Yellow Mama E zine

Exit through the Back Door

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By Abe Margel

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          Still drowsy, Joe climbed into the Cadillac Escalade’s passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt tight. “Jesus,” he mumbled.

        As the vehicle started moving his cell phone pinged. It was a text from his girlfriend. She confirmed it, she had dumped him. “I’ve given my copy of your apartment key to your sister. You can pick it up at her place. Have a nice life.” He slipped the phone back into his pants pocket and stared out the window.

        His boss, behind the steering wheel, said nothing.

        Finally Joe broke the silence, “It’s going to be a hot one.”

        “Yes.”

        From time to time Mrs. Evelyn Hill, the principal of Grace Christian School, glanced at her employee, Joseph Hawthorn, as she drove him to the Phoenix airport. It was a seventy-mile journey from their hometown, Wickenburg, through parched terrain covered in patches of fescue, barrel cactus and desert willow. Houses by the road were rare and traffic that morning light.

         “Don’t get into any trouble,” she said to Joe. “Your hotel is paid for and your company credit card is good for your cab, meals and gas, and that’s all.”

         She was about forty and good-looking despite wearing a shapeless blue skirt and matching long sleeved top. Her expression turned fierce. “And be careful how you drive that school bus. No speeding. No picking up hitchhikers. And stay away from Calvin. You don’t want to get between him and the Fergusons. That could be fatal. They’re understandably still bitter over the shooting.”

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*****

        The seat on the plane next to Joe’s was empty and he stretched out his lanky six-foot frame. Flying made him nervous. When the flight attendant asked if he wanted a drink he ordered bourbon. The short ninety-minute flight to Los Angeles didn’t allow time for a second glass.  

        Los Angeles International Airport was busy, people in a hurry to get in or get out. But no one was waiting for Joe so he took his time. He warily looked around to see if he spotted any familiar faces, faces like those of the Fergusons. There were none. Grasping his carry-on suitcase, he made his way to the taxi stand. Outside in the heat he could smell the Pacific but couldn’t see it.

           “The Cadence Hotel in Pasadena,” he said to the cabby. 

           Pasadena was a Los Angeles suburb, officially a city unto itself. The ride was a long and expensive one but he had no choice; public transportation in Los Angeles wasn’t good and he didn’t know his way around. After booking into his hotel, a two-star bland affair in a good location, he stepped out into Old Pasadena. The streets near the hotel were lined with upscale shops and restaurants. The architecture was largely two-storey 1920’s Americana or red tiled Spanish, not very different from some neighborhoods in Phoenix.

           After wandering around for an hour in the sun he sought out air-conditioned relief and a meal. On Fair Oak Ave., he found a tolerable hamburger joint with its adjacent tavern. He ate his meal in one of the booths then strolled into the bar. A middle-aged female bartender sitting behind an oak counter was planted on a stool, half-dozing. The aromas of cooking meat and French fries drifted in from the adjoining restaurant, overwhelming the tavern’s scents of spilled beer and antiseptic. The wood-paneled room was dominated by a large TV screen showing a soccer game in Australia. Except for three men and a woman sitting at a table chatting amiably, the place was empty.

           He sat down in a corner, ordered a lager and ruminated. As she walked away the barkeep gave him an appraising look. He was a tall, handsome man with wavy black hair, chiselled features and an olive complexion. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

            His cell phone pinged. It was a text from his mother asking if had made it to his hotel all right. He replied and returned to sipping his beer. The soccer game on TV didn’t interest him. On his cell he played Marvel Snap trying to avoid Old Town’s sizzling pavement.

           Having nursed his lager for a while he finished it, put on his baseball cap and sunglasses and strode out to Fair Oak Ave. While walking toward his hotel his cell rang.

           "You make it okay?” Evelyn Hill said frostily.

          “Yes. Everything here is fine. I’ll collect the bus tomorrow morning and start back for Wickenburg right away.”

          “Okay. Drive safely.”

         Being in no hurry he stepped into a shop. The clothes were nice but too expensive for a part-time school bus driver and occasional musician. Heading out he passed through a section of the store featuring women’s accessories. Back in Wickenburg he’d argued with his sister. Getting her a charming hat would be a peace offering. She loved hats. He chose a stylish straw one with a wide red ribbon.

