CHAPTER II
Dawn vomits its light over the dew-covered fields like the Queen's stamp to a white sheet of paper. The morning breeze combs Jack's and Lia's exposed skin, rippling goosebumps up and down their naked flesh. But they continue to sleep with memories and nightmares brewing beneath their eyelids like a new liquor. Intoxicated by slumber, Jack and Lia do not notice the large, monstrous, green combine heading straight for them. I sit and watch anxiously, hoping that one of them will wake soon. I think about praying, as surely a loud machine such as that can be heard a mile away at least. But I digress, as it was not if they would hear it, rather when—as, let's not fool oneself—a pissed-off farmer is pretty easy to hear.
* * *
Lia rubs her eyes and rolls onto her back when a loud roar fills both her ears. It takes a few seconds to process the sound, but when she does, she imagines a stampede of blackand-white VPD cruisers all in a line, with guns raised, ready to kill. She tugs on Jack's shoulder to wake him. "Jack," she whispers, "Jack." His eyes open to her.
"Do you hear that?"
"I do." He sits up and curses beneath his breath, only to then peek above the back of the truck like a World War I soldier observing the German advance. In the distance, he sees a monstrous green machine with a bull's skull attached to the front by two long pieces of red rope. Above the skull is a long flag pole with a Confederate flag dancing in the wind. Immediately he thinks of Black Beard, Pirates of the
Caribbean stuff. But this was no pirate; this was a gun-loving American a little too far north for Jack's liking. What was an American nut doing in Canada?
Jack looks down at Lia.
"Who is it?"
"One pissed-off farmer."
Lia sits up, wraps the blanket around and under her shoulders like a wet towel to cover her breasts. She looks over the back of the truck bed, seeing the monstrous green machine firsthand. Jack reaches for his clothes and starts to get dressed. He slides on his pants, throws on his T-shirt, and in two quick motions gets both shoes on but leaves the laces untied.
"Hurry up and get this on," he says, reaching down and grabbing her once-white dress that now resembles a cotton ball dragged in mud. He flings it at her, and it lands on her head, covering her face entirely. Jack looks over his shoulder to see the farmer dismounting his carriage and walking through the fields towards them.
"Didn't have to throw it at me," she says, grabbing her dress and placing it in her lap. Jack ignores her and hops out of the truck bed, leaving her to put on her dress. His attention is now on the monstrous, green combine roaring behind the old farmer's advance, like a monster overlooking its master. The farmer laughs at young Jack and reveals a mouth that looks like an ancient piano with missing keys. Jack immediately notices the farmer's old straw hat that reminds him of Monkey D. Luffy, and beneath that hat is gray hair that is as thin as a fishing line. But accompanying his dirty smile, his thin hair, and his straw hat is an oddly shaped brownish-black stick hung on his back.
It scares Jack. It's a shotgun. He doesn't need to be shot, and neither does his girlfriend. He takes a deep breath and turns his attention towards his Lia. She is sitting in the back of the truck, looking frail, looking as scared as a mouse stuck in a mouse trap. She sees the shotgun too. He looks at the old farmer and steps between them. He swallows his pride and feels his stomach churning at a speed that would turn cream into butter.
And without saying a word, the old farmer un-holsters the shotgun from his back and raises it to his little trespasser. His massive hands wrap around the barrel and shaft of the weapon with ease. His hands look like those of a gorilla: thick, hard, and durable. He feels his heart pumping in excitement. Please give me a reason to shoot you dead, son. He begs the stars, please give me blood.
He licks his lips.
The farmer says nothing and lets his actions speak. He places one foot in front of the other, walking closer, and closer, before raising the shotgun inches from Jack's face. He is in turn-your-brains-to-jam range, and Jack is caught staring down a steel figure-eight carrying the power to change his fate. He feels stupid, scared, and ready to shit his pants, since the sound of the combine would surely swallow any sound this weapon would make if fired. Yet, his girlfriend, what is she thinking? She is apparently shitting her pants right about now and probably wants to call for Mother. I just hope this doesn't traumatize her, hurt her, make her worse than she already is. The last thing Jack needs is Lia associating sexual things with an ugly, old farmer with a shotgun in his hand. He swallows hard, begging for help. Begging for a change of fate.
