THE CARNAGE MOTEL
By Deran Ludd
Copyright 1992, 1994, 2011 Deran Ludd
2011 Smashwords Edition
(This story is an excerpt from a novel of the same name. A slightly different version of the story appeared in 1993 in the zine Frighten The Horses, and another version appeared in the short story anthology, Good To Go in 1994)
Thanks to Rob Sternitzky and Katherine Francillon.
Cover photo (c) 1990 K. Francillon, cover design, D. Ludd
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***
EARLY-MORNING, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16
Carter left the Valley Garden New Life Farm (drug rehab for juveniles) at about 9 a.m. The facility is out in the country just a few miles east of Monroe and the Farm is framed on the other two sides by the junction of the Pilchuck and Snohomish rivers.
Eleven months into his thirty-month stretch Carter decides enough is enough and enough is even too much. Leaving the Farm is not a problem. A couple weeks of paying attention to the standard routines all such places become dependent on and Carter waits until the right hour early in the morning on the right day and Carter walks out of the cow pasture he's been assigned to work in for the morning and as he passes the counselor Carter explains he has to piss and instead of turning right toward the latrines east of the hay barn Carter turns left and southwest and is quickly out one of the back gates along a dirt road that leads to the banks of the Pilchuck River and from there he can follow the river to Highway 2.
Carter walks along the riverbank and his breath comes out into the air in little clouds and he's not really looking at anything just hurrying along and enjoying not being interrupted by a fence, guard, or one of the counselors.
It takes Carter a minute to remember exactly where he put the plastic bag of street clothes he'd been hiding under the road's trestle. Carter shivers in the chilly October morning and sheds the Farm coveralls and changes into the street clothes. Once he's out of the rehab uniform and it's stuffed in the plastic bag and the plastic bag is back in the bushes Carter figures he has time before anyone's likely to miss him at the Farm so he finds a nice place in the sun close to the bridge so he can duck under it if cars drive overhead.
The sun has been up long enough so that the weeds are only slightly damp and as he sits there Carter studies the rubbish strewn among the grasses and weeds. Stuff left behind by fishers and kids hanging out partying and people throwing stuff out of their cars as they drive along the trestle from the hill down the slope and across the river and the flood plain and a few feet away Carter sees some kind of doll lying in the rubbish and grass.
Carter crawls over to the doll on his hands and knees and removes it from the brambles. It has a hard molded plastic head with facial features painted on the flesh-tone shell and despite the ravages of time and use and weather you can still see its leering smile and using some grass Carter wipes off the mud and crawls back to his original seat and places the doll so it's sitting next to him. Carter is mesmerized by the swirling and rolling of the greenish-brown Pilchuck River.
Ten, fifteen minutes go by and Carter figures he ought to get going and Carter stands up and looks at the doll a second and thinks of taking it with him and shakes his head no and walks away.
LATE-MORNING, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17
Once Carter gets over the Cascade Mountains into eastern Washington the weather turns colder. Eastern Washington is a bunch of low hills, swathes of farms, pockets of small towns, lakes, and a few gorges. Winter is early and the landscape that isn't covered in snow is barren, frozen and brown.
Carter steals a wool-lined denim jacket from one of the truck drivers he hitches a ride with. It's a bit big, but he can wear his hoody under it, and they two are a lot warmer than just the hoody he'd stashed out by the Farm.
Carter spends hours and hours with his thumb stuck out waiting for rides and the chill of his surroundings grips his heart and he stands there his thumb pointing out and it is red from the cold. Carter spends so much of his time daydreaming that the rides are unremembered and the small-talk empty and vague and ill-defined.
There are two rides that do stand out.
The elderly couple passing a bottle of brandy back to him and the old guy is so drunk and the car crashes and Carter sort of remembers crawling out a shattered window and escaping with the collar of the denim jacket scorched on one side and Carter can't remember if the old couple were alive. If he helped them out of the wreck or they helped him, or what. And there's the truck driver who stops for him because he thinks Carter is a girl (his nearly shoulder-length hair and narrow face) -- so he claimed. Carter's hair is not that long and his face not that girlish and Carter lets this pass and ignores excuses. A shit-stupid grin on the trucker's face and his jeans are unbuttoned and his gut pushes way out and he mumbles how he's been wanting to get it on with a woman and the whores in the truck stops are all busy and he can't wait around for them and like, well, what could Carter do to help him?
Otherwise the rides are short or long and time passes and Carter doesn't seem to be getting too far. But he isn't sure. Carter hopes he's going east and not in a circle and Carter squints out at a strip mall just off the Interstate and tries to guess whether he's seen it before or not. Hard to say. So far the waves of snow have been light and short in duration.
Carter's sneakers are soaked clear through and his feet are cold and then this big dirty-white mid-'90s Buick slows and stops a few yards ahead and Carter runs up to the passenger side and the man driving opens the door and leans over so he can scrutinize Carter.
"How far you goin', kid?"
"Uh, New York City...."
It's the first city that comes to mind that is far away and the guy looks at him and laughs.
"Well, I ain't going that far, but get in."
"Thanks."
Carter scoots in and settles into the seat as he closes the door and the car's heat is blazing and instantly Carter feels better. The man eases over the snow and icy patches into traffic and then looks at Carter.
"Hey, kid, you got a cut on your head?"
Carter looks at him confused and touches his head with his right hand and up near the top it's tender and the hair around a small wound from the car wreck is matted with a little clotted blood and Carter holds his hand in front of him and sees dark flecks of dry blood and Carter gets nervous and looks at the man and the driver looks more curious than offended and Carter relaxes a little.
