Echoes

Rachel fiddled with the radio, not stopping at a station for more then a few seconds. Tim started saying “This is fine.” after any halfway decent tune just so she would stay on a song. She finally stopped when the sound of Rihanna filled the car. Tim was relieved the interminable station flipping was halted for the duration of the song. He also loved the song.

They headed toward Hope in this fashion, listening to approximately one song for every seventy-three they passed. Rachel pulled over a few times to smoke but was true to her word and mostly kept the miles churning by beneath them.

Tim peed one time they pulled over and drank a warm red bull that was rolling around on the floor around his feet, but other then that felt no real pressing needs.

For the first few hours Tim kept vigilant for anything “off”. He figured that if something strange did happen he wanted as much notice as possible. After a few hours of hyper vigilance Tim decided to give it up. It was starting to seem like just a normal drive, no other person so much as looked at them twice. They flowed smoothly and anonymously toward their destination.

The day bled into evening with no incidence and Tim found they were quickly approaching their lodging for the night. Rachel pulled into a farmstead that had converted barns into hotel rooms. She had spoken to the owner for a while at the last rest stop and assured Tim that everything was all set. Based on her track record so far, he decided to believe her.

Sure enough, the door to the “Still-Kinkay” cabin was unlocked. A light in the back was on and a small fire burned in the fireplace that served the seating area. Tim was pretty impressed with the space. At first glance it seemed there was a bed on the ground floor and sleeping loft. Perfect set up for the two of them. It was a cozy place, well maintained, most likely the work of a single passionate owner instead of a conglomerate. Tim decided he was going to enjoy this while he could. He was sure there’d be some nights sleeping outside in the future to balance this out. It only made sense.

Tonight though, he had a fire. Tim stepped into the cabin and took his shoes off, leaving them close enough to the fire to warm up but not get hot. He fed the fire a few pieces of perfectly sized wood that was stacked nearby to get it going. He piled it in a square like a log cabin, he had learned that at a scout camp long ago. Maybe Yawgoog.

Rachel had entered and was wandering around but did not seem to find anything interesting. She traveled from room to room, fingers trailing across anything that caught her eye. She even poked her head up into the loft. After a short while of not finding what she was looking for Rachel plopped down near him in a ratty and undoubtedly comfortable recliner. She was sitting now but Tim could tell she was wired. The flames reflected off her glossy eyes, Tim had to take drastic action.

“I can juggle.” He was never sure the right amount of pride and self-depreciation to deliver this line with.

Rachel did look towards him but he didn’t seem to have piqued her interest. That was ok, he didn’t need her interest yet, he had her attention. He poked around their surroundings, lifting a few objects to test their heft and breakability before settling on a round souvenir desk weight containing a desert scene, a green and black bean bag and a ball of rough dark twine.

Tim had always felt that juggling would be a good way to have a “thing”. Something semi-interesting that he could do if the situation called for it. It was far simpler and relatively as impressive as being able to play an instrument or do gymnastics. Or whatever. Anything that required actual commitment. He had pictured himself starting to juggle while leaning casually against a wall, drawing everyone’s attention as if reluctantly.

Tim had to picture this scene because he had never actually followed through on learning how to juggle. He could do two no problem, make it look pretty good actually. He had never been able to successfully add that third to the mix. Tim was hoping the execution wasn’t as important as the earnestness in which he tried to juggle three things for longer than a split second.

Tim started to try and juggle, the fire throwing shadows behind him, each inky Tim cut out having varying degrees of success with the endeavor. His makeshift balls hit the ground more often than they stayed in the air as he stumbled around trying to stay under them. Sometimes though, sometimes he tossed the twine into the air to join the frozen desert and hacky sack and they stayed there and his hands kept them afloat and the warmth of the fire washed over his face and Rachel stared at him. She was absorbed. Not because he was any good. She was getting invested in his increasingly competent efforts at juggling. Either that or she was hoping he flubbed up badly and fell into the fire. Either way.

His moderate success wouldn’t keep her occupied for long, so he narrated his “juggling” with the most embarrassing stories he could think of from his life. Not just the stories you’d tell over dinner to a few titters and a disapproving look from your stuffy aunt. Also, the things he never told anyone about that normally would make him hang his head in shame to even think about.

He regaled her with the time he had walked face first into a closed glass door, smooshed visage pressed towards a room full of people staring at him. When he over trusted a fart one time he was sick at work, causing him to have to stuff his soiled boxers deep into the rest room trash and finish the day out commando. The time him and his wife didn’t realize his sister-in-law was still on the phone they thought they had hung up; she heard their entire twenty-minute conversation on their drive to Target. Not all of it was complimentary.

It seemed she could relate. Rachel began to trading each of his stores with one of her own. It felt like a re-hash of the drinking scene in Jaws to Tim, with them one-upping each other, except instead of being in the galley of a small ship deep at sea they were in a small cabin trading stories while he ineptly juggled.

They came to an end point when Rachel described shitting her pants on the highway to Six Flags. Having no way to exit or safely pull over, with a car full of kids, she had to peel her panties off and toss them from the car (they hit the cab of an eighteen-wheeler where they briefly stuck) or kill her family with the stench. Only lucky part was she hadn’t been driving. She was left peeking from the car while her husband went to the nearest Aero to buy her new pants and underwear. Checkmate.

Actually sitting still for a while seemed to have allowed the tiredness to catch up to Rachel. She stretched and yawned, Tim taking this interruption as a good time to drop his balls for the final time. He sat across from her on a green loveseat.

“Eww.”

“Yup. It was fucking nasty. I was sleeping at the time, my husband told me they smelled something first, then I said “I poohed!” Her eyes had a faraway look now. “Keep practicing. Good night.”

Rachel padded around for a few minutes, checking various locks and re-getting a feel for where things were. She finished in the bathroom before climbing up to the loft.

“You sleep down there, keep the fire going at least an hour.” She threw these commands over her shoulder as she disappeared up into the space under the eaves.

Fine by him. Tim had noticed at least one other bedroom but felt better sleeping out on the couch, by the fire. He double checked all the doors and windows, peering out of each of them as he went. He pulled a navy blue felt sheet from a closet as he locked up. When he was finished, he cleaned himself up a bit and fed a few logs into the fire. He then went and sat in the center of the couch and cried.