Damaged Goods Ch. 02

It may have been a dark and stormy night, but the inside of a stranger's car could not be the best place to wind up. Being struck by lightning on a night like this might be a better final fate.

Of course, this was familiar experience to her by now.

Whenever she got into a strange car, she asked herself a simple question.

How did I end up here?

On this day, she awoke beneath the shade of a mighty white oak that was a few hundred feet from a long stretch of cracked, broken pavement. The tree was next to a coulee full of water. She found this secluded spot by sheer accident the day before. She was pounding the pavement of a lonesome state highway until she saw the sign that pointed to a town with a three-letter name. Even though she was supposedly in the same county as the big city she escaped, it might as well have been the surface of Mars to her. She looked to her left, to the west, and saw the gentle rolling hills and lines of trees that had been planted every half-mile or so to prevent soil erosion. She huffed a bit and proceeded westward.

As she trudged, the pit in her stomach (and her soul) grew deeper. She was running out of food and she tried not to spend any of her cash unless she absolutely had to. Mile after mile, it became harder and harder to walk. This stretch of pavement was not known to see many vehicles great or small, let alone any sort of foot travelers. All she knew was that she needed to find a place to sleep for the night so she would be safe.

It was around sundown when she came upon the farmstead. The house was falling apart after years of neglect. All the windows had been broken, the roof was missing over half of its tiles, all the paint had peeled off, and the foundation looked like it needed to cave in. She walked to the porch and noticed that all the boards were either lose or missing. She was able to see in through the broken front window and she noticed boxes of Sudafed that been ripped open and tossed aside. She also saw remnants of busted lithium batteries, ripped coffee filters, small lengths of rubber tubing and plastic soda bottles with missing tops strewn along the warped, cracking floor.

"Meth house," were the only words she had spoken aloud since she had embarked on this path she had called the road to nowhere.

She walked backwards unsure if anybody unsavory was going to show up at that or any other moment. Scanning the farmyard, she saw several outbuildings in the same ramshackle state as the house. The trees surrounding the yard were a mixture of dead American Elm stricken with Dutch Elm disease and thriving species of oak, cottonwood, box elder and maple. She wondered if the property had been booby-trapped at all, so she decided to continue on the road to nowhere, but the descending sun caught the top of a lone white oak standing next to coulee she crossed before taking the path onto the farmstead. This poor tree looked like a sentry that was forever left to guard a deserted military outpost. The coulee had almost overflowed the banks because of a downpour that happened a couple of nights before. The sun had finally descended into the western depths and the evening had still retained its warmth. She might get some sleep after all.

She threw the rucksack she was carrying onto the ground and opened it up. She pulled out a black sleeping bag, a black toiletry bag and a white towel. She opened her toiletry bag to retrieve a bar of a soap that had been partially used. She kicked her sneakers and socks off. She had been wearing a pair of blue jeans and a form-fitting white T-shirt in need of laundering. She scanned in every direction to see if she was alone. Feeling satisfied after awhile, she pulled the shirt over head to reveal a black bra with a demi-cup design to the world. She then released the snap on her jeans and shimmied out of them to reveal a pair of black hipster panties. She huffed loudly and scanned around more until she was satisfied that she had complete solitude. She unclasped her bra from the back, released her arms through the straps and she shimmied out of her panties. With a flip of her right foot, the panties floated through the air and landed on top her of now discarded jeans. Her hair was up in a simple ponytail, which she released from its reigns.

She smiled sheepishly and said aloud, "Like the day I was born."

Except she was of legal age, and had the body to match. She was tall, lean and had prominent breasts that turn could any boy her age into a pool of tepid goop. Her ass and legs were toned and tight. Her hair was jet black and swung down to the middle of her back. She had a cropped landing strip just above her vaginal lips. A warm breeze blew through the area teasing the treetops and the lips between her legs. She felt a feeling so free that she couldn't help but take running start into the coulee. The shock to her system was immediate, but it only served to turn her on further. The water had been warmer than she realized because she acclimated to it rather quickly. She swam around in circles and in laps. She even tried to touch the bottom of the coulee a couple of times. Happy in this short-lived freedom, her problems seemed to melt away like last winter's snows.

