The Love Interest Departs New York
Adapted from the diary of Cheyenne Warrington.
I am trying to imagine you — from the notes that you have written — at the outset of your odyssey on the day I started mine. Compulsive diarist that you are, the one trait that we shared, you keep a record of everything, as though you were writing a memoir. Instead, you left it all to me, except for the pages you tore out that dealt with your previous life, the things you never cared to divulge that no doubt caused those storms of rage that got in the way of everything.
You’re alone in lower Manhattan, you write, near the mouth of the Holland Tunnel, in one of the few remaining blocks still blighted by decay. It’s a square where pushers and ladies of the night are known to make an appearance, and you’re dressed for disambiguation in camo fatigues and wrap around shades. The chestnut hair that falls to your waist is braided and wound at the back of your head, making you look even more severe. As indicated by two large letters printed on a cardboard sign, your objective is Los Angeles, the city of reinvented lives.
Though it’s still some days before Halloween, the creeps are already abroad. You turn down rides from several of them, sleazy guys in souped-up rigs who’d be more inclined to derail your plans than offer you a helping hand. But your main concern, for the time being, is the small fleet of squad cars collecting on the cross street behind you, and the copter hovering overhead. One of the cruisers heads your way, and you’re just about to take a walk, when along comes a red pickup truck with Alabama plates.
As the truck pulls up alongside, you note the two-way radio chatter that sounds to you like the police band but the driver cuts the sound off as she slides the window down. Like anyone with something to hide, you wonder what she conceals from you.
“I’m goin as far as Mobile, Hon, and don’t relish goin alone,” she says.
Though a quick assessment of the situation says she’s not the one they seek, her demeanor tells you otherwise. She resembles the female counterpart of the men who tried to pick you up. The face is pinched and drawn and bitter, mocking her opulent attire, and you smile at the thought of this holler hellcat hiding in Japanese pleated silk. You make a note of the grey-blonde hair, the sinister look in her eyes, the way they dart from you to the chopper to the squad car moving in behind, and you spot that bead of sweat on her brow that tells you she’s under duress. Certain you can’t trust the woman, but aware you’re breaking the law, you choose the lesser evil.
“Sounds good to me,” you say.
“Just throw your pack in the rear then, girl, cuz the heat’s acomin down on ya.”
You do as she says, flip a bird to the squad car, and flash that cold emoticon you’d show me when we first met.
“I’m Anne,” you tell her, liked a practiced liar.
“Maude Barker. Pleased to meet you. You can call me Matty, though. Everybody does.”
“Glad you came along, Matty. You wouldn’t believe the gentlemen who’ve tried to pick me up.”
“I know all about them kind, Hon, but you’ll be safe with me.”
Maude swings the customized F250 back into the traffic lane and heads down the tunnel. She talks all the while you’re in the hole, like she can’t stand being alone with herself. “You always wear them dark glasses?”
“Only when I’m traveling incognito.”
“Whaddaya mean by that?”
“Means I don’t want to be recognized.” By which you mean your guard is up and the dark glasses are part of it. You won ‘t give away anything, especially those deep blue eyes of yours that so enchanted me.
“You some kinda famous or somethin?” Maude says.
“Depends on what you mean by famous.”
“I’ll bet you’re a movie star workin on a part. Ain’tcha?”
“No, nothing like that,” you say, as cagey with her as you’d be with me.
“You got one of them beauty spots, just like Marilyn Monroe.”
You take it as a compliment and smile. But you don’t let down your guard either, thinking maybe see’s a dyke, in addition to whatever else you don’t want to know about her.
“You don’t mind me askin,” Maude says, “but you don’t exactly look the type, hitchin rides to L.A. -”
“You do get right to the point, don’t you.”
“We’re gonna spend some time together, ain’t no point in lettin issues get in the way of talkin.”
“So, I decided to hitch. So what?”
“A woman’s hard up, she takes the bus.” Maude says. “It ain’t safe -”
“For one thing, I can take care of myself. For another -”
“Yeah, seeing you out there hitchin, it really makes me wonder.”
When you’re up on the Jersey City side, her eyes go darting all around, like a rat coming out of its burrow. You ride in silence for a while, until the road goes under cover, then you notice the woman eyeballing you, just as you’ve been doing to her, and it’s giving you the creeps. You feel the need to get out of her truck without arousing her suspicion, and you don’t have whole lot of time. You pull out your road map and study the way out west.
“You ain’t goin out for a visit, are ya?” Maude says.
“What makes you think that?”
“You ain’t bein much company.”
“I’m sorry, Matty, I’m just in a pensive mood is all.”
“There you go using them words again.”
“I mean thoughtful.”
“Suck it up, child,” Maude says, “you ain’t alone, ya know.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’ll bet you lost everything, didn’t ya?”
You make a note that she’s probing you. Seeking vulnerability. You wonder what it is she needs and why she seems to need so much. You don’t respond to her question, though, and she takes it as an affirmation.
“There’s lots of folks in the same damn boat. You’re thinkin of startin over, though, things out there in California ain’t gonna be no better, maybe even worse.”
“You may have a point there, Matty. I might give it some thought. But what do you say we change the topic?”
“Whaddaya wanna talk about?”
“How we’re getting from here to there might be a good place to start. That way I could navigate.”
