Selected Short Fiction and Poetry

Below is Marcy's short story, "Ride," the second place winner in the 2007 Cave Creek Film and Arts Festival.

All fiction and poetry contained within is copyrighted to Marcy J. Miller and may not be copied or used without the author's express written or electronic permission.  All rights reserved.

Ride

Copyright 2007 Marcy J. Miller

            Whispered rumors sometimes preceded her, sometimes shadowed her.  She had just enough of a haunted look to get attention.  Not the jumpy, anxious look of the pursued, but the worn expression of the jaded veteran.  A different shade beneath the eyes, a certain callus to the gaze.  Charley had seen the same look in horses who’d been handled roughly and with too much force. “Rode hard and put away wet,” he said, nudging Al, seated beside him at the coffee bar, and sticking his chin out toward the woman. 

            “Yeah,” Al said, not because he cared or agreed, but because he was used to the same routine:  Charley studying people and summing them up and bumping Al with his bony elbow to get his attention again before offering his summary judgment.

            “Bet she ran away from her husband,” Charley said, nodding in agreement with himself.  He twisted the nicotine-yellow end of his moustache as he nodded. 

            “Now why the hell do you say that?” Al said.  Every so often he felt the need to stand up for the honor of Charley’s subjects.  He spoke in a tone of righteous indignation.

            “Well, look at her eyes!” Charley said, miffed at being challenged.  “She’s awful skinny, too.”

            “You don’t know nothin’.  You always talk about people like they’re horses. Whyn’t you go look at her teeth, and tell me how old she is!”

            “Now that’s just plain rude.  I thought we were better friends than that,” Charley said, in his angry-injured tone.  He lit another cigarette and blew the smoke directly at Al.

*

            Carly is just passing through on her way between a sad state of affairs, as her Dad would have called it, and an uncertain future.  She loaded everything she needed into the maroon LeBaron and drove west, not even telling her boss at Rowdy’s Grill that she wasn’t coming back.  She knew, on a rational basis, that trying to outrun misery wasn’t going to work, but she was going to give it a try.  Recent months had taught her not to put so much faith in logic, anyway.  Her former god Logic had failed her, and the savage Irrational Emotion had ascended to the throne.

            She hit Cave Creek three days, two tires, and one blown U-joint later.  She parked in the gravel lot of a place a lot like Rowdy’s, and she sat with her back to the wall, staring at the counter creatures and thinking about what she was going to do when she ran out of road.  No one had declined her credit card yet and the ATM’s still spat out twenties when she asked for them.  She slept at cheap roadside hotels that reminded her of childhood vacations and her only extravagance was tipping too much because she could sympathize only too well with the girls who slung the coffee to the good ol’ boys at the counter.

            Those very same good ol’ boys studied her; she could feel their eyes, just as she’d felt similar eyes in every little town she stopped in along the way.  At first she thought it was because she was still wearing the plastic pin on her shirtfront that announced she was “Carly,” but after she remembered it and tossed it in a diner ashtray, she still got the looks.  It had been a long time since she’d gotten that sort of attention and she stared at the mirror in the hotel the first night and wondered what was different about her.  What was it?  She wondered if she was losing her mind and everyone could see it, and she performed a mental checklist:  Hair, washed.  Not too greasy, not too strange.  Make-up, conservative.  Nothing unusual there.  Clothes, plain but tidy.  Nothing to call attention to herself, not like the woman she saw with the hot-pink bandanna, hot-pink lipstick, hot-pink leggings, and Tammy Faye hair who sat next to her at breakfast.  Body weight, average, still a size ten body in size ten pants.  Mannerisms, apparently normal.  No teeth-sucking, no drooling, no twitching.  Maybe a little tremor to her hands when she smoked, but most people sucking up coffee in these chipped-cup diners had a tremble to them. 

            The silliness of what she was doing struck her as funny, and she studied herself as she smiled.  If she was crazy, and everyone could see it, how would she be able to tell what gave it away?  Would she think her hair was normal when it had that frowzy transient-looking appearance?  She thought about the woman in pink, and how that woman – clean-washed, no real sign of depravity – bleached her hair white-blonde, put on caterpillar-thick fake lashes, and consciously clad herself in stretchy pink bottoms, and bravely went forth in the world.  Did she not know how ridiculous she looked?  Did she think the stares were because she was as cute as she was fifty years ago, when her clothing would have been perfectly appropriate for her?  Carly looked into her own eyes, doubting again her own sanity.  Was she doing something just as obvious, and not aware of it? 

*

            It didn’t hurt right away when he left.  It was like when you use a too-sharp knife to slice tomatoes and you slice right through and into your fingers. You don’t feel a thing for a while, and you look down and wonder if you really cut them at all when the knife got away from you, and then about the same time you see the scarlet seeping through the incisions, every finger bleeding, you feel that nerve-cutting pain.  Carly had cut herself so many times, prepping the garnishes at Rowdy’s, and every time she stared anew, amazed that the nerves took so long to catch on.  That’s how it was when he left her.