So I did, change fate.
With the stroke of my pen, I watch the old farmer's combine sputter and die. I look at the dying eyes of the old farmer as he turns to see his monster gagging on an empty tank of intolerance and short temper. Yes, he discovered a truck and two naked teenagers in his field. But in his lust for blood and conflict, the old farmer has forgotten to fuel up. How convenient.
Jack lets out a weak smile, hearing his brain blurt out, Ice up, son.
Realizing his mistake, the old farmer quickly turns his attention back to the two teenagers. Jack opens his mouth to speak, and in one quick movement, the old farmer shoves the barrel inside without hesitation.
"STOP IT!" Lia screams.
Jack, tasting steel on his tongue and a weighted rod on his lips, agrees with her.
"It's rude to stare," the old farmer says.
Jack nods and raises his hands in submission. He is at this old psycho's mercy.
The farmer smiles at him, hearing the sound of Jack's teeth chattering on the end of the steel barrel. Got 'em like a fish. "Why ye here?" he asks.
Jack, standing between a child and a psycho, asks himself the same question. Right now, tasting the metal rod on his tongue, he feels no bigger than a stuffed, redneck turkey. How could he get himself into this mess? He tries to listen for an answer in his head, but his heartbeat is too loud, his thoughts are too quiet, and his ears are ringing from shock.
"Jack."
The farmer looks up at Lia, not moving the barrel from Jack's mouth. "Aren't you a sweet thing," he says, smiling at her.
Disgusted by the man's infected, inflamed gums from chewing tobacco all day like a grazing cow, Lia holds down her vomit and tries to smile back. Lying has never been her strongest attribute, and later she will ask herself why she even bothered. "Thank you." she says apathetically.
"I haven't seen such a beautiful girl in a long time." Licking his lips, he turns his attention back to his prey: Jack. "Don't know why you'd choose this ugly fucker."
"Because I love him," she replies instantly without thought.
His brows rise, almost curiously. He looks back at Jack.
"You fucked that girl on my farm last night, didn't you, boy," he says pressing the barrel deeper and deeper down Jack's throat. He wants to tell this farmer to fuck off and go die in a hole, but all he manages is a "NU-UH"
"No?" The man pulls out the barrel and laughs. He flings his shotgun left and right, placing his left hand on his chest as his lungs crackle. Jack stares in confusion, and the laugh fades off his face like death: instant. He presses the gun to Jack's chest. "You think I'm fucking stupid?"
Which in a normal situation, Jack would respond, "Yes indeed sir. You're fucking RE-TARD-ED." But this isn't a normal situation. Jack smiles and wants to gently speak the way a clerk talks to a shitty customer. "Of course not, sir, you are obviously a well-educated man. One who attends the dentist regularly and doesn't piss himself drunk and lastly—"
Instead, Jack says, "Of course not, sir, You're right, We'll go."
"Will go, eh?" the farmer asks. "That easy? I didn't even ask you to go. I could've told you to sit down and drink tea with my fucking beanie babies, and you'd do that. I also could've told you to eat shit, and you'd do that too. You know why you'd do that?" He lowers his gun to Jack's chest. "Ask me, boy, ask me before I blow your chest out the same way
I'd shove my dick up your ass!"
"Why would I do that, sir?"
"Because I have a fucking gun!" He raises the gun to Jack's head.
"Stop this, old man!" Lia yells, holding her arms and trying to stop her shakes. But she knows she will do no good in speaking, let alone talking above her man. This world is a man's kingdom, and she is only a spectator in it. Her father told her that once.
"Get on your knees, son," he says.
