Natural Order

They picked me up outside Wilmington, North Carolina, just before the rain began, but not before the gale-force winds blew the cigarette out of my mouth. In the dark, I touched the fresh pack of Camels in my coat pocket with relief, feeling more tired than usual. But as long as I had my smokes and my ride, the wind and the rain didn't bother me. That was just my nature. In a matter of speaking.

In the shotgun seat, Mrs. Thompson was bent double, her tiny black hand holding the seat forward at a sharp angle. They were waiting on me. When the rain finally hit, right on schedule, I pushed my way into the back seat of the mint-green 1972 Monte Carlo. The interior light was dead. I could just make out Missy, a young girl with brownish-blonde dreadlocks, squirming impatiently behind the steering wheel and revving the car's big engine. I'd have to fix the light tomorrow, on our way to the next job.

The front seat dropped into place as I fell toward the back seat, but instead of the cool, welcoming bucket seat I was expecting, I landed on top of something hard and furry and muscular. A sudden barking filled my world as yellowed teeth burst into my vision.

"Down!" Mrs. Thompson shrieked from the shotgun seat, her voice carrying over the wind and rain. A coiled umbrella shot past me to hover an inch from the muzzle of the long-nosed dog glaring at me. Mrs. Thompson's black face was a perfect circle of pinched mouth and squinted eyes as she shook the umbrella tip at the dog. Rain spattered the windshield.

Bob? my exhausted mind wondered while I tried to shift my weight off the big dog taking up most of the back seat. At the same time, Missy punched the accelerator, and the dog and I were both thrown back against the seat. The Monte flew up the onramp leading back onto I-40, just ahead of the storm. I was too tired to push the dog off me, fur in my face. It had been a while since I'd had to share my space in the back of the big old car.

It wasn't Bob.

"Put that thing away!" Missy shouted, swerving as the Monte hit water and hydoplaned. The smell of wet dog filled the car. "You're gonna put us all in the ditch, old lady."

The umbrella retreated, and I eased back onto the blanket-covered back seat. The thin, stretched-out looking dog eyed me in the azure light of the car's massive dashboard. Where the hell did they find another one? After all this time?

"Meet Walt Whitman," Mrs. Thompson said, trying to relight her pipe with a cheap red lighter. She'd left her window open again while I'd been working, and the rain had drenched most of her right side, including her ancient carved pipe. The two entwined hands that formed the bowl of the pipe were dripping with tobacco-stained water. "He's our new flame."

"Put up your window, Tee," I said, leaning forward to take the wet pipe and lighter from her gnarled fingers. They weighed close to a ton each to my wornout arms. I blew a puff of air onto the pipe, then lit the tobacco again with the cheap lighter. It caught on the first try.

"I could've done that, showoff," Mrs. Thompson said, winded from working the crank on the big passenger side window, looking as tired as I felt. She snatched the pipe from my hand and sucked on it greedily.

Pulling out a rawhide chewtoy wedged under my left butt cheek, I reached into my pocket for another cigarette. Next to me, Walt Whitman the dog kicked his legs once with a final growl and curled up into a surprisingly small ball. It was only after my eyes had adjusted to the gloom did I see the numbers tattooed in each ear. I lit my Camel.

"At least you got a racer," I said. "Did he win many?"

"He's won his share, down in Florida," Missy said. Her gaze remained glued to the road. Red lights flashed up ahead as we approached the evacuation roadblock. Wind shook the south side of the car, hurling droplets of rain like so many innocent soldiers against the windows.

"Twenty-two wins this year alone," Mrs. Thompson said, pulling on her big glasses to peer at a rumpled sheet of paper. "Over eighty in his career. He's a flame, all right, our Walt Whitman is. He's..."

Her voice dwindled away to a low buzzing for a few seconds. I opened my eyes and exhaled the smoke I'd been holding in. I must've blanked out for a while there, still recovering.

Missy downshifted and pulled into the median of the interstate to avoid the state troopers and the mess of traffic-snarled cars attempting to leave the coast too late. I tried not to look at the panicked faces inside the cars, lit by the headlights of those behind them. All waiting to escape the storm. Just like us, but powerless to move -- to phase, if needed -- the way we did. Sucking on the cigarette, I slid lower onto the wornout springs of the back seat. Slowly I pulled my gaze away from those we were leaving behind.

One thing I learned from Oklahoma: if I thought about the people too much, I'd be worthless.

The car bounced hard on its way up the other side of the median, the Monte's ancient shocks working overtime to compensate. My head hit the roof and I glared at Missy, to no avail. Wind slammed the rear of the car as if trying to push us west faster.

With an effort, I stroked the thin fur along the back of the dog next to me, only to evoke a low growl. "Dog's all skin and bones, for shit's sake," I mumbled, just to keep conscious.

"Don't talk bad about the dog," Mrs. Thompson said.

"You could've at least talked to me about this," I said, blowing smoke towards the steering wheel. We had the empty eastbound lanes all to ourselves, with all the signs facing the wrong way. I blinked hard twice, barely able to keep my eyes open. "Consulted me, you know," I said, and passed out next to Walt Whitman.

Continued...