They Say It's Cold in Alaska, Part 3
Toby leaned forward, over the Dart's steering wheel, as if those extra inches could help him see more deeply into the black. He drove on in pursuit of the girl in the Ford woody, but to no avail. After 10 minutes of not seeing it, or any other vehicle, he sighed, made a U-turn, headed back to Garrisonville, to his motel. Along the way, about where he'd lost sight of her, he spied a dirt road to his left. Could she have turned off there? Another U-turn and he was bouncing down the primitive path. Presently, he came to a road that ran parallel to the highway, Parchman Rd. And right in front of him was a bungalow with a small barn in the back. And parked in the barn was the old Ford!
"This must be where she lives," Toby surmised, figuring that if she were just visiting she'd leave the car in the driveway. Not for certain, but it is a slight clue that she just might be single.
There was an amber glow from the front room.
Toby took a left and drove down Parchman until he found a spot to pull over. He hopped out and walked to the house. On either side of the cottage, and behind the garage, were woods, the house, the garage and tiny yard isolated like an island or an oasis. He crept to the house like a cat, like an Indian, as he'd been taught as an Eagle Scout: stepping slowly so as not to crack a stick. He took a deep breath and ventured up to the house. He didn't dare go on the porch for fear of a creak. So he decided to peek in the side window. The moon was bright and golden in the clear black sky. Toby's shadow was sharp on the ground as he edged to the window. In the moonglow he felt like a prisoner just escaped, a klieg light blazing against him. Still, he made it to the window, all the while thinking, "This is nuts! I'm not some sort of Peeping Tom! I'm just a guy in love! But try telling that to the judge! I'd get tossed in the bughouse before you could say Jack Robinson!"
(For Toby Mailman being in love was the greatest intoxicant. It meant fun! He and Gladys had had fun in Germany, and even back in the States. But when the sparkle faded, turned to gray, things grew creaky. Before he'd left Florida, Toby put away his childish things. But he didn't turn off his childish mind.)
At the window he held his breath, was quiet as a ghost and watched her lounging on a small sofa, reading a magazine. He was so close he could see that it was Look magazine, the irony of which forced him to stifle a chuckle.
She was barefoot, her moccasins on the braided rug. She was still dressed, wearing a red and black flannel shirt and jeans. He was so extremely close that he could see that her eyes were emerald, a perfect complement to her auburn hair.
"I can't stand here all night. Maybe I can return tomorrow and just happen to be walking along the road, kickin' an old tin can, a city fella out for some country air and sunshine. She'll be puttering in the garden. I'll shout hallo and strike up a conversation, beautiful day we've got, and all. One thing leading to another, invite her to dinner. If she is, indeed, single. And if she isn't..."
Just then Toby felt the cold blue steel of a hunting rifle jabbed on his spine. Before the gunman could say a word, Toby's army jujitsu training kicked in. He ducked and flipped around, grabbing the gun barrel with both hands, yanking it from his foe. With a loud crack the rifle sent a bullet through the window, glass shattering, the girl screaming. Toby swung the rifle, hit the man with the gunstock, good and hard on the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.
In the brilliant moonlight Toby saw that his victim was a geezer, maybe 60. Blood ran from the side of his head, and he heaved for air like a dying beast.
"Grandpa! Is that you! What's happening!" The porch light blazed on.
Still clutching the rifle, Toby ran down the drive, to the road, then toward his car. He didn't dare ditch the rifle for fear of leaving his fingerprints.
"My God! What have I done!" The night air smelled so good as he sprinted to his Dart. He laughed to think he'd notice that in the midst of turmoil. "But I guess that's who I am; always looking for the ray of sunshine in a storm."
In his car he drove down the road, away from her home, looped a very long loop that after a half-hour of blind uncertainty led him back to the highway. "Man, oh man, oh Manischewitz what a mess," he muttered, staring down at the rifle next to him. He observed the speed limit to a tee, nary one mile per hour over or under, made it back to the motel. No one about, it was easy to sneak the weapon into his room. He hid it in the back of the closet, then flopped on the bed, not even removing his shoes, and dropped into a deep slumber. Vivid dreams watusied in his noggin. He was in a desert and saw the Ford girl waving to him. But as he approached she turned into an oasis. The oasis, he discovered, was a vast jungle: hot, steamy, green, dark. In the jungle he discovered a gleaming modern city, radiant in the noon sun. He walked until he came to a Starbucks. Upon entering he found it populated with central casting beatniks circa 1962. Toby hopped up on a soap box and thundered a poem, fist in the air:
Dharma dreams and Popeye the Sailor
Man screams, "It seems
my spinach
it is finished
and my thyme, it is near!
O! Dear! The white light
it is clear! Olive?
She is oiled! My heart it is boiled!
Blutto ne'er toiled at Wimbledon
'cause he didn't dare
care a hairy hare
nor a honey bun bunny
for Paddington Bear damsel so fair."
He then zipped out the back door, down a gloomy alley to the sun-drenched street and boarded a bus. He apologized to the driver, "I don't have a token."
"Not a problem, pally On the house for a serviceman. Kramden's Law!" Toby looked down to find himself in his lieutenant's uniform, hound's tooth clean, pressed razor sharp. He also noticed the driver's feet were small, much too small. Grotesquely so. And his teeny shoes were of bright yellow plastic. Toby wondered if they were specially designed to assist the man with the bus pedals, but knew it would be rude to ask.
Regardless, happy for the free ride, Toby took a seat and looked out the window. Across the street, he saw the girl entering a florist shop! Spotting a bus stop dead ahead, Toby trotted to the front.
The bus rolled past the stop!
"Hey! Stop! You missed the..."
"No way, José! You are getting the full bus ride! As my guest, you will see every last inch of our fair city, even if it causes me heartburn! Kramden's Law! Besides, that gal you covet? My wife, pally! Hands off!" He shook a fat angry fist at Toby to underscore his point. His face was red and cross with murder in his heart.
“I don’t believe you! You’re a liar! She wouldn’t marry a stupid slob like you!”
“Well, she did, pally! And we got 10 kids! With a bun in the oven! And lemme tell ya, every year the sex just gets better! And better!” He licked his chops, grinned like the Cheshire Cat, hunched over the wheel and with a tiny tootsie stepped on the gas, pedal to the floorboard. The bus lumbered ahead, a mastodon on the march.
Seeing it was fruitless to argue, Toby slammed through the bus door and found himself back in a desert, on all fours, this time dressed as a cartoon desert crawler as depicted by Hoff or Steig: trousers torn off at the knees, a ragged shirt, a five o'clock shadow, hair tousled, sweat beads on his forehead. The sky was crystal blue. Ahead, Toby saw a black cloud. As it neared, the buzz, the roar, told him it was killer bees! From Africa! Each one as big as a rat! In their claws were chunks of yellowcake uranium! They spotted him and, as one, on a dime, made a beeline, so to speak, for him!
Toby awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat. From a crack in the curtains, a splash of sunlight fired the dull carpet, like a spray of daisies niched in war-torn rubble.