Hitchers

CHAPTER 11

My palms were sweating. I wiped them on my napkin, adjusted my mask so the rubber band wasn’t rubbing against my ear.

I’d arrived at the Blue Boy Diner fifteen minutes early, got us a window booth with a view of the muddy brown Ogeechee. The Blue Boy was an old aluminum diner that smelled of home fries and cinnamon buns. Usually there was a half-hour wait for a seat; today there were less than a dozen people in the place.

I hadn’t been back there since the day Lorena died. I’d expected memories to come flooding in as soon as I drove up, but my mind was preoccupied with the voices-both mine and Mick Mercury’s.

Mick Mercury. As I waited I tried to estimate how old he would be. In his heyday he’d probably been in his early 30s. That was twenty-eight years ago, so he’d be in his late fifties.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Mercury had been arrested a few times in the past decade, most famously for heaving a car battery through a bar window, nearly braining a man who had taunted him for the way he was dressed. From what I remembered he wasn’t superrich any more. Bad investments, divorce, greedy managers, and a lengthy legal dispute with the guy who co-wrote a lot of his songs had all taken bites out of his net worth.

A man appeared at the entrance. My heart began to thump, then I saw he was with a woman, and he was short and bald, and I relaxed. The hostess led them to an open table. It occurred to me that, even when Atlantans began returning to their normal routines, there would be far fewer filling restaurants and subway cars. Close to fifteen percent fewer, at least until others started moving to Atlanta to take advantage of all the job openings and drastically reduced rents. Assuming people wanted to live in a place that had been the target of the worst terrorist attack in history. My guess was that wouldn’t stop people. The city would eventually rise again.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The waitress’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked up and was immediately drawn to the tattoos on her forearms: assault rifles morphing into flowers. I laughed, shook my head in disbelief.

The waitress tilted her head, smiled beneath her mask. “What’s funny?” She was an attractive woman, with warm, bright eyes and a relaxed self-assurance that was slightly disconcerting. She was in her late twenties, small and thin, black hair pulled into stubby pigtails with orange rubber bands.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You wouldn’t remember me, but you’d remember my wife.”

She folded her arms, masking the flower on her right forearm, leaving only the rifle. “Why’s that?”

“You got into an argument with her once.”

The waitress shook her head. “When was this?”

“Two years ago? Springtime. My wife was lactose intolerant,” I explained. “She told you to keep all the dairy products off her plate. You forgot to hold the butter-there was a big scoop on the pancakes. She asked you to get her new ones, but you didn’t see why she couldn’t just scrape the butter off.”

The waitress was still shaking her head, no hint of recognition.

“You got huffy. That’s when she got in your face, told you she didn’t like your tone of voice. She was tall? Latino?”

Her eyes got wide. She pointed at me. “Perfect hair? Expensive hiking boots?”

I pointed back. “That’s her.”

The waitress let her head loll back until she was looking at the ceiling. “God, that was a terrible morning. My daughter had been throwing up all night, then I couldn’t find anyone to watch her and I was late getting to work.” She pressed her hand to the side of her face. “By the time I got to the butter thing I had nothing left. I just couldn’t conjure up the cheery singsong waitress voice.”

“No,” I laughed, “you definitely couldn’t.” I didn’t know what it was about this woman. She had an energy that made me wish I could go on talking to her.

She glanced toward the door, widening her eyes theatrically. “She’s not meeting you here, is she? Should I hide?”

I felt a pang. “No, no.” I shrugged.

“Well, please tell her I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. “She died, actually.” I had never come up with an easy way to say it. And for some reason it seemed important to add, “Believe it or not, it was the same day as that argument.”

The waitress pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” I felt it welling up, but could do nothing to stop it. “I’m telling ya, she’s a little tramp,” I croaked.

The waitress gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I said, covering my own masked mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that. My doctor says I’ve got some sort of neurological disorder. He thinks it’s temporary. It’s not contagious.”

“Oh.” She reached as if to touch my hand, but didn’t quite. “Oh. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. About your wife, and—” she paused, reaching for a word, “your problem.” I could see from her face that she was more scared than sorry. She recovered her composure, cleared her throat. “So can I get you something to drink?”

Before I could answer a buzz of excitement rose through the diner. I leaned around the waitress to see the door.