"Yeah. Shit. I guess so. I slipped on the ice. I ... didn't realize I'd been bleeding -- no wonder no one stopped...."
Carter grins and he hopes it looks sheepish and the man shakes his head and raises his eyebrows.
"Didn't realize you were bleeding?... Shit ... how fucked-up are you, boy?!"
Carter smiles and looks closer at the man driving the car. He's older than Carter. Or at least the lines in his face make him look older and he's taller and his hands are broad and muscled and Carter stares at several crude tattoos on each hand and the man notices Carter looking but doesn't make any comment and instead says:
"Reach behind you and get the bottle in the sack on the backseat, there."
Carter hopes this guy can drink and drive better than the old man and Carter uncaps the fifth of Wild Turkey whiskey and hands it to the driver. He takes a long pull off it and holds it out for Carter to take.
"My name's Johnson Baylor."
Carter takes the whiskey bottle and says:
"Carter Malone."
Carter looks at the bottle and then takes a long drink.
"Hey, Carter, that's my last fifth you're guzzling."
Carter's throat is raw and fiery and his answer is hoarse and raspy.
"Sorry."
Carter hands back the bottle and Johnson looks at him trying to figure something out and then laughs.
"You must be pretty cold."
"Yeah. I was standing out there a long time. My shoes are soaked."
Johnson looks down at Carter's water-logged sneakers and swigs another drink and gestures with his head toward the backseat.
"Look in that big paper bag. I got a couple changes of clothes in there. There's a pair a wool socks. Put 'em on."
Carter doesn't argue and turns and leans back over the front seat and rummages through the paper bag on the backseat.
"Don't go making a mess of things. Some of that's my girlfriend's and she won't like some kid pawing her underwear."
"Sorry."
While he's changing into the dry socks Carter asks:
"Where's your girlfriend?"
"Martha? Oh, let's see. By now, she and the caravan are probably in Denver. The carnival's headed to Florida for the winter. That's assuming they were far enough east before things got buried by that storm.
"The radio says that fucker's dropped a foot of snow a day since Saturday. Radio says everything is stopped dead, jammed up on both sides, from Durango to Calgary.
"The east-west Interstates are cut in half. So, Martha might've made it to Denver, or maybe we'll run into the caravan somewhere up here where the snow really starts."
Johnson takes another hit of his whiskey.
"But, Martha, well, I'm sure she isn't missing me too much. We ain't been getting along the last few weeks."
He shakes his head, part-defeat and part-wonder.
"I told her it was gonna be trouble. I told her I ain't used to all this shit. I told her we should wait. I told her I would try ... but tryin' hasn't been good enough.
"I mean, shit. What would she do after being outta circulation over five years? How'd she like trying to get used to things, after five fuckin' years."
Johnson gulps from the bottle and hands it to Carter and then lights a Marlboro. Johnson stares straight ahead and for a second sadness creeps over his face and his lips curl up and he shrugs. Johnson starts whispering in a low sad voice and he's talking to someone not there in the car.
Johnson sighs and smokes and clears his throat and looks hard at Carter.
It's all too personal for Carter to want to hear. Carter usually hates personal shit, and he daydreams about having some dope in his pocket and thinking about how good it'd be to get somewhere and fix it up and get loaded.
"I was in prison...."
This information grabs Carter's interest and his head snaps up and his brain focuses into the present.
"Five fuckin' years, three fuckin' months and eight fuckin' days. State Detention Center for Men, up in Skagit County.
"Five fuckin' years without any kind of normal anything ... and now Martha wants me to act like a normal Mr. Smith and be all ready to be a good husband and settle down and....
"I mean shit I lost over five years. Five years, Carter. Went in when I was twenty-four and lost everything between then and a year-and-a-half ago. And she wants me to pretend I've done all the living and shit any other guy my age has.
"Thirty-fucking-one! Can you believe it, kid? Thirty-one. I am thirty-one years old, and I don't know anything about what I'm s'posed to be doing ... feeling ... or thinking. Thirty-one years old. Shit."
His voice trails off and Johnson flexes his jaw muscles and frowns and after he finds the Marlboro box in his shirt pocket empty he asks:
"In the glove box, get me one of the other packs of Marlboros, out of the glove box, will you, kid?"
While Carter pulls out one of four cigarette packs wedged into the clutter-filled glove box, he asks:
"So, what're you and your girlfriend doing now?"
"The carnival. That's where I met her. I was fixing the motor on the Ferris wheel this operation's got, and Martha's family has run an Add 'Em Up, a dart throw, a couple decades ... and her and me started screwin', and then the carnival was ready to head south, to winter in Florida, and she said come on and ... so, why not...."
"You were really in prison?"
Johnson scowls at Carter.
"Yeah, I was really in prison, asshole. What about it? You gonna ask what I did, like every other fuckface?"
Carter shakes his head.
"I'm not saying anything. I was in, uh, prison too. Drug rehab this time, but that's as good as prison. I been in juvie too. Twice. Over a year all together.
"I ... just got out...."
Johnson scrutinizes Carter, sizing-up what he's heard.
"For one thing; juvie ain't prison, and some goddamn rehab ain't prison either, kid. Forget it."
Johnson smashes his cigarette in the ashtray, and takes a deep breath, and starts to calm down and they drive in silence for five minutes and the engine and the heater are the only noises inside the car.
"You just got out, huh?..."
Johnson figures Carter has escaped and Johnson smiles to himself and thinks about Carter. Carter isn't sure how he should respond.
"How long were you in there?"
"Almost a year. Eleven months an' some. I've always been in and out of places -- you know ... orphanages, schools, foster this and that ... wherever they could dump me...."
Carter shrugs. Johnson nods.
