When Charlie stepped off the Greyhound in Errol Falls that late summer, he had every intention of getting back on to continue his journey from Kansas City to Seattle. Certainly he didn't plan to become the first victim of a budding serial killer.
He stretched on the blacktop behind the Circle K and looked around to get his bearings. Definitely not Kansas anymore, he thought. Ahead of him down a narrow country road green hills rose into the mountains, which dwarfed a tiny brick-and-mortar town on the near flat. At least the Walmart looked familiar.
“They got any showers around here,” one of his traveling compatriots joshed to his friend as they headed past him toward the store.
“Maybe you could go run through the car wash,” his buddy answered.
“Somebody should,” the first guy said, and Charlie knew who they were talking about. It had been a week since he showered, but that wasn't what caused the smell. Most of the bus had been onboard for nearly a week. The stink came from his clothes, which hadn't been washed in longer than he could remember – spring maybe? And aside from the clothes on his back his backpack was full of dirty laundry too.
But what could he do? It's not like the laundromats in Kansas just gave away free washes. Sure he could (and did) fly a sign – often at the entrance to establishments like the Walmart just down the road from where he stood perspiring in the sun – but that money was for food and beer, not for luxuries like clean clothes that were just going to get dirty in a couple days anyway. Those assholes had no idea. He silently relished the thought of getting back on the bus all clammy from the afternoon sunshine.
And he would stand there at the side of the bus catching the rays from above and the reflection off the chrome – except he really had to drain the weasel. The parking lot was too open, even for his callous nonchalance to public urination, so he made his way around the bus and headed for the convenience store. On the side of the building two dinged up, rusty white doors marked MEN and WOMEN in cheap black stenciling had already gathered two lines of bus passengers, including the guys who had poked fun at him, who were the last in line in front of the men's.
Charlie strolled over and stood next to the guys like he was part of their group, within arm's length. Their jeans, T-shirts, and matching Mariners caps looked like they had been worn two, maybe three times. He raised his hands over his head and stretched from side to side. Then he windmilled his arms and beat his arms against his layers, the hooded flannel and two sweatshirts he wore every single day. Even he was overwhelmed by the stink he was stirring up.
“Oh my god,” one of the guys said. They both ducked their heads and kept their eyes forward. He had known they wouldn't even look at him. People often pretended you didn't exist when you were homeless.
His arms soon grew tired of windmilling, so he stopped, but he didn't back away and give the guys any more space. The line moved forward, and when it was his persecutors' turn, they actually fought to see who would go first. The guy on the right lunged for the bathroom door as it closed behind the last person, while his friend grabbed his arm to hold him back. The guy on the left won the tussle, simply because the door opened outward left to right and he was closest.
When his friend was in the bathroom, the guy who lost out became friendly. He still didn't look Charlie in the face, but he stood beside the door halfway turned toward him. “Nice to have the sunshine,” he said.
Charlie nodded. He'd seen this before too: when the group dissolved and things got individual, a new connection was often looked for, even with those rejected by the group. He didn't care though. He didn't need connection. At the same time, he might be able to get a few bucks from the guy. It'd be nice to buy a drink for the road.
“Where you going?” the guy asked.
“Seattle.”
“Right on. You got people there?”
And now the guy was actually looking at him, and Charlie saw how young he was. Maybe the guy would help him out. “No, I'm just looking for a change of scene, you know?”
“Oh. You work?”
Yeah, when pig's fly, Charlie thought, but if that's what this guy wanted to hear. “Yeah, maybe. Tough to find work these days though.”
“Sure, I know how it is.” And the guy actually smirked. Fuck him.
“Say you wouldn't be able to help with a couple bucks. I could use a drink for the road.”
Charlie felt the guy disengage; he didn't even have to hear the mumbled excuse to know he was out of luck. Story of my life, he thought. When the guy's friend came out of the bathroom, the chatty one ducked in like he was trying to escape, and his friend returned to the bus immediately.
The bus started up while he stood on the bathroom tile working to tuck himself back into all his layers. He wasn't too worried at first; there surely would be other stragglers, so the bus would sit awhile before it took off. He finally got the button fly of his army pants closed (he had to be careful with it: two of the buttons hung there by just a few threads and he didn't want to lose them and have to walk around with his fly open all the time). He skipped the sink and went straight to the towel dispenser. Empty, of course. He was wiping his hands on his pants when he heard the bus shift into gear.
Shit. He ran to the door. Which wouldn't open. Something was jamming it, like someone had stuck something against the handle so it wouldn't turn. He didn't have to wonder who, the fucking pricks. He banged on the metal. “Hey, I'm still here. Wait for me, you motherfuckers!”
He threw his shoulder into the door. There was a little give in it. He bet he could jar whatever was propped there loose. He threw himself against the door repeatedly. And he heard the bus pull out of station, and heard the engine grow farther and farther away, until there was only the sound of him banging against the door.
Eventually it opened. They had used a 2-by-4 to jam the handle. Standing in the sunshine and looking at the vacant spot once occupied by the bus, he was actually kind of impressed by their handicraft. And not at all surprised at the turn his trip had suddenly taken.
“Story of my life,” he muttered to himself.
Muttering and shaking his head, he crossed the parking lot and headed for the Walmart on the outskirts of Errol Falls, the last town he would ever visit.
Banner and cover image designed in CanvaPro, using their stock photo as a background.
Errol Falls is an excerpt from a story I began working on last fall. I made some minor edits to the beginning paragraphs and tacked on the final paragraph to make it work as a standalone piece.