maybe he got lost,” Da says generously.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, and start making my way down the pencil-straight lane.

When I get to the end, I am greeted by garbage and excrement smells, a Dumpster, and Jarrod stretched out on his back on the ground.

“Hey,” I say, rushing to him and kneeling down beside him. His eyes are open and staring at the sky. Otherwise, lifeless. “Jarrod, are you all right?”

“I am now. Lots of all right. Stars are beautiful tonight. And busy.”

I look up at the complete cloud cover.

“Yeah, dazzling. Come on, on your feet, Gonzo.”

“I’m not gonzo. I’m right herezo.”

I yank him up onto his feet. He wobbles, wavers, and finally gets something like righted. I lead him back out of the alley.

Where the other one has vanished.

“Jeez,” I say, smacking the side of my head with the heel of my hand. “Stupid, stupid.”

“Don’t say that,” Jarrod says. “If you are stupid, we don’t stand a chance. What’s wrong, anyway?”

I turn my anger on him. “Do you notice anything missing from this picture?”

Jarrod actually says, “Hmmm,” and looks around pensively.

“Ah, come on,” I say, yanking him by the arm.

We make our way farther up the strip, passing a closed insurance broker, an everything-for-a-dollar shop, and a liquor store, which is open but so barricaded and fortified it seems very closed. Da is not in there, anyway.

Then we find ourselves standing in front of a big, caged front window that reads in burnt orange arcing letters, BREAD & WATERS LOANS.