"What were you in for?"
"Dope."
"Whaddaya calling dope?"
"Heroin. Dope."
"How old are you, Carter?"
Carter looks at Johnson.
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen, huh? The State's gotta let you go when you hit eighteen, you're an adult."
"It's a fuckin' scam. And not just the State tax money the company rakes in. The whole thing is set up to keep you dependent....
"Sure they break you of your drug habits, break down your old druggie personality and rebuild you dependent on them, the staff and the group therapy. Shit.
"It's like you know, a cult! Yeah, rehab is mostly a cult.
"Motherfuckers."
Johnson smiles.
"I hear that."
"Pisses me off. Just give me the money and let me live my fucking life.... I wasn't hurting anyone."
"What you gonna do now?"
Carter shifts around in the seat.
"Travel. See things...."
His voice is vague and fades off at the end. They sit there and both look out into the late-afternoon landscape. Periodic ragged hills and featureless blocks of corporate farms sprinkled with snow blown into small drifts along furrows and fence lines. The sun is dropping away behind them, behind the Cascade Mountains.
Johnson turns on the radio and finds a station giving news about the monster snow storm and after he's had his fill Johnson twists the dial until he finds a Country station.
LATE-AFTERNOON, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17
Johnson turns down the radio that's blasting out Country songs.
"I'm hungry, how 'bout you, kid?"
Carter is silent a moment and answers:
"I don't have any money. Sorry."
Johnson grips Carter's left thigh and says:
"No problem buddy. I'm flush. Let's eat."
Carter does his best to smile and Johnson's hand stays on Carter's leg for another minute. Carter glances at Johnson and Johnson stares at him and Carter turns and looks out the window.
Boys or girls looking at Carter, staring because they wanna fuck him. And the only times Carer let that happen was to get dope.
Staring hungry dogs with one stupid thing on their greedy minds. Him.
And not even him, really. Just him there when the hormones are all pumped-up and they think they're cool and they think they're fucking complimenting him by letting him know he's that special person. For now.
And here Johnson is -- dripping that hungry dog look. Alright, Johnson's sort of drunk. Maybe.
All through dinner Johnson is buddy-buddy and smiling in that sick insinuating way that passes for seduction. Boys, girls; doesn't matter -- they all hunt the same way.
But this time, this time Carter is scared. Scared so his stomach aches and his hands are cold and sweating. Carter is falling. Down to Johnson's feet, down out of his clouds of secure isolation, falling like there's nothing he'd like better than for Johnson to lead him around and take charge and make sure he got fed and had a warm dry place to sleep and it scares Carter.
Somewhere in his mind Carter is sure it'd be better to die outside in the cold than to let them call the shots and let himself admit he's as hungry as they are.
Carter makes half-hearted attempts to react against Johnson and Johnson's insinuations of familiarity. Carter tries staring back and then ignoring Johnson. But Johnson gets irritated and makes a comment and that's enough to gut Carter's soul and Carter's empty, hopeless, trapped, eyes return Johnson's gaze and Carter can't stop himself mimicking Johnson's conspiratorial smiles and laughing at Johnson's sneering snarky jokes about other people in the truck stop cafe.
Johnson pays and they turn and head to the door and Johnson is behind him and Carter hesitates and Johnson shoves open the door and holds it ajar with the toe of a scuffed brown cowboy boot and Johnson's hand slides across Carter's lower back, nudging him, and they go out into the snow and deepening darkness.
That's it. That's all. There is no more. Carter gives up pretending. Whatever. I'm not in love.
"Shit, I am wiped-out, dude. I've been driving straight from Tacoma, and we're already in Oregon."
Johnson looks over at Carter and Carter is spacing out on the whiskey and his belly full of hot food they'd had at the truck stop back on the Washington-side of the Columbia River.
"What about you, kid?"
"Yeah.... I guess I'm pretty tired too...."
Carter sighs and looks out the window trying to see people in passing cars. Shit, I bet it's pretty fucking cold out there.
Johnson smiles at Carter and Carter turns away and Johnson says:
"With this fuckin' snow coming down, shit, it's gonna take hours to get any farther, and I'm too tired to drive at night in this snow and shit. What say we bag it, find a motel, and see what it's like in the morning?"
Carter doesn't answer. Then quiet, almost sulking, Carter says:
"I ... don't have much money...."
"Yeah, I know. I bought you dinner...."
Johnson smiles at Carter and Carter stares outside and Johnson's puffy blood-shot eyes stare at what he imagines and Johnson says:
"Earlier you said you didn't have any money."
Somewhere in his mind Johnson can feel the quality of the force he exerts over the boy. Johnson is giddy and laughs to let off tension and he slaps Carter's left thigh and squeezes.
A caress that eats up each and every shred of self-containment and all Carter's totems of ignorance he's always counted on to keep him safe. Like Johnson is two-handed stuffing Carter's life in his mouth and swallowing without chewing.
Carter keeps his eyes on the window and the light in the car makes it a mirror that shows him everything and Carter knows what will happen and anxiety gives way to an erection and Carter grips the shoulder rest on the door.
It's starting to snow again and this time it's a wall of white.
"About fuckin' time."
Johnson slowly presses down on the accelerator as he looks around and carefully eases the car across the ice and the slight ridge of snow and sand between the lanes.
Not too far up ahead, just off the Interstate, is the vertical pink neon of a motel sign. The knots in Carter's stomach cinch tighter and Carter concentrates on trying to read the name of the motel. Carter stifles a yawn and stretches and rubs his eyes. He stares and gags a little, mouth open an inch or so, and Carter rubs his eyes again and leans forward.