           A couple of large acacia trees shaded a bench in a postage stamp size park. Joe carefully placed the box containing his sister’s hat on the bench, sat down and watched people stream by. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were more expensively dressed than folks back home in Arizona but there was nothing glamorous about any of them. He was disappointed since the park was only a twenty-minute drive from Hollywood.

           He ate supper at a Mexican restaurant across the street from the Cadence Hotel then watched a TV quiz show from his bed. The room was more than twice the size of the bedroom in the narrow apartment he rented.

          The job was straightforward. Joe was to drive a new school bus from the Pasadena plant where it was assembled to the school in Wickenburg that had purchased it. It would be a long but uncomplicated drive, mostly through desert.

           The following day at the bus factory in Pasadena’s South Lake Industrial Area, he was met by an odd little man in a crumpled blue suit and flowery orange tie. On his head the vendor had on an old-fashioned fedora. He gave the impression of someone who’d escaped from a 1930’s movie.

           “Mr. Hawthorn, these are the keys.” The salesman formally handed the keys over, pressing them into Joe’s hand. “The ownership papers, like I showed you, are in the driver’s seat side-pocket, so is the user manual, not that you’ll need it. Have a safe drive.”

            Joe put his suitcase on one of the sixteen empty seats. Next to it he gingerly placed the tan carton holding his sister’s hat.

          “Thanks,” he said and waved to the salesman before closing the door.

           He checked to see that his cell phone’s map app was on, put the vehicle in drive and started off. Everything had that new car smell. He’d read they actually spray some kind of perfume into each vehicle at the factory. He’d driven only a block when he began to bake and realized the air conditioning wasn’t on. On it went full blast.

             While most school buses did not have a radio, this one did. It appeared Mrs. Hill had a soft spot somewhere in that jagged heart of hers or more likely it was a free perk she could not reject. He turned the dial to a country and western station and sang along to Nate Smith, Luke Combs and Sam Hunt. After a while he began humming tunes he’d written while a music student at Arizona State University; hopeful songs, melancholy songs, songs that spoke to his soul.

           Just west of Mesa Verde, Joe left Highway 10 turning onto a desert track. He slowly made his way along a flat dirt road as it curved behind a low hill. Where the road ended a trailer sat next to an old pickup truck and an adobe house with a lopsided front door.

           He parked his dusty school bus next to the trailer and got out. A skinny dog met him, its tail wagging. Chase was a yellow mongrel with a protective streak but he recognized Joe.

          “Down boy, down. Where’s your owner, where’s Calvin?”

         A man in his mid-twenties emerged from the trailer. He was barefoot, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. Behind him a woman peeked out from a trailer window.

         “What’s for lunch?” Joe said to his cousin.

           “Stew is being prepared as we speak. You’re a little early. You only texted me two days ago so we didn’t have time to prepare a gourmet meal.” He shook his cell phone at Joe.

           “Who’s the new woman? Did she shoot the rabbit?”

          “She’s a good shot but no, I bagged this one. Gabriella’s been living here for over a year. You stopped coming by so you didn’t know.”

          “Well, between my career as an interstate school bus driver and being in constant demand as a musician there’s no time for me to socialize.”

          “Of course,” Calvin said. “Is your mom still angry with you for not finding work commensurate with your university education?”

          “No she’s given up. So did my ex-girlfriend. My sister hasn’t. She’s on my back all the time. But you’d be familiar with situations like mine wouldn’t you?”

           “My parents rarely call me and my brothers never,” Calvin said glumly. “They’ve lost hope I’ll amount to anything.”

           “They’re wrong. What about your art? Sold anything lately?”

            “Yes, I actually did. It came as a surprise. When I was showing at the Phoenix Art Fair last December a woman from Los Vegas bought a small painting of mine. A couple of weeks ago she bought two more, bigger paintings, from my website. I sent them off to her right away by courier. She later phoned to say they were great and that I have real talent.”

           “Of course you have real talent.”

            “Hey, let’s find some shade.” Calvin led the way to the adobe house.

           “The Fergusons still out to get you?” Joe asked.

           “No, that’s all in the past, dead and buried.”

           “That’s one way of putting it.”