She got out of the coulee to grab her towel and soap and then she returned to the water. She soaped her long arms, her angelic face, her shapely legs, her tight midsection, and her lovely ass. Each stroke of the soap sent an electric shock to each of her pleasure centers and her body begged for more. At long last, she soaped her pussy lips and that sent the shock that released the shockwave. Her orgasm wasn't earth shattering, but it was enough to make her want more. She threw the soap onto the towel and she giggled at her luck. She dunked her head underwater once more as she moved her right index finger and middle finger into her crease and she pumped hard as she resurfaced. Taking a large breath, she moved closer to the coulee bank so her head stayed above water. With every thrust she made, a small moan escaped her lips. She hadn't masturbated in water like this since she was fourteen years old.

At that moment, she remembered back to the time she first did it with a partner at age fifteen.

Suddenly her fingers became his fingers, and he knew how to touch her even though he was a greenhorn when it came to the opposite sex. With every gentle thrust, she cooed happily as she did now. After a while, he sped up but his touch remained consistently gentle. She opened her eyes for a moment and saw the large tree and the pile of her stuff beneath it. The flashback was almost too real to believe because she wanted him so badly at that moment. She closed her eyes and continued pumping her fingers in-and-out, up-and-down. With each thrust, each coo became louder and the tempo increased. Suddenly, the real shockwave appeared. The loud moan frightened the songbirds in the nearby trees and she was shaking as she came out of the water. She sat down on her towel and caught her breath. She stared around to see if anybody appeared from the farmstead or the road and nobody had. She was still living in graceful solitude.

She stood up and dried herself off because the warm breeze had chilled her almost to the bone. Still naked, she unrolled her sleeping bag and went within its warm depths. She shivered a bit, wishing she was holding the man who told her so long ago that he truly loved her. As her body temperature acclimated to the sleeping bag, her breathing returned to a normal pace and she slowly drifted off to sleep.

"Where are you, Dylan?" she said before she surrendered to the evening's slumber.

The sounds of meadowlarks, blue jays and orioles singing their divergent songs awoke the sleeping beauty the next morning. She shivered because the sun had just cracked over the horizon and had yet to bathe the world with its warmth. Her short-lived stint with freedom had come to an end. She needed to be dressed and on the move because even in the boondocks, menacing events could occur. In short order, she was dressed in the clothes she had worn the day before and her supplies were packed back in her rucksack. At the last moment, she heard a vehicle coming from the east. It sounded like an old 1970's Ford pickup truck. She ducked behind the mighty white oak as she saw a dark green 1970 F-100 come over the coulee bridge and into the driveway of the farmstead. She maneuvered herself enough so the two figures in the vehicle couldn't have seen her. They were hooting and hollering like the good old boy, country bumpkins they were even though it was around 6am in the morning.

"Ready to make another round of the stuff, Joe?!" the driver screamed as he exited the vehicle.

"Fuck yeah, Rob! We're gonna make some bank today!" the passenger screamed as he exited the vehicle as well.

She maintained her hiding spot as the boys grabbed their chemistry set from the truck bed. They wandered into the house and she knew this was her boom or bust moment. She stared immediately to the west and noticed that the clump of trees was at a dead-on trajectory of maybe one-hundred to one-hundred fifty yards. Since the farmhouse living room only had a southern exposure, she knew she was safe as she made her mad dash for the clump of trees. Safe on the north side of the trees, she saw a section line road and a green durum field about three hundred yards away to the west.

Once she made she made it to the gravel road, she figured she'd be safe because it takes about two days for a potent, noxious batch of methamphetamine to be produced. Yet, she remained cautious because guys like that weren't the kind to be neighborly.

She knew that kind only too well, just in a more urban context.

Time seemed to drag on slowly as she trudged toward the village with three letters. A couple of pick-ups and a tractor gave her a friendly wave and passed her by. All the fields of durum were greening up and the cornfields were almost knee-high in places. She heard the various bird calls from the shelterbelts that were a half-mile long. In her mind, it was a beautiful, pleasant day that could change to darkness in a hurry.