"CARNAGE MOTEL"
Carter can't say anything and all he can do is look at Johnson. Johnson is gnashing gum and humming along to the Country tune on the radio. Johnson glances at Carter as he settles the car in the far right lane to exit the Interstate.
"What's up? You don't like motels?"
Johnson scoffs and he howls along with the radio and taps out the rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumbs. Carter looks at the motel sign again.
"CARNATION MOTEL"
Carter keeps both eyes on the sign to make sure it doesn't change again.
AFTER 6:00 P.M., SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17
It's off-season so room 24 hasn't been used recently and it's musty and cold and when Johnson flips on the light Carter glances around and the room is four white walls, ugly brown carpet, motel furniture and one bed.
A queen-size bed that's the biggest object in the room and covered with a blue poly-cotton bedspread and headboard ornamented with quasi-Colonial curlicues around the top. There are small lamps attached to the wall on either side.
Everything in the room is standard motel selection -- dresser, smallish nightstand on the right side of the bed and a circular table with two chairs near the window.
Carter walks to one of the chairs at the table near the window and sits down. Johnson tosses his small gym bag and the paper sack of some of his and Martha's clothes on the dresser.
"Hey, Carter, run down to the ice machine, it's out front of the office, next to the soda machine. There's probably an ice bucket in the bathroom. Fill it with ice. OK?"
Near the sink Carter finds two clear plastic ice buckets, sealed in plastic wrap, stacked one inside the other. He takes one, tears off the wrap, and walks through the room without looking at Johnson and goes directly outside. It's dark and cold and the wind is bone-cutting and wretched.
Carter's hands hurt gripping the frigid metal as he yanks open the lid of the ice machine and there is no tool to scoop out the ice and Carter stares into the freezer. Carter uses his hands and there are only large clumps and only one of the icy masses fits in the flimsy plastic container.
Carter forces himself not to hesitate at the door to room 24 and he pushes open the door. Johnson has turned on the heat and the room is even mustier, but warmer. The TV is on. Carter sets the bucket on the table beside the bottle of Wild Turkey that is now there and open.
Johnson comes over and scowls at the hunk of ice cubes and scolds Carter.
"What the fuck? I wanna put ice in a drink. In a glass. What am I supposed to do with that ... rock?"
Carter looks at Johnson and then the ice and takes the ice bucket to the bathroom, picks up the block of ice cubes, raises it to the level of his face and drops it into the sink. It shatters into cubes and fragments that Carter scoops back into the bucket.
Carter pulls the sanitary wrapper off a plastic cup and drops in several ice pieces and takes it and the open bottle of whiskey to Johnson. Johnson pours himself a hefty drink, then sets the bottle on the side table.
"Pour yourself one, dude."
Carter looks at the ice and the whiskey and he still feels cold so he pours himself two fat fingers worth. It's not heroin, but there is a chemical effect.
Johnson is sitting on the bed watching some stupid teen comedy movie on TV. Carter stands in front of the dresser and sips his drink and glances over the inside of Johnson's gym bag.
"Aren't you going to stay?"
Carter is jolted to attention.
"What?"
"You still got your coat on...."
"Oh, yeah.... Sorry."
Carter sets down his drink and hastily takes off the bomber jacket.
"I mean, you don't have to. But you're making me nervous standin' around in your coat checkin' out my stuff."
"I wasn't. I...."
"Whatever."
Johnson drains his drink and gets up.
"I'm gonna shower. See if you can find something on the radio, there's nothin' on the tube."
Once Johnson is in the bathroom Carter unwinds and enjoys being alone and warm and he leans forward and turns down the TV. Carter scoots along the bed until he is sitting against the headboard and moves the Wild Turkey aside so he can get to the radio alarm clock. He rotates the tuning dial; nothing, nothing and then there's Jimi Hendrix doing something sweet and moody and Carter leaves it there and pours himself another drink and finds Johnson's Marlboros and sits on the bed and smokes. The room gets hotter and hotter and Carter breaks into a sweat and takes off the plaid flannel shirt he's wearing.
Carter feels drunk again and wishes he had some dope. Jimi Hendrix ends and something stupid comes on and Carter twists the dial and finds some old tinny recording of some guy singing a Country waltz and Carter listens to it for a second and decides to leave it there. A woman DJ comes on and tells him this station in Walla Walla, Washington, is playing Hank Williams Sr until 2 a.m.
Carter gets off the bed and stands in front of the large mirror across the room above the dresser. Shit. His face always looks a mess to him. A completely fucked-up job. A bunch of odds and ends thrown together with no attention to details.
Carter runs his hand down his face, across his brow and down along his pointy nose and receding chin. Carter pulls his T-shirt up and runs this same hand over his abdomen. His body seems alright, at least it's all there in basically the right setup -- but too skinny and no muscle to speak of. Carter pulls his T-shirt up farther and looks at the spot above his left breast where he has a crude black handmade tattoo of a rampant bat.
Carter sits down on the edge of the bed, still looking in the mirror, staring at the bed. Maybe this is the only room Johnson could get, or he didn't think to ask for two beds.
Carter stands and walks back to the mirror and this time pulls his T- shirt off and looks at his abdomen to see if it has any of the definition Johnson's does and Carter is humming whatever song is on the radio.
The bathroom door opens and Johnson comes out of the bathroom with clean briefs on and his jeans and a T-shirt in one hand. Carter gawks at Johnson's stomach and chest and shoulders and the patches of hair around his nipples. Johnson's torso is a pale white conflict of dense muscles and softening flesh. Maybe Johnson sees this looking because he sucks in his stomach some.
It hasn't been that many years since Johnson worked out every chance he got, to kill time, and the heavy work for the carnival propped up the underlying muscle bulk.
