The Stopover

by Evan Hause

Harold and Diane were driving west on I-80. They had been visiting friends in New York City and doing some reconnaissance for jobs and apartments. They spent two weeks at Diane's friend, Jessica's apartment way up at the Northern tip of Manhattan. They wouldn't have dared to drive into the metropolis, but Jessica had promised that parking was available and that Harold should not be worried. Manhattan was safe these days and, even if he were to get a parking ticket, he wouldn't have to pay it since his tags were Missouri.

The two weeks had been extraordinarily hot. They had not been warned that August was the worst month in New York. Their pavement-pounding had pushed to the limit their resolve to move there. The situation was complicated by the fact that they were both in competition, so to speak, for similar types of jobs and apartments. Though they were a couple, they had not been together long enough to feel comfortable about shacking up together. They did know that they were in love and that they wanted to move to the City and be full-blown New Yorkers for a spell. Once there, love would run its course. But finding a cheap apartment with a reasonable roommate in August was hard; finding two, nearly impossible. The job search had yielded the same dilemma -- two jobs in commercial art would be a rare find indeed.

They had been driving since 10:00 AM. It was dark as they passed Sandusky, Ohio. Harold had lost his temper that morning because of how late they had gotten started. He knew how long the trip to Crystal Lake in Michigan was going to take and was angered by Diane's seemingly purposeful lack of faith in his estimations. He thought that she had made a private decision that the trip would not take so long and had held him up long enough for her to spend an extra hour with Jessica in a cafe. In fact, Diane was only sad to leave Jessica, and her sadness got the best of her judgment, or of her care when and if they left. It had been four years since the college roomies had spent time together. Both cried when Harold pulled away from the curb that day. Harold felt bad all morning. He apologized to Diane at lunch. She apologized for holding him up.

It had been a year since Harold last saw his old friend, Robert. Robert's family was a nice Catholic unit from South Bend, and owned a cozy house on Crystal Lake just up over the Michigan border. They always treated the journeyman Harold very well and he had a standing invitation to the lake house whether or not the Kowalksi's were there. They would be there this time. In fact, the house would be full of people. Harold knew that he was putting them to a minor inconvenience, and thought that the least he could do would be to show up at a reasonable hour and let Robert's parents direct him and Diane to their bunks and play the hosts properly. As this was Diane's first meeting with the Kowalski's, there was an added interest to the whole affair, and the Kowalski's would want to chat with them a little bit. Harold fully expected that the couple would be placed in different rooms, but that was OK. There would be little privacy about the full house anyway.

Harold and Diane met less than a year ago in Springfield. He was a sales rep for an outdoor magazine and she was a junior high school teacher. Both had degrees in commercial art, but were not fulfilling what they thought of as rather modest dreams. Harold was originally from Texas, Diane a more-or-less local girl from Columbia, where she earned her collegiate stripes. They met at a bar and had become closely attached very fast. Harold was coming off of his Great Betrayal in Dallas, and Diane was new in town. They were attractive. Harold was a former reluctant athlete whose charm and worldliness compensated for virtually any other failing. He was a catch. Diane was slender with amber-hair that was a bit long and frizzy. Her eyes were otherworldly, and they had captured Harold first. She was gentle yet opinionated. He had seen her devour shallow gals when they went out to the bar, and then forget about it. Both enjoyed kissing with passion. Above all, they were both adventurous and wanted to go places. Whether or not this developed into marriage didn't matter; they knew that they were a perfect match for this period of their lives.

Twelve hours on the road and Harold was tired. He knew that it was time to hand the wheel over to Diane. He glanced over at her. She was asleep. He turned down the AC-DC on the Cleveland radio station. How could she sleep through this heavy metal music? That's why he loved her. Typical causes and effects didn't apply to her. "Are you ready to take over?"

She breathed deeply, then pulled a handful of her long hair out of her nose. "Sure."