             A drug deal two years earlier had gone wrong and Steve Ferguson ended up getting shot. His brothers blamed Calvin and a young punk, Bruno. Bruno wasn’t there that day to buy PCP. He had a Hi-Point C9 pistol hidden in the waistband of his pants. He pulled the handgun out, tried to rob both Steve and Calvin. Steve also came armed but he was slow to react. Shots were fired and Steve collapsed to the ground. The other two looked down at the mortally wounded man, turned on their heels and ran. The teenager soon disappeared, no one knew where to. In Calvin’s case he ran all the way to this forlorn, arid parcel of land.
         Joe and Calvin were almost at the adobe house’s door when Joe pointed. “That’s new.”

           “Right. It is a new generator. You can hardly hear it.”

         They made themselves comfortable on a couple of worn stuffed chairs. An easel stood to one side of the room by a square window. From there one had a fine view of saguaro cacti and fescue dotting the vast desert. Paintings big and small leaned against the reddish-brown adobe walls. A couple of round tables held tubes and jars of paint, brushes, sketch pencils and blank canvases.

          “We’ll eat in here,” Calvin announced. He cleared the larger of the tables and pulled over heavy wooden chairs, two from a corner and one blocking the back door.

From a cupboard he retrieved dishes and cutlery. Gabriella came in carrying a pitcher of cold water.

          “The stew is about ready,” she said, staring at Joe. “You know Cal, you were right, he does look like he could be your brother, maybe even your twin.” The two men were both about the same height with similar sharp profiles. Joe however, had dark wavy hair and brown eyes while Calvin’s eyes were black and his hair nearly straight. He also sported three days worth of beard.

           “By the way, I’m Gabriella,” she said as she firmly shook Joe’s hand. She was a petite, almond-eyed beauty of about thirty-five, a decade older than Calvin and Joe.

           The three of them ate while the dog sat quietly on the dirt floor next to them. From time to time Gabriella and Calvin dropped morsels into his steamy mouth.

          After supper Joe sat back on a stuffed chair and watched his hosts tidy up.

             “Hey why don’t you play us a tune?” Calvin said to Joe handing him a guitar. Joe cleared his throat and in a mellow, baritone voice started singing “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” followed by “Kiss an Angel Good Morning.”

            Soon Calvin joined in with a rhythm guitar and Gabriella began playing her fiddle.  

           After a while Gabriella disappeared into the trailer. She returned with a small bag of marijuana and an even smaller bag of dried ground peyote buttons. While the two men watched she expertly blended the peyote and the cannabis then carefully placed the mixture in rolling papers. She smiled before she lit the joint and took a puff.  The three sat around taking turns inhaling the drugs.        Conversation tapered off as each slid into their own internal world.

            “The door, what’s behind that door?” His hand swaying, Joe indicated the back door.

Gabriella lifted her head up off her chest. “It doesn’t go anywhere, just outside. We don’t use it.” She began to laugh but stopped abruptly. The dog lay down at her feet and nuzzled her leg. She reached down to pet its head but kept on missing. It grew dark. Calvin stood up and switched on the lone light bulb in the room. It hung from the ceiling shedding a weak yellow, glow. Insects flung themselves against the light.

           “I need to see what’s out there,” Joe said. With difficulty he stood up and stumbled toward the back door, pulled it open and stepped out. The door closed behind him with a thud. A cool wind blew in from the west. The moon and stars were out, bright against the inky sky. A nighthawk flew by in search of prey. From a distance came the faint whirr of an airplane or vehicle, barely distinguishable from the generator’s hum.

          Joe smiled a crazy smile as he slipped into a deep, stoned happiness. He relaxed, sat down on the earth, leaned against the adobe walls and giggled uncontrollably. The planet was all colors, magic, full of peace and harmony.

             From the darkness a shot rang out, then another. Young Joe, the school bus driver, the struggling musician, slumped forward dead.  

 

            Abe Margel worked in rehabilitation and mental health for thirty years. He is the father of two adult children and lives in Thornhill, Ontario with his wife. His fiction has appeared in Yellow Mama, BarBar, Freedom Fiction, Spadina Literary Review, Mystery Tribune, Ariel Chart, Uppagus, etc.

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      Zachary Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his wife and cats.  He has previously had stories published in Spelk Fiction, Close To The Bone, Yellow Mama Magazine, and Shotgun Honey, among others.  His art currently resides at https://www.deviantart.com/whytedevil