Johnson stuffs the T-shirt he had been wearing into the paper bag of clothes.
"I feel a fuck-of-a-lot better. Jesus."
Johnson sits down on the bed and swings his legs up on to it and stretches out on his back and all of a sudden lurches upright and looks at Carter with surprise.
"Hey! This is Hank Williams Sr! I fuckin' love Hank Senior."
"The DJ said the station is playing his records 'til two. Maybe it's his birthday or something?"
"Hank Williams Sr's birthday? Naw. You know why I know it's not the old man's birthday? He and I were born on the same day. No shit, March 23rd. 'Cept he was born in 1925 and I was born in 1977.
"Hey, Carter, put some more ice in my glass. I'm gonna get under the covers, the shower zonked me."
Carter puts ice in the glass and returns it to Johnson and Carter sits on the edge of the bed.
With his hair wet and freshly combed and the sweat and grit washed off his face Johnson doesn't look so old anymore. There are still wrinkles and stress lines around Johnson's eyes and mouth and bags under his eyes from no sleep. Maybe he doesn't look any older than the thirty-one years he is and Carter wonders if he looks as young to Johnson as Johnson looks old to him.
Johnson sips his Wild Turkey and watches the images on the TV and watches Carter out of the corner of his eye. What the fuck is with this kid? Why's he sitting on the edge of the bed staring at himself in the mirror?
"Carter. Hey, Carter. What the fuck you doin'? You drunk or what?"
"Thinking. Guess I am sorta drunk. I wish we had some dope. You like dope?"
"It's alright. Whiskey's my baby."
Carter studies Johnson's face and Johnson is sitting on the bed slumped down, a pillow propping up his torso and his head resting on the headboard so it's tilted forward and the skin under his jaw bunches together and Carter wonders if it's age or if his neck does that too. Something else to look at in a mirror.
Johnson doesn't look at Carter as he says:
"Look, this bed is clean, and you smell ... like you haven't bathed in a good while."
Carter doesn't say anything and Johnson still doesn't look at Carter.
"Go take a shower."
Carter stands up.
"I don't have any clean clothes."
"You can have one of my T-shirts, but all my shorts'll be too big for you. You could try some of Martha's. She's pretty skinny."
Carter's face burns red and he grabs a white T-shirt out of the gym bag.
NEARLY 10:30 P.M., SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17
Out of the shower, Carter is too scared to face Johnson and so after drying Carter stands and inspects his body in the bathroom mirror.
Carter must've been looking in the mirror a long time because over the sounds of the radio Carter hears Johnson yelling for him and it sounds like Johnson's pissed.
Carter walks out and tries to be casual and rubs his hair with a towel and looks around the room and Johnson is in bed, blankets up to his waist and the upper half of his body is slouched against the headboard and again Carter is consumed with the tension in Johnson's chest and stomach -- neglected flab and what had been intensely developed muscle. The tone is fading and the body is right at the edge of either way and looking all the more beautiful for it.
"Shit, I thought you'd died in there."
"Nah. I haven't had much chance to have all the time and hot water I want. I, uh, couldn't stop."
"Yeah, I know what you're sayin', kid.
"Come on, get yourself a drink and let's watch this movie."
"But you got the sound off."
"That don't bother me, but we can turn it up and the radio off if you want."
"Nah. I was pretty tired when I went in there, and that shower just made it worse. I'm gonna crash."
"Suit yourself, dude."
Carter walks around to the other side of the bed and sheds his jeans. Johnson's T-shirt that Carter is wearing hangs very large on his narrow frame. The room is so hot Carter pulls off the T-shirt and Johnson sips his whiskey and scans Carter. Nothing violent or intense -- flat and casual and absorbing every little inch of what he sees.
Carter takes a deep breath to control the tremoring he's sure must be visible and Carter thinks about crawling across the bed and curling up with his head resting on Johnson's right thigh and watching the movie. Carter stands there, his face lost and confused, thinking about this a minute or two and he looks at Johnson who's returned both eyes to the soundless TV images.
Carter tries not to move the bed as he settles under the covers. At first as far on his side of the mattress as he can. Carter lays on his belly facing away from Johnson. After just a couple minutes Carter turns and angles and curls up his body so his lower back and butt feel the heat emanating from Johnson and Carter closes his eyes.
Carter listens to Johnson raise the glass to his lips and slurp some whiskey and the radio oozes sad old Country, but it is turned down so low that maybe Johnson recognizes each song but to Carter it slurs into one unending mournful drone.
With his eyes closed the darkness spins and Carter snaps his eyes open to avoid the incipient nausea crawling around in his stomach. Carter wonders what Johnson's girlfriend is like and where she is and would she care about Carter being here and will Johnson ever tell her there was this teenager he picked up hitchhiking and the kid stayed with him in a motel in Oregon and would she care?
Carter is drifting into unconsciousness and then the bed shifts as Johnson leans over and sets down his empty glass on the nightstand and when Johnson settles down his right hand comes to rest where the blankets end and the small of Carter's slightly acned back begins. With Johnson's hand there Carter can't stop himself from moving a little closer to Johnson. Carter closes his eyes.
Johnson looks at the way Carter's hair hangs around his shoulders and Johnson's pulse is rapid and dense in his throat and Johnson's right hand starts slowly slowly purposefully grazing back and forth in the dip between Carter's hips and where his back narrows into his waist and his spine comes to a bony stop and the spinal column and the ribs seem barely covered by skin. So many bones and so little skin and muscle and so smooth and it seems so delicate and so fragile. So easy to destroy.
Johnson wonders about Carter.