Harold went into find-the-next-rest-area mode, scanning the turnpike signboards. GAS DINING RESTROOMS 11 MILES he spotted. The traffic was heavy tonight. It was a Friday night. Bright lights hit him from behind and ahead. Tractor trailers paraded by, bumper-upon-bumper. He accelerated past them whenever possible. He hated not being able to see several car lengths ahead. His eyes were heavy. He jerked his head violently every two minutes or so. This worked for him -- a nice cobra snap of the neck to throw the blood against the inside of his skull. The median was nothing more than pylons with reflectors. The traffic heading back to Cleveland was thick and fierce. The road curved rather sharply to the left just as the turnpike went through an underpass. He almost missed the curve due to the bright lights and his tired eyes. The road looked to be straight. Fortunately he reacted and made the sharp left curve successfully. Enough, he thought. He merged into the right lane and finished the last two miles doing only 50. The pit stop was heralded by a blue and gold Sunoco logo and he eased the car into the lot. A light fog was beginning to roll in off the lake.

They both got out of the car. The parking lot was filled with cars. Many of them contained sleeping people, all grabbing a catnap before doing battle with the traffic again. The "oasis" was active. Diane went to the ladies' room and Harold headed off to the store for some candy and water. No need for caffeine now that he was giving up the wheel. He approached the counter and looked in the candy bin.

Snickers, give me snickers, he thought. They don't have Snickers! Bastards. What do they have? He didn't recognize any of the names of the candy. What's up with that? He chose what looked to be a chocolate bar, tossed it on the counter with a bottle of generic water and pulled out his wallet. The cashier rang it up without looking at him. He read the amount from the register. That always ticked him off, when the cashier didn't verbalize how much he owed but required him to figure it out for himself. Whatever. Could he get her to look at him at least? He wasted five seconds on her. Nope. He turned to leave. Everyone around him seemed to be very short. Was it his imagination? No. Really, everyone was about 5-6. What's up, Ohio? He headed out to the car. The fog was getting thicker. He bit off a piece of the candy bar. It didn't taste much like chocolate. It didn't taste much like anything. It felt kind of waxy to the tooth. Is this one of those fucking power bars? Great. Now I'm going to have to shit before we get there. He went ahead and ate at the mystery bar. On his way back to the car, he thought some sort of change had taken place in the lot but couldn't put his finger on it. It was certainly a little less active. In the car, he immediately reclined in the passenger seat.

Diane returned with a Big Gulp of Diet Coke, donned her cute driving glasses and swung into the seat of the Accord. She tucked her purse underneath her right arm, placed her cup in the holder, adjusted the mirror and started the car. "Wouldn't ya know they didn't have any mirrors," she sighed, only a little exasperated. "It's surprising, because it was a clean bathroom, and one of those big modern jobbies."

Harold saw the lights come on and illuminate the light, fresh wisps of fog. "Well, you got to go, didn't you?"

"Actually, I didn't need to. Strange, because I was dying a little earlier."

"You notice something different here?"

"Everybody woke up and drove away, I think."

"Ah-ha." He fell asleep.

He awoke to Diane's "Honey, where do I turn off? You told me it was just after the Elkhart exit."

He rubbed his eyes. "Uh, next exit past Elkhart. Number 38. Head North on 25." He was awake now. The traffic had lessened greatly. Once the exit was made and right turn taken, the road was downright deserted. They came to a stoplight. The fog had followed them. Strange, now that they were past Lake Erie. Then he remembered that this was lake country. He kissed Diane on the cheek as she waited for the light to turn. She smiled at him. He couldn't see those eyes in their full glory behind the glasses and the frizzy hair. "Almost there."

At his urging Diane reduced her speed a little to adjust to the fog. "Cow country," he said. "I guess you know about cow country."

"Whatever," she giggled.

Both were mostly silent for the half hour it took to get to the lake road. By now it was after midnight and not a vehicle was to be seen on the back roads. The stars were out, and Harold would announce his glimpses of them and the moon through the cottony tufts of fog as they drove. "Here's the turn!" he said suddenly.

They turned down a long straight road that followed a wooden fence through a field. After a mile or so came the lake. The road twisted to the right between houses, pickups and boat trailers. They had to slow to about 20 because of the thickened fog and the new obstacles.

"Here 'tis," he said. "Park down in that cul de sac there."

"Wow. Cool place," Diane remarked, admiring the A-frame lit up by a flood light. "Are they all going to be asleep?"

"I think so. Let's just take in the essentials and get the rest tomorrow. Be real quiet."

They approached the front door with one bag each in hand. It was unlocked. The fog had thickened to the point that the car faded from sight. Diane kissed him on the lips before he opened the door.

"In case we don't see each other till tomorrow," she whispered.

He kissed her back, and gave her a little tongue. "I love you," he whispered.