Reluctantly, Jack descends, placing one knee then the other on the soft, muddy ground. He looks up at old farmer's worn-down face, begging for a bluff. He looks into the pure white eyes of the devil and finds there is no bluff. Instead, he finds the old man craves a reason to shoot him dead. And Jack, being in the most submissive position possible for a man, wants to scream. It's a position of little control, one that forces him, a heterosexual, into the most feminine position possible: to sit at the height of a man's junk. He is turning into a bitch. He can feel it. He can feel the grips of social hierarchy creeping into this already dangerous situation. Only girls need be in this position, he thinks.
"Now, you're going to leave because I tell you to. Not because you wanted to."
Jack nods without complaint.
The old farmer raises his shotgun. "Get up'n turn aroun'. I don't need no agreein' like I'm yo fuckin' God or something." Except "God" came out like Gawd and
"something" came out like sumtin. It reminded Lia of nigger language. I think her father said that once. Or was it a famous author?
Jack looks the man in the eyes and debates speaking.
Get on your knees, bitch; stand up, bitch; why don't I polish your shoes and suck your fucking dick while I'm at it—
Jack bites his tongue, gets to his feet, and faces the truck bed. He feels the shotgun dig under his left rib. He winces in discomfort. But when he looks to see his angel, he can see she is barely holding on to her emotions. She is ready to fly. So Jack does what he does best: he smiles at her. He wants her to know everything will be okay.
She forces a smile back, feeling her knees buckle. She just wants to pretend the evil man behind her love isn't even there.
"Move," he says, pushing the rifle deeper into Jack's back.
Lia observes. Despite her obvious fear, she also feels a slight interest in what will happen next. Is Jack going to die, or is he going to do some James Bond move that at heart we know he can do? The older farmer directs Jack towards the driver's side door.
When Jack reaches the door, he feels the barrel's presence leave his back. His pounding chest relaxes a little in relief before he feels the gun thrust into a place no foreign object should ever go. Jack shakes his head. Great. The man's a faggot. Lucky for Lia, not himself.
Jack opens the driver's door and climbs in, feeling the rifle smack his behind. He rolls his eyes and sits down behind the wheel. He looks at the farmer to see the gun staring back at him in place of the old farmer's eyes.
"Better fuckin' be." He licks his lips.
Jack looks over his right shoulder to see Lia struggling to get into the cab via the back window of the truck.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Farmer," Jack says, sounding as if he were saying his last words before King Henry.
"Call me Freddy."
"And call me Jack," he says smiling. Freddy's eyes grow as wide as two helium balloons, realizing who is before him.
Am I dreaming? It's Jack Manuel! Mr. Train! The greatest quarterback Canada has ever seen!
Jack sees, in that instant, Freddy's hand loosen around the trigger. Freddy stumbles over his next sentence that leaves his mouth. "S-s-start that t-truck and never come back, Mr. Tray-Train."
Jack doesn't hesitate to agree and turns the key over. The red pickup revs to life and a little voice peeps up over the radio playing the end of "Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls, a new single released exactly five months before.
"This is Vancouver Heights 98.3 FM breaking news. Last night, Vancouver Police reported to the home of Johnathon Landon, where he was found dead. His death has been ruled a homicide. While a popular name in the courtroom, Mr. Landon is best known as Clayton Melbourne's defence lawyer, the prime suspect of the Highway Runner, one of the most famous hitchhike-murder cases in recent memory. The whereabouts of his wife and two children are currently unknown. We will update you as soon as we know more."
Later, driving down the highway, Vancouver Heights will release a pre-recorded tape calling him "A respectable man among the city's highest-ranking politicians in the southern region of Vancouver and a person who will be missed." They will also release a full, detailed description of Jack's red truck.
Jack turns off the radio. He looks to his right and extends his hand to Lia, who he can tell is about to cry. It pains Jack, but it also annoys him. He turns his anger for that man onto his love every time she talks about him.
"Everything will be okay," he says. But inside he knows he spews lies. How can one get over a father like that? And the mention of his name most definitely triggers her, in the same way it triggers him.