The bed sags as Johnson leans over Carter and Johnson's right hand is up around Carter's neck and shoulders and Johnson's hand is scratchy and coarse and the fingers move around massaging individual knots of muscles and thread through Carter's hair and grip handfuls of it and tug and Johnson's left hand is down around Carter's waist and then it's under the blankets -- back and forth in the space between hip and back -- and the coarseness of his fingers is electric and real slow and calm and the ends of the fingers push and probe under the band of Carter's underwear and Johnson grips one of Carter's buttocks and squeezes and the hand slides down between Carter's legs and Carter shudders.
Johnson leans closer and Carter feels the heat of Johnson's breath and smells the tobacco and whiskey before he realizes Johnson is saying words into the back of Carter's skull and Johnson's lips and tongue brush an ear.
Johnson is speaking so very slowly and so very quietly that it's almost no more than the sound of Johnson's rapid shallow breathing and Carter thinks it's the most dangerous and sweetest thing anyone has ever said to him.
Carter tries to push himself up against Johnson but Johnson thinks Carter is getting away and Johnson leans down and his body pins Carter to the bed and Carter tries to say No, no ... it's good, it's good....
Johnson tightens his grip and whispers:
"Shhh.... Shhh...."
Carter murmurs good-bye to himself forever and Carter stops thinking.
ALMOST 2:00 P.M., MONDAY, OCTOBER 18
Carter is looking out the window and watching it snow and sipping at a glass of whiskey and the early afternoon light gives the motel's parking lot a peaceful prosaic look and tire tracks in the snow draw faces that Carter recognizes and names.
"Who's Michelle?"
Johnson is in his usual spot; sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard, his legs out in front of him watching some sports thing on TV. Johnson looks at Carter with a what-the-fuck-are-you-asking-me-that-for glare, and says in low-grade irritation:
"What...?"
Carter hesitates and pursues it anyway.
"Michelle. Last night you...."
Carter almost said that Johnson kept calling him Michelle but he doesn't want to get into it. He just wants to know who she is.
"Who's Michelle? I thought Martha's your girlfriend?"
Johnson looks at Carter to see if he's trying to start trouble and looks back at the TV and lights a cigarette and Carter watches him smoke and Carter's eyes rove around Johnson's square and lined face with sideburns almost to his earlobes and swept-back haircut evoking Johnson's Country and Rocknroll cultural affiliations and finally Johnson says:
"Yeah Martha's my old lady. Michelle, she was the girl I was goin' with when I got busted last time. I dated Michelle the longest I've ever gone with any chick. She got married to a friend of mine a couple years into my stretch."
Johnson gives Carter that look.
"Come're...."
Carter sits down next to Johnson and he can't look up and Johnson reaches out and just barely touches him.
Johnson is sitting on the bed, but now the sheets and covers are a mess and the TV is still on and neither of them has gotten dressed and Carter is sitting cross-legged facing Johnson and looking at Johnson's stomach and Carter is running fingers through the twist of hair trailing up from Johnson's crotch to above his belly button and Carter sips whiskey and wonders if all men grow this much hair. Carter has only a scraggle of curlies at his crotch and a few under his arms. Carter slides a fingertip over two scratches on Johnson's stomach that Carter put there.
When Johnson asks for more ice Carter is slow to register the words.
"I'll have to get dressed though...."
"Yeah? Well? So would I."
Carter slips off the bed and grabs up his clothes.
"Take some of the change in my coat pocket and get some candy bars. I got a sweet tooth."
"What kind?"
"I don't care, whatever you want."
"Can I wear your boots? My tennis shoes are still wet."
"Sure."
Carter pulls on his jeans and the back of his left hand hits a large hand-size bruise of deep red and purple on his upper left leg and Carter winces and gingerly fastens his Levi's. The leg doesn't hurt when he walks on it. Just have to remember not to bump it.
Carter stops just outside their door. The snow has stopped and it is not quite so cold. Carter buttons up the wool-lined jeans jacket, and the cowboy boots are too big so he stuffs his pant legs into them.
Johnson hasn't mentioned anything about driving on east. He hasn't even called that woman, Martha. Johnson has a mobile phone, but Carter's only seen it ring twice and the conversations Johnson had were not with a woman, let alone a girlfriend. Evidence points to her existence. The woman's clothes with his stuff and the snapshots of a peroxide blond woman in her underwear sitting on a couch trying to look sultry and sexy.
Carter worries about why Johnson wants to stay here, with him, and not try to get to her. Carter reruns all the possibilities and they're all pretty fucking frightening, and the scariest is that Johnson isn't planning on leaving this motel and Carter doubts he can ever leave on his own and Carter knows that if they stay here, one of them will break, or maybe just die.
Maybe Johnson will run out of money soon. But he doesn't seem too concerned about it and when Carter looked on the credit card slip it said Johnson had paid for a week and today is only day two and each 24-hour period they drift and crawl through Carter feels larger and larger chunks of his personality falling away and what will be left when Johnson finally does tire of him?
A little taste of dope would settle things and give Carter the nerve to do something -- like leave.
Carter is getting very cold and he walks back to their room as fast as he can. His pockets are full of candy bars and his hands are freezing from holding two tubs of ice cubes.
JUST AFTER 9:00 P.M., TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19
Johnson has that drunk stupid look; eyes watery, lids droopy. They've been drinking pretty much steady for the last three days and Johnson usually doesn't get this drunk and Carter hates when he does because Johnson gets silly and sentimental.
Johnson is going on and on again and again about his life before he went to prison and how great it was being a teenager in whatever town in Washington Johnson grew up in. A few minutes ago Carter tried shutting him up by sucking his dick but Johnson pushed Carter aside without interrupting his repetitious loop.