As she climbed a hill around 9:30am, she saw the very top of a grain elevator appear as if was a mirage in a parched desert. She smiled contentedly because that image was the universal sign of a town in the state. She hoped there was a gas station or a small grocery store where she could purchase some needed sustenance. Her contentment was shattered when she heard the same engine that made her take evasive action only hours earlier. She stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact unless it was absolutely necessary.

The dark green pickup trolled up beside her and kept pace.

"Hey pretty lady, what are you doing out here in the boondocks?" the passenger said with some kind of suave machismo as his head leaned out the window.

She didn't answer and kept trudging onward.

"Come on baby, you need a lift someplace? We can give you a ride." he said with a raise of his eyebrow.

She could see his face perfectly in her peripheral vision. She imagined herself gagging on her own vomit because of how this jerk presented himself. He had scabs on his face, his eyes wore permanent dark spots, his teeth were yellow and his breath smelled like a fish tank that hadn't been cleaned in a month.

"Fuck off, tweeker!" She stated bluntly without shifting her focus.

She slipped her arms from the straps of the rucksack and made a mad dash to the north. It was unlikely that these meth heads had any respect for property rights that were unique to the Northern plains of the United States. She heard the sudden braking and then the overpowering revs from the throttle being gunned. She heard the sound get closer and yet she hadn't looked behind her. She made a sudden track to the east again as the F-100 gained up on her. Faster and faster she went but the F-100 kept up with her. Suddenly, she cut south and made a dead sprint toward a large rock pile that some farmer had left behind maybe fifty or seventy-five years before.

A thousand thoughts ran through her head at that very second.

I am going to die!

I am never going to get justice!

I am never going to have children!

I am never going to see Dylan again!

I am going to be scraped with a spatula!

I am going to be remembered as a drug dealer's ex-girlfriend!

I am going to be another casualty of the methamphetamine underworld!

I am going to go to hell!

I want to live!

I want to be a mother!

I want to be in love!

I want to see Dylan again!

The driver of the F-100 floored the vehicle and tried to run her down, but her timing was perfect, even miraculous. She cut to the left like a blitzing linebacker right as the F-100 desperately decided to have a make-out session with the rock pile.

She had managed to avoid the scrape by a razor-thing margin, but the sound of the crash she could not avoid hearing. She had fallen forward and had not seen the impact. The moment she realized she was able to move her limbs, she rolled over and saw a mangled wreck of a vehicle. The passenger had been thrown through the windshield, over the hood and onto the rock pile. He was bleeding badly from the head, but he didn't live to see it. She stood up and saw that the driveshaft had impacted into the driver's chest, and he wasn't making a single motion.

She huffed for a moment, and took off for the road again to retrieve her rucksack. She needed to be as far away from the scene as possible. Her adrenal glands were working the equivalent of a triple overtime shift. She was no longer hungry or thirsty, she just ran like a runner seeking sanctuary from the sandmen. Suddenly, the train tracks that ran through the town with three letters came into view and it happened to be the state's main northwest cutoff. She pounded along the tracks, huffing and puffing, before she slowed down. She was a couple of miles away from the dead meth heads by now. Her reprieve was short-lived when she heard the simultaneous sounds of a blowing horn and the ringing of gates descending at a level crossing. She hit the deck just before the locomotive went by. The locomotive was hauling one-hundred empty box cars to a major rail yard in the next state.

Maybe this was the day of miracles, she wondered.

With her fleet feet, she chased the train and managed to jump onto an open boxcar. Using all the strength she could muster, she climbed into the boxcar and realized this the was second hardest asthmatic-like event she'd ever experienced. This modern day vagabond, this lost, aimless youth from the societal underbelly now realized what her grandfather meant when he was nearly captured by the bulls when he caught the City of New Orleans after it stopped in Mattoon, Illinois during the Great Depression. As she caught her breath, she watched the countryside pass her by as she hummed the lyrics to Arlo Guthrie's greatest hit.