She nods to him, but he can see her lips trembling as she fights back the tears. Currently, her back is against the passenger's side door, with her neck scrunched so far down that the little flap of skin that everyone has beneath their neck presses against her chest. Her right leg is bent like a chicken wing resting under her bum. Her left leg is extended as far as it needs to for it to dangle off the seat. Jack turns his attention to the farmer and hears Lia, his love, burst into tears. Jack slams his hand down on the steering wheel.
"It's going to be okay," he says. Why are you crying, again? Like, honestly, I can never get a break from you.
With an audible sound like hieroglyphs for the ears, Lia erupts, never catching a breath. "This doesn't seem real... I don't know why I'm crying. The sicko touched me, objectified me, and he hurt me. He never fucked me! And sometimes, sitting here, thinking about his begs and his screams, I wish he had just gone and done it, Jack. You know how much easier it is to hate someone who violated you? All he did was look. But deep down, I wish he'd finally finished what he wanted to do. Because now I'm here, I'm here, and I'm crying because I hate him. I want to hate him. I want to fucking hate him with all my energy in the world. I want to shit on his name. But the city of Vancouver loves him. Deep down, I love him! And if he did that to me, I wouldn't be crying here. I wouldn't. Because I would hate him till his grave."
I drop my pen on my pad, shaking my head. Here we go. I take a deep breath and exhale, seeing the smoke rise from Jack's ears. I look down at what I've written and read it back at myself. Could a girl feel this way? I don't know how I feel about this event. I see the farmer frozen in wonder. I see Lia, how she cries, her tears that fall from her red, blotchy eyes, her nose that crackles and wheezes as it tries and fails to take in air. Her drooling snot gathers above her lip, in the need of a tissue. It's obvious she has been replaying the events of last night, over and over and over again like an infinite line to insanity. All she needs is that little push, the little push the radio gave her.
"This is nonsense! You're speaking for nothing. You don't mean that!"
Jack grips the wheel with both hands, turning his attention to her. He is screaming, the old farmer hears it, Lia fears it, yet he rages on. "You hate him! You always will! You hate what he did to you; you hate how he treated you! You hate how he violated you! You hate his hair, his name, his presence! You hate everything about him! You wish he never even existed!" He lashes out, grabbing her wrists, pulling her to his face.
She, bawling, sees nothing but a blur, but can feel his hands gripping her wrists as tight as a noose. She can hear her little bones cracking underneath the pressure.
"Jack, stop it! It hurts!"
"You don't know anything! You are speaking gibberish, shit, nothing at all!"
And Lia snaps. "NO! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO HATES HIM! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO ALWAYS WILL! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO DOESN'T UNDERSTAND!"
Jack leans back, releasing his grip. He is flabbergasted. "No. I do understand," he says, recollecting himself. Lia, full of tears, is on full blast.
"YOU DON'T AND DON'T AND DON'T! DON'T YOU DARE EVER TELL ME YOU THINK YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE TOUCHED AND VIOLATED BY YOUR FATHER!"
He bites his lip, holding back a slip of tears. Men don't cry, don't be fooled. "You think this has been so easy for me?"
She continues to shake her head left and right.
"No. No. No. No," she whispers. She falls back into her seat, cupping her head in her hands. "I don't. I don't. I never will."
Feeling his chest heave, feeling his nostrils flare like a bull's, he decompresses his anger. He doesn't know what to think at this point. Lia went from zero to ten, not a five. He looks at his radio. It's barely been five minutes.
She looks up from her hands, red streaks imprinted on both cheeks like ink to paper.
Is she crazy? What has this sick fucker done to her?
"It's been hard on both of us. But..."
In a low voice, she whispers her words clear as day. "You don't understand. You don't understand anything! I hear him in my head, Jack. I hear him... I listen to his laughs. He. Told. Me... He. Told. Me. That. If. He. Couldn't. Have. Me. No. One. Can. He's haunting me, and I believe him. If he just went and—"
"Shhh!" he says, interrupting her. Her words scare him. He doesn't want to admit it, but they do. The way she spoke was an exorcist-like crazy, bat-shit asylum crazy. He looks ahead, puts his hands on the wheel, shifts down into drive, and presses each foot hard on the brake and gas pedal. He leaves her to simmer in her thoughts as he contemplates his own.