"Love you, too."

They entered the foyer. It was lit up by a lamp on a small table. On the table lay a note:

They gave each other a wink. Same room.

It was a bit chilly in the house. Thank God Robert knew we would need more blankets. On the way up the staircase Harold caught a glimpse of the thermostat in the dim light. 81? Couldn't be. He was tired. He could barely see straight.

The twin-sized bunk beds were not big enough for two people, that was for sure. But they had slept in worse, so, using sign language, they fixed the lower bunk up for two. It was cold, but they would share blankets and body heat and everything would be fine. They could not wait another moment to get to sleep.

Strangely, once they tucked themselves in, a slight second wind took over and they felt like talking. The whispered conversation was aimless. It seemed as though they were talking about different things but it didn't matter, their voices comforted one another.

"My nose is cold," Diane purred.

"Did you think that the people in that rest area were short?"

"It did seem like a long ride. I'm sorry we got started so late."

"Why was there so much traffic tonight, d'ya think?"

"Nice quilts."

"Robert has a boat."

"...sorry, I'll turn it down..."

And Harold knew that Diane was off to dreamland. Here I come, too....

Harold's dreams were disconcerting. He envisioned a cow pasture across which a huge bonfire raged. He walked across the field, his feet sinking with every step. Two arms violently grabbed his leg. He yelped and yanked it back. He tried running but the ground was too soft and held him back. He began to crawl toward the fire. His hands grabbed not grass but hair; long and frizzy hair like Diane's. Moans emerged from the field and he imagined it was nighttime on a bloody Civil War battlefield after Antietam or Shiloh or something. A stench reminiscent of a Manhattan sewer filled his nostrils. Then he was levitating and shot forward like a jet, skimming the ground, fingertips rippling across his belly like corn tassels. Unstoppable, he plowed right into the bonfire, which had grown the size of a New York skyscraper. He crashed in through a window of the fiery building and shot straight up through the elevator shaft and right out the top of the building. He was flying and he smelled of smoke. He saw visions in the blackened sky. He saw a throat get slit, and hundreds of snakes stream out of the hole instead of blood. The snakes took flight in every which direction. Dozens of them attacked him and bit him. He feared for his life, his sanity. He had never known such fear.

A great hand reached up from the abyss below. It grabbed his dick and squeezed it tight. He was flung back and forth, and waited for the inevitable, unthinkable burning sensation of castration to overwhelm him. Instead the grip took on a warmer, comforting feel. It was not the feeling of sex or masturbation. It was beyond that. An ecstatic feeling permeated his pelvic area, like an electrical current that shot to every extremity. A lingering chill ran up and down his spine, as he floated leaf-like to some undetermined ground. He saw disfigured people of every conceivable variety, a veritable city of gruesome Mr. Potatoheads of horror. Arms reaching out of eye-sockets, legs bent forwards at the knee, forked tongues wagging from ears. He was overcome with sadness and guilt. Guilt about his strong body. Sadness for the lives of the forgotten and underprivileged. Sadness for anyone who must travel that gauntlet known as human life. Sadness for himself. Sadness that he was dumped by a beautiful girl in Dallas. Sadness for JFK being shot in Dallas. Sadness that he dragged a precious soul like Diane into the empty, misdirected course of his miserable life. Sadness that he was going nowhere and that, in all honesty, he never much liked his life.

Then, as he splashed down into a soothing mineral bath of...what?...sand?...flesh? he felt an immense joy. It was far more powerful than that Ecstasy-induced evening he had had during that business trip to Los Angeles. He heard a voice...no, he felt a voice around him. It seemed to say You have made this. This order is your order. There is nothing, but for you. He snapped his neck cobra-like, and ripples of heavenly sensation ran slowly across every inch of his skin, and then outward to the world. He was talking to the cosmos in vibration, and it was answering him. He snapped his neck and the void responded. He lapsed into a pattern, a cycle, of vibrational discourse with the cosmos. To this repetition, he slowly awoke.

First he was awake before there was sound. Then his ears began operating and he heard silence. Like a rising sun, the weight of Diane began to increase on his arm as he gradually regained consciousness. She was deathly still; a very heavy sleeper. He sat awhile with his eyes closed, pondering his dream. He didn't know if it could be termed a nightmare or a passion. He knew that some of its content would be better left undisclosed at the breakfast table the next morning. He opened his eyes and looked about the room.