"Yeah, I was in a rock band. The Fast Life. I played guitar. We were hot shit; played lots of dances, keggers and the bar circuit in Tacoma and out in the county.
"Randy was in it too. He played drums. Randy ... man, he was my best buddy. Well, him and Bert."
"Hmm."
"Michelle and me, and Randy and his girlfriend Sheri, and Bert and -- what's her name ... Barb, yeah, Barb. Barb with the tits. She had the best tits of any of the girls...."
"Yeah, but Michelle had the best ass...."
Johnson looks a little irritated at having his recounting (again) of key elements of the best times of his life interrupted by Carter's smirking. But Johnson quickly settles back into it.
"Yeah, the six of us ... we really used to get fuckin' crazy. Even after high school we stuck together. We'd get together and get wasted and go out and raise some serious hell. I'm serious. Get us drunk and smokin' crank and there wasn't nothin' we wouldn't do ... nothin' ... and the chicks were at least as wild as us ... no shit...."
Johnson smiles to himself and takes a long pull on the whiskey bottle and Carter hopes he'll pass out or get horny or something. Carter prays this is the last time through it all and that he won't have to hear about how they'd all swap partners and all the places he and Michelle fucked.
"And damn if I wasn't the sharpest dresser in Tacoma ... and the best dancer...."
He empties his glass and grabs the bottle.
"Michelle was always sayin' I was...."
This is really gross Carter thinks. Really gross. Carter sits near the end of the bed cross-legged watching TV with his back to Johnson. Carter looks down at the carpet and sees the half-empty carton of condoms they have been using.
Johnson sits up and reaches out and grabs Carter around the waist and pulls him back until he is tight in the crook of Johnson's right arm and Carter doesn't resist but he doesn't help and Carter sits there with Johnson's arm folded across his chest.
"Hey, baby, what about you? What you do in high school for fun?"
Carter looks up at Johnson and he hates that Johnson has started calling him little pet names and 'baby' and 'honey' and whatever.
"Nothin'."
"Sure, you had to have done somethin'. What kind of chicks were you chasing? What did you and your buddies do for fun?"
"I'm only seventeen, Johnson, and I've been inside two high schools in my whole life ... maybe five or six months all together. I didn't have time to have a buddy, or have any good times, or any shit like that.
"Both times I went to high school I sat around in class a week or two, then the local kids would start beating on me every chance they got. So, I'd stop going, and spend my time getting high."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot. I guess I had it a lot better than you did huh, babe? I spent high school havin' fun. I had all those good times and that's somethin' I'll have forever ... and no one can take that kind of thing away from me, right?"
Johnson squeezes Carter affectionately.
"Shit, dude, if you'd been in school with me and Randy and Bert we woulda protected ya. Shit, we woulda showed you how to have some real fuckin' fun."
Carter gnaws on his lips and thinks that Johnson would've been beating him up while his girlfriend stood around and laughed.
Johnson rouses himself from sodden reflection.
"Yeah, I guess I had a pretty good life compared to you. A great girlfriend and great best buddies...."
"Yeah Johnson, sounds like you had an amazing fucking life. Real amazing."
Johnson releases Carter and shoves him onto the floor and says:
"Fuck you, bitch. At least I had a fuckin' life...."
NlGHT, THURSDAY/FRIDAY, OCTOBER 21/22
The TV is on and the volume is down to silence and MTV videos are flashing bright bursts of color across the dark room. One of the small lamps on the wall next to the bed is on and it's the one on the side where Johnson usually sleeps and the 40-watt bulb casts enough light to illuminate the upper third of the bed and depending on which video is playing the TV shines its scattering of colors all around the room in a flickering kaleidoscope. The alarm clock radio is on and tuned to the Country station Johnson likes and the music from the radio is not loud and yet it is loud enough to mask most of the noises two people can make.
Who is that person stretched out naked on the carpet on his back a couple yards from the TV? His right leg slightly crooked at the knee and left arm draped over the upper half of his face. Vivid colors from the TV jitter and wash up and down and across the naked body. Skin sunk back against bone and ribs clear and protrudent and hips sticking out in two sharp points. It is Carter.
Every few seconds at irregular intervals tremors and twitches erupt along the muscles that are so sinewy and prominent under the thin layers of Carter's so very white skin and the skin is covered in so much sweat that it pools and gutters in threading rivulets. The angularity of the skeleton and the whiteness of the skin is annotated by an intricate pattern of bruises and scrapes and abrasions. Their meaning is indecipherable to those who have not been in room 24 for the last four, going on five days.
Carter moves his arm from across his face and there is dried blood around his nostrils and his lower lip seems swollen and abrased and Carter's eyes are closed and his breath is pained and shallow and he is smiling.
On the bed Johnson is cowering in the corner, his back pressed to the headrest, smoking a cigarette. His hand is shaking and he's trying not to look at Carter and when he does it's only a brief glimpse to make sure Carter is still breathing, and even Johnson is overwhelmed with who they now are and what two people can do and there are three new sets of scratches across his chest and if you could see his right earlobe you'd see where it's torn from a deep and tearing bite.
TIME UNKNOWN, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 22
This is the fifth day in the Carnation Motel just outside of Baker City, Oregon, and Carter is so addicted to his and Johnson's situation that he gets cramps in his gut and stomach just leaving the room to go down to the ice machine and when Johnson goes to the liquor store down the way it's even worse.
Someday Carter won't have the will left to move anymore and they'll carry him out on a stretcher and he won't even have the strength to tell them that it was Johnson Morgan Baylor that took it all from him. Johnson took every little scrap of purpose and self and left Carter staring and breathing and crawling and Carter wonders if maybe this is what happened to Michelle and Martha.