Except this journey wasn't the 900 miles of Illinois Central track that went between Chicago and New Orleans, it was only one-thirtieth of that distance. Just enough distance to pass by a few shit splats that were decaying like the people that called them home.

It might have been an hour or two hours for all she knew since she hopped on the rails because time had become meaningless. She was running, never to return to the city she had once called home. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew it wasn't back to that metropolis noir. She didn't even think she'd be staying in the state, which was in a state of decay as she saw it. She had last heard through the human grapevine that one of her best friends from high school had relocated to a large city in western Canada. Lucky for her, the cutoff went toward that particular destination.

But, the universe had other plans.

The train slowed down and she heard a horn blowing in the distance. To the north, she noticed a train that was carrying hopper cars to some destination she might have seen on the state's map at one time in her life. Not in the mood to be idle, she dismounted from the train onto an access road that accessed the switching system for between the cutoff and the other line. She wandered northward and noticed a town about three miles off.

"The towns all look the same out here," she voiced only to herself.

Her body was aching for respite and nourishment. She made the hike from the switch to the town in about an hour. She was correct, the town looked like Mayberry but with a lot less polish and more Norwegian and German-Russian accents. Luckily, this town had a grocery store and a café on the same side of main street. She wandered into the café much to the consternation of the old men who usually drank their coffee and discussed the same three things over and over again in peace. She gave them all a dirty, knowing smile and they all stared downward at their half-empty coffee cups.

Dirty old man really means aging teenager, she thought herself.

The waitress gave her a faux smile, but was at least willing to serve the young lady some water. She dropped her rucksack and took a seat at the counter. She pulled her wallet from the front pocket of her rucksack and fished an Andrew Jackson out to pay for her meal. She ordered an off-brand grand slam breakfast platter with all the trimmings. She put the meal away with gusto. Even the old farts, who were leering at her again, were surprised at her appetite. She glanced at them once more and shook her head in shame as she looked at the clock over the serving window. It was around 2:30 in the afternoon by this time.

At that moment, a thin man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a haggard complexion appeared through the café door. The two of them locked eyes and he nodded at her, a gesture that she easily returned.

"Can I get a cup of coffee, Joanne?" the man asked in an easy-going tone.

"Sure thing, Deputy Dan." the waitress replied in her friendly server's voice.

The man took his place over at the table where the old farts were gathered. She had asked for a refill on water before the settled the tab and returned to her vagabond ways. As she sipped her beverage, she couldn't help hearing the men as they conversed.

"Heard there was an accident in the next county." one old man stated nonchalantly, his accent thick with a German-Russian tone.

"Yeah, there was." the deputy answered matter-of-factly.

"Tweekers, was they?" another old man asked, his brogue rife with a Norwegian vintage.

"I can't say that for sure, but there was an accident that took the lives of two young men." the deputy answered in the same tone.

"From what Balder told us, the truck crashed into a rock pile and the boys was laid out like they was gonna be sacrificed or something." a third old man, in a Fatherland accent, stated like he was relaying the daily grain prices that the local grain elevator had issued that morning.

The deputy scoffed, "I wouldn't believe anything that Balder Jakobsen says, guys. He is right that there was a gruesome accident down south, but I can't go into specifics."

The first old man snorted and took a sip of coffee, "It was tweekers. Who else would be lamebrain enough to drive full speed into a rock pile."

The conversation was making the hairs on her neck stand up. The waitress issued the check and she handed the double sawbuck to her. As she was remounting her rucksack, the group of men leered at her again, only with suspicion instead of perversion. She rolled her eyes and wandered away from the establishment. All throughout the encounter, the guilt she felt for the deaths of those cretins was palpable. Still, she managed to buy a box of crackers, a large sack of peanuts, and an energy drink at the supermarket without drawing attention to herself. At the local park, she found a spigot so she could refill her canteen. Her impression she left on the older men of the town was extraordinarily brief, but memorable in a way that wouldn't be easily forgotten.