The nightlight was still on. The room had changed. It was larger. It was moving. The floor had disappeared beneath a veil of fog. The atmosphere was bluish. Furniture slowly bobbed around like buoys on a placid lake. A chair, a dresser, a hamper, a desk. The room increased in size even as he surveyed it. Certainly I'm still dreaming. Yet he felt wide awake. Soon the walls were no longer discernible. The night light dropped farther and farther below the blanket of fog, yet the bluish light remained. Harold looked at Diane. She was still. Completely asleep. He became scared.

He stepped out of the bed...or off of the bed. His feet found purchase on...what...definitely not a floor. He stood up, and had no idea what was supporting him. The furniture continued to bob and slowly move away in random directions, as the walls had done. Once off of the bed, it, too, moved away with Diane in it. He reached back to it, but his motions were restrained; not by an exterior force but by a lack of willpower. The bed slowly drifted away. Diane never stirred. He felt extremely sad and wanted to cry. He tried to cry, but couldn't. Then a power impelled him to move out of the room.

He exited in the direction of the door to the stairwell. The house felt strange and familiar at the same time. He descended the invisible staircase, past where the thermostat had been to the foyer. He turned at the foyer and entered the kitchen. The faint shape of the kitchen as he remembered it from his last visit took form. There, standing at the stovetop as if cooking for him, was a strange servant girl.

Her back was to him. She wore a purplish kimono. She had short, dark hair and stood about five feet tall. She was indeed making scrambled eggs, or so her motions seem to belie this. She moved her arms very slowly and deliberately as if practicing some yoga exercise which mimed egg-frying. There was no smell in the room. She turned to greet him. She had no face. No eggs were in her pan.

"Welcome, Harold," she said.

Harold was scared and sad. A sinking feeling was creeping upon him. The walls of the kitchen began to melt away just as those in the bedroom did.

"I'm sorry, but there is no food," the servant continued. Her arms continued in the motions of before, even while the range and the pan slid from sight. Her arms eventually came to a rest. The two were standing and facing each other on a nameless plain, devoid of furniture, walls, or anything at all except for their two bodies, the curling fog, and a pale bluish light.

"Am I dreaming?" Harold asked.

"Something like that."

"Who are you?"

"I am a midwife. I have come to comfort you. May I tell you something?"

The sadness and sinking feeling reached a fever pitch in Harold's soul."Please."

"You are dead."

Harold wanted to cry out, but couldn't. Every horrible fear and feeling was contained in an intense ball situated at the core of what he considered to be his body. He reached down to touch his genitalia, but the act of reaching had become an abstraction. He felt no corporeal sensation.

"Why am I dead? What did I do?"

"You mustn't think of causes and effects. But I can tell you that you died in your car tonight. At the underpass. You swerved into the support in the median at a very high speed. It was instantaneous. Of course, Diane died too."

Harold was frozen. His soul cried and cried and cried. He took solace only in the fact that he did not have a nose to blow. "But..."

"My love, no soul should ever have to endure such a sudden parting from life. That would be far too cruel and incomprehensible. I am here to help you adjust."

Even the fog was fading away, revealing nothing. The presence before him no longer had the form of a girl, or a five foot tall figure, or anything. It was simply a vessel of communication. He held a picture of her in his thought, but that, too, was slowly fading. Sight, sound, smell, and touch began to fade as concepts. There was only thought. Understanding. Questions and answers. Emotions.

"The two of you never knew what hit you. But your God is kind to lovers. That you two remained in each's presence for as long as you did is a gift to you from your God."

Harold, or whatever he had now become, thought of questions for his "midwife," but the questions became strangely irrelevant as soon as he thought of them. Or perhaps they were answered merely by thinking of them.

"Your bond of love was worthy, but it was not strong. Your love was new and frail. Your union was not as strong as some. Your courses were not destined to remain together at this juncture."

This mentor's teachings drifted away into a sort of wordless melody. All of the information he was receiving he seemed to be giving himself. Soon he was alone. The stuff of his cosmic surroundings seemed to be changing. His interior thoughts and feelings seemed to stretch into its own plane of existence. Soon he/she/it was a universe unto itself. Soon there was only being. Soon that, too, faded.

Conceived 7/31/99; composed 10/12/02