You're speaking nonsense! he wants to yell. You're going crazy! he wants to scream.
She leans back in her seat swallowing her words. Jack doesn't want to hear them. She knows that. She will deal with this on her own like she always has. She just wishes he would listen and not get angry. Why does he get angry? Doesn't he know I tell him because I trust him? Doesn't he know I love him? She asks herself these questions, among others, as she wipes her eyes with her thumb, always checking her thumb on the second stroke, until the tears are gone and what remains is irritated skin.
"I want you to sit up, Lia, and put your seat belt on."
From outside the vehicle, the farmer can see the red pickup truck's rear tires spinning furiously, sliding the truck to the right. Mud flies like fresh chickens and smoke spurts up from the back of the truck. Jack looks out his side window, gives the old man the finger, and lets go of the brake. The red truck lurches forward, throwing up a cloud of farmland.
The old man raises his shotgun and thunder roars out of the barrel and many bullet fragments pierce the side of the red truck. Later, Jack will find his license plate a mess of blue and white lines and the left side of the truck riddled with holes. The farmer fires four more rounds towards the truck.
To compensate, Jack just turns up the radio to muzzle the gunfire. He looks at Lia, wondering what she is thinking right now, but all he sees is her fiddling with her thumbs before he's forced to turn his attention back ahead.
I wish I can tell him Lia isn't thinking right now. She has shut her brain out. Thinking exhausts her: thinking of her dad, thinking of her boyfriend, thinking of her brother and mother, thinking of how she will never be able to see her home again, thinking of her old friends gone forever. Thinking of the future. All those things just cause internal problems, turmoil. It makes her feel crazy. So right now, she is just feeling. She feels anxious, afraid, scared, and excited. She lets out a faint smile.
The RPM on the dash reaches 4 x 1000 as Jack shreds through the tomato fields into the ditch then onto the road. He is angry, furious, and this man's land is going to get his temper in check. He drives on the road for a couple of seconds before turning right off the road into the ditch, again heading towards the cattle yard.
The front of the truck jumps up, then down, and you can hear the shell of the vehicle scream as it scrapes against the ditch floor. But in seconds, the front of the red truck hits the fence of the cattle yard, eating it entirely. The front bumper cracks as it yanks two wooden spikes and metal fishnet from the ground before the fence tension tightens, pulling it under the truck.
The truck continues to roll over the pulled-down fence, cracking the right headlight from a displaced post and the familiar song "Sex and Candy" by Marcy Playground fills the cabin. In Jack's rearview mirror, he can see a dark mudcovered figure jump onto the bright-green combine. They both know the combine won't start. Besides, even if it did, the vehicle is just too slow.
"Lia, look," Jack says as he tears through the field while Lia holds on for dear life. Jack shifts down and turns the wheel a hard right, swinging the back end of the truck left. He ends his crusade over this man's property by releasing a dust cloud behind his truck.
The "Sex and Candy" song ends, and Jack turns off the radio with one quick hit of the button. "What you said back there, don't you ever talk like that again. I love you. I fucking love you. But you promise me you will never say those things again. I can't handle those thoughts, those ideas, those feelings. You've been wronged, and that man deserved it."
She sits up in her seat and places one hand on his thigh. In satisfaction, Jack rolls out of the property, drops his hand to hers, and heads down the rural road into a big blotch of green trees. Behind him, they leave a trail of mud, ripped up crops, and a combine that has become the size of a tennis ball in his rearview mirror. The red truck accelerates to 120 km/hr on the open road. Their next destination? Who knows? The only thing we know is not too far along there is Highway 99.
There is a long road ahead of them.
Sometime between the incident they left and the time they jump onto Highway 99, the first police cruiser pulls onto Boulder Farm for investigation. These are some crazy fucking kids.