Desperation Road(9)

They arrived at the McComb exit and it didn’t take long for him to see what he had missed. A cluster of new restaurants and hotels gathered just off the interstate and past those was a straight line of got-it-all superstores that stretched to the edges of the once sleepy neighborhoods where he had picked up a prom date or two. He noticed the parking lots filled with cars and women with children and strollers and he wondered where they had all come from. The bus moved past the slick part of town and wound through the place he had known—the rows of houses with porch swings, the elementary school with the rusted playground equipment, the magnolia trees on the lawn of the Methodist church. The quiet downtown and its brick buildings and bumpy streets. The bus rolled through downtown and stopped at the railroad tracks where the Greyhound and Amtrak stations shared the same square building. He stood up from his seat and threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked to the front of the bus. The driver opened the door and Russell looked out and twenty yards away two men leaned on the front of a white truck with their arms folded. Russell froze. Stared at the asphalt at the bottom of the steps.

“This is it,” the driver said.

Russell nodded. Moved down a step and paused again.

“I got a long road, buddy,” the driver said.

He took a deep breath and adjusted the bag and then he climbed down out of the bus. The door closed behind him and Russell stood still, the bus backing up and pulling away with a trail of blue smoke and the gears grinding as the driver shifted ahead. The two men began walking toward Russell and he didn’t move. They stopped a few steps in front of him. The man on the left was taller and his shirt was untucked and the man on the right wore a white T-shirt that was a size too small. They shared the same sharp eyes and serious brow and they held their hands to their sides with their fingers wiggling in anticipation as if ready to draw.

“Welcome home, shithead,” the tall one said and they went for him. He hurried to get the bag off his shoulder but it was caught around his arm and it gave them time to get on him. The tall one hit him twice on the side of the head while the other man went low, grabbing Russell around the waist, pinning one of his hands and lifting him off his feet. He drove Russell to the ground, his back hitting the pavement with a whump that made him lose his breath and the tall one kicked Russell in the ribs while the other man punched at his face and stuck his knee into his groin. Finally Russell was able to roll his weight to the side but the man got to his feet and joined the other in kicking and then swinging at Russell as he struggled to get up. He made it to his knees when he was hit squarely in the eye by one of the four wild fists and he fell back, being kicked sharply in the ribs with the heel of a boot as he went limp. He lay there. Out of breath. Doubled over. The men paused and watched him crumble and the tall one spit and they were about to hurt him like they wanted to when a man in a red tie ran out of the station yelling, “Hey! Hey!”

The men stopped and stood over Russell, panting like dogs.

The man in the tie hurried over and straddled Russell and threatened to call the cops and the two men backed away.

“Been waiting for that shit for a long time,” the tall one said.

“Hell yeah,” said the other.

“I mean it. Get the hell outta here. I saw it all.”

“You didn’t see nothing.”

“Swear to God I did.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll see you again soon, Russell,” the tall one said. “You hear me? Soon.”

The two men nodded in satisfaction and backed toward the truck. They climbed in and drove away, their heads turning and eyes locked on the fallen man like strangers staring at a car wreck.

The man extended his hand to Russell and said, “Damn it to hell. Welcome to town.” He wore a short-sleeved shirt and his red tie was loosened. Russell took his hand and got to his feet with a grunt. He felt his eye and the place on his head where he figured there would be a knot. He bent over gingerly to pick up the duffel bag.

“I’m the station manager. You all right?”

He nodded. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Felt his nose. Nothing broken. He put the bag on his shoulder and nodded to the station manager and started walking across the parking lot.

“You need a ride somewhere? I’m done here. Just got to lock up.”

Russell turned around and said that’d be fine.

“Ain’t far, is it?”

“Over there,” he said and pointed with his elbow tucked to his throbbing side.

“Then hold on. Won’t take a second.”

The man hurried back into the building and Russell got down on one knee and took a cigarette from the duffel bag. He looked around. Up and down the tracks. At the sagging facade of a hardware store. At the empty parking spaces on the downtown streets. A few minutes later the door to the station opened again and the man came out and pointed at a two-door Toyota parked around the side of the building.

“Well. Come on,” he said.

Russell walked to the car. “You mind the smoke?”

“Not if you got one for me. Been one of them damn days. I don’t guess I’m telling you nothing.”

They got in the car and Russell gave him a cigarette. The man turned a vent toward Russell, the straight burst of air causing him to bat his eyes. He pushed the vent toward the ceiling and he rolled down his window. He sat with the bag in his lap and his knees bunched up in the compact space of the compact car.