*

It’s evening, and like a play enacted on some small-town stage, Charley and Al seem not to have moved while the setting has changed around them.  Charley’s seated to Al’s right, just as they were that morning, but instead of facing the duo of coffee pots, they’ve taken up their regular post in front of the beer taps at the Hitching Post, where they continue to write the scripts of their fellow characters.  Enter Carly.  She walks in almost defiantly.  Al nudges Charley, this time. “There’s your girl,” he says.

“She’s got a different attitude, now,” Charley says.  “Look at the way she’s walking.  Something must have happened.”

Carly looks at them, recognizes them, and sees the recognition returned, but she hardens her expression.  She’s not willing to engage.  The emptiness in her hotel room is filling itself with tiny voices; she came here for silence.  She sits catty-corner to them, a wooden post blocking their view of her. 

“What’s she drinking?” Charley asks.

“What’s it matter?” Al answers.

“Just curious, that’s all.  You don’t need to bite my head off.”

“I wouldn’t bite your head off anymore ‘n I’d bite the head off a snake,” Al says. 

For once, Charley ignores him.

“Awww hell, go talk to her,” Al says.  “Your nosiness is gonna kill ya.”

“I’m not nosy. I’m an observer of the human condition.”

Al laughs and wonders where Charley heard that.  He knows he couldn’t have gotten it from a book. 

“You’re a dirty old man and you wanna go sniff around that girl.”

“You’ve got no business saying that.”

“Alright, go talk to her.  I’m curious, if you aren’t.”

*

Carly doesn’t look up from her beer when Charley leans up against the bar beside her. 

“Saw you at the coffeeshop this morning,” he said.

“Didja.”

“Me and Al, over there, guess you can’t figure out just which one of us is better lookin’, and that’s why you han’t asked one of us out yet.”

She’s determined not to be amused, but she finds that amusing.

“That line work for you, most of the time?”

He finally smiles.  “If it did, I wouldn’t still be here, would I?”

“Catching ‘em isn’t the same as keepin’ ‘em, is it?” Carly asks.  She’s surprised that she’s suddenly relieved to have someone to talk to, even if it’s some dusty character like this one.  She feels herself exhale, letting some of the pressure out.  She hasn’t had a real conversation with anybody since she left home.

Home.   It’s not exactly home, anymore.  Home is supposed to be where you return to.  It’s a place that waits for you.  It’s got something there that you want.  She left home and it sealed itself up behind her, a scar.

“You just moved here?”

“No.  Just passing through.”

“Too bad,” Charley says.  “It’s a good place.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“You oughta stay for a while.  Looks like you need a rest, anyway.”

Al, across the bar, can’t see Carly’s face but he can see her posture, suddenly tensing up.  Charley must’ve already stuck his foot in his mouth.  Dumbass.

Carly stares straight ahead.  What is it they’re seeing?

“I don’t know why you say that.”

“Rode hard and put away wet, I told Al, when we saw you this morning.  You look like you’ve been through hell, girl.”

“No.  I’m not all the way through it, yet,” Carly says, and despite all the promises she’d made to herself – no more crying! – she feels the big fat tears welling up against the lower lids of her eyes, and she tells herself, “Don’t dab at it!  They’ll be able to see it for sure, if you do that!”  She tries to save herself by shifting the discussion to idle bar-room chatter:  “So, what do you do?  Other than sit around countertops and drink coffee and beer?”

“I haul horses,” he says.  “Cross-country, local, wherever they need to go.  Slowing down lately, though.  Horse spun on me when I was unloading and knocked me down and did a two-step on my stomach.  Still recovering, I guess.  I was just passing through once, too.  Came through here from Tulsa a few years back, bringing some cutting horses out, and never did make it all the way across the desert.  Woman, of course.”

“Where’s she now?”

“Who?”

“The woman.”

Charley laughs out loud.  “Couldn’t tell ya.  Last time I saw her she was on a gorgeous palomino mare, loping away.”

“C’mon.  You’re kidding me.  She rode away on a HORSE?”

“Hell, no. I was watching in my rear view mirror as I drove off.  She was a good lookin’ gal, too.”

Carly laughed.  He’s a dusty, gnarly character indeed, but he made her laugh. 

“There.  You look much better when you’re laughing,” he says.  He narrows his eyes slightly at the bartender and holds up two fingers, and two more beers appear before them.  Carly knows the non-verbal language of the server and the served. 

“Wherever it is you were going,” Charley says, “you don’t look like you’re in a hurry to get there.”

“That’s ‘cause I don’t know where it is, yet,” Carly replies.  “Just away.  That’s all.”

“Going back where you came from?”

“No.  Probably not.”

“You running from something?”