Carter has lost the protections and precious defenses he'd hoarded to make sure he didn't end up like the adults he's known -- shambling along in a stupor like they'd just gotten out of an electroshock session -- and now Carter is too old to start over accumulating distance and storing up silences and in less than a year he'll be an adult and it will be too late and Carter will be lost for the rest of his stupid life.
SOMETIME, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23
Johnson looks from the TV to Carter and Johnson smiles and Carter's body explodes -- heart pounding, nausea, black blotches float in front of his eyes and his mouth is flooded with saliva. Carter has to keep swallowing to avoid vomiting. Carter gets up from the carpet and gropes his way onto the bed and across it to Johnson. Johnson raises his right arm without taking his eyes off the TV screen and Carter scuttles under it. Carter sits a minute and tries to slow his racing pulse and takes a deep breath and says:
"Johnson ... aren't you ... ever gonna call Martha? Ever? What's she gonna say about us using her credit card like this, and you not calling her?"
Johnson sets down his drink and turns and lifts Carter up by the shoulders and turns him around and sets him on the bed so that they are facing each other and with one hand Johnson tugs at Carter's underwear and with the other he pulls Carter's face forward and they kiss and Carter is desperate and he pushes back and manages to move his head a few inches away and he keeps his eyes closed so he can speak without being silenced by Johnson's look and Carter pleads in a near whisper:
"Please, Johnson. Please call her. I ... I know she wants you to ... you ... gotta go ... don't you have to get to Denver?... The carnival ... and Martha ... don't we both have to leave?... Get going ... don't we?..."
Carter's voice trails off and his head sags limp and dead-like in Johnson's grip. Johnson lurches onto his knees and pulls Carter to just a few inches from his face and holds Carter's head in both hands, fingers and thumbs pressing into Carter's skin and Johnson pushes hard so he can feel the edges of the bones in Carter's skull and he makes Carter look right at him and Johnson speaks, quiet and threatening.
"You wanna leave, baby? You don't like this? Come on, tell me. Tell me you don't want us to be here. Tell me you want to leave this room and tell me this isn't more than you've ever had...."
Carter makes one last effort to jerk away and he squirms and Johnson holds on all the tighter and Carter moans real soft and pathetic.
"No ... no.... I ... never ... wanted this. Ever. I've always ... looked the other way...."
Carter's whole body goes slack and limp like he's dead and Carter knows that what he is now, here in this motel room, is too much.
A bunch of unsaid and threatening and all-powerful totems and gestures that outline and enclose whatever he's become and Carter never knew living could be so dangerous and Carter only has strength to regret that it is not far from who and where he was six days ago to this room and what he has become. Not far at all.
EXACTLY 1:44 P.M., SUNDAY, OCTOBER 24
Carter's lying on the bed still damp with sweat, absentmindedly massaging a cramp in his right thigh and dabbing a handkerchief at the rug burns on his knees that are oozing a slow film of blood and Carter is thinking about how he'll leave.
Carter wishes he had just one dime of heroin, just one.
Johnson is lying on his back, eyes half-closed, doped on sex. Now, while Johnson is under the influence, is the time to go. Carter slowly sits up.
"I'm gonna go get a Dr Pepper ... for the whiskey."
Johnson half turns and his left hand languidly reaches out and clasps Carter's ankle, not really to restrain Carter from going, more to signify he doesn't want Carter to go anywhere and he could stop Carter if he wanted to.
"Jesus, baby, Dr Pepper and whiskey? That's fuckin' sick."
"I dunno."
"Well, bring me more ice, OK, baby?"
"Sure, ice."
Carter is casual and takes his clothes into the bathroom and acts like he's washing or something and really he's putting his old clothes over layers of the new stuff Johnson bought for him yesterday at the Wal-Mart outside Baker City.
Johnson gets up and pours more whiskey and Carter has this one last opportunity to take in Johnson's body as it moves across the room.
Carter almost bursts into tears.
Back on the bed Johnson crawls to the end and leans out and turns up the TV and piles the pillows against the headboard and leans back.
"You can wear my boots so your sneakers don't get all wet."
"I already got mine on. I'll be OK...."
He whispers the last part because Carter is pretty sure he'll never be OK again.
"OK. But, hurry with the ice...."
Johnson jiggles his glass so the whiskey swirls around inside.
"This is too warm to be any good."
Carter stands and zips up the coat he stole from the trucker and gets the two plastic ice buckets and when he gets to the room's door he looks back at Johnson sitting in the mess of blankets and sheets and Johnson's hair is all askew and there is still a sweat line around his eyes and Johnson is lost in the sports on the TV.
Carter pulls the door shut and walks far enough in the direction of the ice machine to be out of the view of the window of their room. Carter throws aside the two plastic buckets and scuttles out into the parking lot as fast as he can in sneakers through snow and ice toward the highway.
It is bitingly cold and brilliantly sunny. Sunny for the first time in days. The top layer of snow has melted a little and refrozen and everywhere it reflects and magnifies the harsh glare of the sun.
Carter is light-headed and sweating like crazy and shaking and his stomach is cramping and convulsing; a real nasty jones. Carter slips on the icy, slushy asphalt and he falls and as Carter forces himself to get up he is gagging and wiping away the few tears and the little trickle of blood and snot from his nose and Carter prays to whatever that he gets a ride real soon.
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If you liked The Carnage Motel, I have another free eshortstory, Hypnotizing Chickens, available from Smashwords and all othe ebook outlets.
Also, besure and look for my novel, No Aloha, available at Smashwords and many other ebook stores.
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