“I know the route like I know my face,” Maude says. “Ain’t no need for a navigator.”
“What do you think is the best route out to Los Angeles, then?”
“Hitchin rides this time of year? You just come along with me and take I-Ten through the border states. Northern routes is too rainy and it’s way too cold in the mountains.”
“It seems to me it’s all high country once I get through Texas.”
“That can be a problem,” Maude says. “They say the desert gets real cold.”
As the truck eases up to the Skyway, you’re looking down at the tenement houses, boarded-up shops, and bricked-up windows that mirror the condition of the road itself. “This is really sad,” you say, “when you see what’s going on downtown and then you come out here.”
“You been in the city too long, you don’t know about that,” Maude says. “Same thing everywhere I go. Country’s bein hollowed out from one coast to another. Parasites have run amuck and no one gives a damn about it except the ones that’s out of work. People beggin on street corners. Doormen at the seven-eleven cadging for a tip. Politicians ain’t no use. They’s all in the bankers’ pockets. So, what are we supposed to do when we’re not needed anymore?”
“No need to take it personal, Mattie. You appear to be doing alright.”
She doesn’t answer right away and the shadow that passes across her face makes you wonder why.
“Man got laid off permanent,” Maude says. “Took us a hell of a lot of doing to get back on our feet. Ain’t proud how we did it, neither.”
“We all do what we can. Nothing wrong with that.”
“If people only knew sometimes,”
You mention how you take her words as seeking validation, and you don’t want to go there. You’re afraid she might have evil secrets only killing you would keep, so you try to change the topic. “You must do a lot of traveling.”
“Fair amount.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Call it a mix of both,” Maude says. “Got lots folks to visit.”
“You got family all over, then?”
“So to speak.”
You make note of that, too. You write a whole disquisition on it. How it’s not the way people talk about family, and anyone who says such things must have something wrong with them. The way you go on about it, it reads like you protest too much. Then you note how she keeps talking, as if she’s trying to cover up an obvious slip of the tongue.
“Brothers, sisters, my own brood. Plenty of cousins, too. All of them got their own, as well. You should see the get-togethers, we almost need a circus tent.”
You flash that killer emoticon again.
“It must be nice to be so close. And so many of you, too.”
“You ain’t got nobody?” Maude says.
“That’s life in the big city.”
“Girl as pretty as you, and you ain’t got a feller?”
“You’re getting awful personal, Matty.”
“You ain’t got no job, neither?”
You don’t answer. So Maude keeps talking. “I like the way you handle yourself, I’m always lookin for good people…”
You make a note of that, too. You wonder what there is to like about the way you operate. You’ve come across as a lone wolf with a locked down personality. Useful traits for assassins and spies, but nothing involving positions of trust. Still wanting to change the subject, you turn and spot a police helicopter hovering off to the right.
“That’s funny,” you say. “What’s that New York Police chopper doing over here?”
“Port Authority, most likely,” Maude says. “You see that guy with the glasses? I bet they’s lookin for someone.”
You note she might have said a word if she’d seen the helicopter first. Nothing that woman says or does allays your initial suspicions.
The faint wail of police sirens soon pierces the whoosh and thump of the road and you spot another bead of stress forming on her brow. As the sound grows ever louder, Maude keeps tight to the right hand side to let the convoy pass her by. Six of the cars keep going while the last two slow the pace, bringing the traffic to a gradual halt. Watching the action from high on the bridge, you see four police cruisers box in the suspect’s car while the first two form a roadblock near the base of the bridge.
“They’s isolatin the perp,” Maude says.
You note that he doesn’t drive like one. His car has not stood out at all as one you’d be suspicious of, even after the sirens howled and before the cops had set their trap. He drove like he had no reason to think the police were after him.
You watch as the car is brought to a halt and note the eerie feeling you get that emanates from Maude. Glancing to the left a moment, you spot the fiendish gleam in her eye as the trunk of the car is thrown open and something is removed from inside. The suspect is dragged from the seat, laid out prone, then frisked and cuffed, and shoved into one of the squad cars. Just as quickly as they set the trap the police lift the roadblock, traffic is allowed to flow again and Maude breathes a sigh of relief.
As you pass the abandoned vehicle you recognize the paint job. “That’s one of the cars that stopped for me.”
“You sure about that?” Maude asks.
“It’s one of those old two-tones. Can’t mistake a car like that.”
“Just be glad you’re with me then, Hon.”
“I’m much obliged,” you say. But you’d had a few words with that boy in the car and he was far too cool for a fugitive, especially for one so young. Maude, on the other hand, as much as she tries to cover it up, is anything but cool. And the way she seems so interested, to the point of being vested in it, you note that she must have set it up to facilitate her departure, and picked you up as a hostage maybe, in case her plan went awry.
“You wanna come to Mobile,” Maude says, “I can always put you to work.”
“I appreciate that, Matty, but taking your advice to heart, I’m thinking maybe I should go to Miami.”
“You don’t know what you’re doin, do you?”
“Things came apart for me so fast I had no time to work it out. But I have something I can do, and Miami might be better for it.”
“So what do you want me to do? Drop you at I-Ninety-Five?”
You pull the cardboard sign from your pocket and write MIAMI on the back.
“That might be best, Matty.”
“You watch out for yourself, ya hear?”