Carly can’t figure out why she’s even talking to this guy in the battered straw hat, much less confiding in him.  There’s something non-threatening … something inviting her trust.

“Me.  That’s what I’m running from. Just me.”

“Let me know if you figure out how to do that,” he says.  “I never got too far away from myself, no matter how fast I went.”

He finishes his beer and stands up, and she can see how he eases himself up carefully.  He presses one hand to his back as if straightening it out manually. 

“I’d better go visit with Al,” he says.  “He’ll have his feelings hurt, if I don’t.”

“Good talking with you,” Carly says.   She surprises herself by meaning it. 

“You ride?” he asks her.

“Ride?”

“Horses.”  He puts his hands out in front of him like he’s holding onto the reins.  “You know, ride.”

“Not since I was a kid,” she says.

“What kinda place are you from?” he scolds, and shakes his head as he walks away.

She answers as her Dad would’ve:  “A great place to be from.”

*

 She hears something in the engine compartment of the LeBaron when she starts it.  Something scuttling around.  Maybe it’s a kitten.  Back home cats would crawl in to get warm at night, but she can’t figure out why on earth they’d want to do that here.  Finding a place to get cool, maybe. 

Carly pops the hood and lifts the inside release and as she raises it, she’s startled by a large grey something running toward her.  It dashes onto the ledge of the radiator and stares at her briefly as she lets the hood slam back down.  A rat.  A goddamned rat, in her engine.  She can’t hear anything now, and doesn’t know if she’s crushed it by dropping the hood or if it’s gotten away.  She stares at the grill, looking for blood trickling down.  Rat blood. 

Slowly, she eases the hood back open, half-expecting a nip on her fingers.  The rat, unconcerned, is working his way down through the lower part of the engine, as comfortable as if he’s in a Habitrail set.  Carly’s hands are shaking and her heart is still racing.  She jumps again at the voice behind her:  “Car trouble?” 

She backs up, turns around, holds her hands up defensively, instinctively. 

“There was a – a RODENT in my engine!”

The man – grey pony-tail, black sleeveless Harley t-shirt revealing arms heavy with tattoos, dark sunglasses – laughs.  “Packrat!” he says.  “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Not yet.”

“Look,” he says, and reaches across her, into the engine.  “Just for you – a packrat bouquet.”  He removes things from the engine and places them on the palm of his other hand.  Small, pale peach colored blossoms, dried like they’re from a potpourri.  “Cactus blossoms,” he says.  “The rat-bastage was leaving you flowers.”

“I can’t even find a guy who’ll do that,” Carly says.  “Plenty of rats …. But no flowers.”

“Don’t worry.  Usually we only bring flowers when we’ve got a guilty conscience.”

“That’s where I’ve gone wrong.  Dating guys with no conscience.”

“Your car running okay?”

“I think so.  Just about to hit the road.”

He sticks his hand out, a big paw of a hand.  “I’m Kevin,” he says.  “Pleased to meet you.  You okay?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.  What the hell is it that’s written on my face?” she thinks, and he says, “It’s just you look – like you’ve been having a tough time.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

He nods. 

“Oh, geez.  I’m losing my goddamned mind.  It’s bad enough having the voices in my head – and now they’re leaking out.” 

She smiles at him, to show him she’s not really crazy, even if she’s wondering. 

“It wasn’t a leak.  It was a torrent.”

“Thanks.  Believe me, I wish I had a lifeboat in here.”  She taps her head.

“Learn to swim.  That’s all.”

Carly watches him as he straddles the bike and starts the engine. 

“You ride?” he asks.

“Horses?”

“No,” he says, exasperated. 

“I can’t seem to get it straight around here.  You’re the second guy who’s asked me that in the last twelve hours and I didn’t get it right either time.” 

“You’ll get it figured out, I’m sure,” he says above the engine’s noise.

Carly shuts her car door and starts the engine, waving as she pulls onto the asphalt.

*

It only takes her a minute to reach the edge of town.  She turns right, starts to travel down the hill, and feels the right front tire start to wobble.  There’s another of the “whumpa” noise that she’s become so familiar with.  The sun is glaring down at her as she climbs out to stare at the flat.  There’s no spare, now, in the trunk, and she’s low on cash.

Carly slams the door shut and the tears she’s held back for hundreds of miles start to run.  She walks across the road to the bank to the east and she feeds her ATM card into the mouth of the machine.

Denied.  She’s out of cash.  Her card comes back out to her.  She leaves it sticking out of the machine like some defiant tongue and walks away.

She sits on a boulder and stares at some quail, casual as barnyard chickens, when she hears the motorcycle engine beside her.  She doesn’t need to look up and she doesn’t need to think.  Kevin pats the seat behind him and repeats, “You ride?” and wordlessly, not even her inside voice leaking out this time, Carly nods and mounts the bike.

* Home *