There he was. Unmistakable, speaking into the other waitress’s ear, a hand on her shoulder. He still had the spiky blonde hair, and his outfit, though not particularly loud or flashy, announced that he was someone of note: black-rimmed hipster glasses, expensive leather jacket, jeans. He wasn’t wearing a mask—the only person in the diner.

I waved. He spotted me, gave me a two-fingered salute, sauntered over wearing a big smile, his hand outstretched. I met him partway and we shook, then he clapped my shoulders as if making sure I was real.

A young woman was hovering behind him, clutching a pen. I motioned to Mick. He turned, exchanged a few pleasantries with the woman as he signed her napkin.

A few other admirers left their booths to meet him. Mercury gave his attention to each of them in turn, listened to their brief testimonials—how they’d seen him at his first Atlanta concert, what this or that song meant to them. He seemed to enjoy himself.

When an elderly woman came forward, her hand outstretched, Mick blurted, “Mom, not in the middle of my show.”

The woman let out a startled “Eep”; others gasped in surprise.

“Sorry,” Mick said, holding his palm over his mouth. “Been working on a new vocal style. Thinking I might try crossing over into some of that Goth vampire music.” He grinned brightly, eliciting a few nervous chuckles. “Finn and me are going to have some breakfast now, so if you don’t mind…” He gave everyone a gentle “shove off” gesture.

When everyone was back at their tables, Mick and I settled in.

“So. What the fuck is wrong with us?” Mick murmured.

I took a quick sip of water—my mouth was dry. It was jarring, to realize I was sitting with a rock star. I found it impossible to look across the table at Mick Mercury and see nothing but another guy. It was Mick freaking Mercury.

“Seems to me it’s got to be connected to the anthrax,” I said.

Mick pointed at me, nodding emphatically. “That’s what I said, but the doctor said it ain’t possible.”

The waitress came over. I stared at the table, still embarrassed by my outburst, and it seemed as if she was standing a lot further from the table than she’d been before. She was wearing gold sneaker-shoes with Cleopatra’s face on them.

She gave Mick a level look. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not going to ask for your autograph or anything juvenile like that.” She shrugged. “But if you happened to sign that place mat for some reason, that would be okay.”

Mick grinned. “I’ve done stranger things.”

“Yes you have,” the waitress shot back, prompting Mick to cackle madly.

True to his word, Mick ordered a scotch with his bacon and pancakes.

When the waitress had gone, I said, “The doctor told me the same thing. But it’s the only thing that connects our cases. That and the fact that we both died for a few minutes.”

We compared notes. The things we were blurting were similar in some ways, not in others. I recognized a lot of what I said—it had to do with the strip, people and places I knew, and especially my grandfather. Mick recognized some of what he said—about his music, the lawsuit he’d fought with his collaborator, and so on. Other things weren’t at all familiar, like the beauty he’d just uttered.

“Sometimes it’s like I got a bleeding anorak in my throat. Programs on the telly, comic books. I go on and on about the most trivial dross.”

It definitely didn’t fit with my psychiatrist Corinne’s theory that my blurting was the result of unresolved issues with my grandfather. If that was it, why would Mick Mercury have the same problem?

“Let me ask you something,” Mick said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “You much for getting trolleyed?”

I shook my head, totally lost.

“You know, do you like to get pissed?”

It took me a minute, then I remembered that pissed was British for drunk. “Oh sure, I like a few drinks now and then.”

Mick nodded, looked around, as if afraid some of the patrons might be undercover paparazzi. “But when you’re done having those few drinks, do you have a few more?”

“When I was in college, maybe, but now it’s mostly two or three max.” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.

“Harder stuff? Pills and powder?”

“None of that. Why?”

Mick waved it off. “I thought maybe it was from brain damage. You know, brain atrophy and that.”

Mick’s cell phone rang. He checked it, then held up a finger. “Just a sec.”

“My guardian angel! Yeah, I’m with him right now.” He nodded at me. “Nah, he ain’t angry. He says to say thanks.” Pause, then Mick laughed. “I bet, I bet.”

The person on the other end—Mick’s mole receptionist in our doctor’s office, I assumed, said something that lit his face with surprise. “No kidding?”

She went on; Mick fumbled in the pockets of his jacket, then covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “You got a pen?” I handed him the sketching pencil I always carried. He pressed it to the back of his menu. “Can you give me a name?” He rolled his eyes toward the hammered tin ceiling. “I promise, you won’t get in trouble. I’ll be very discreet.” A moment later he jotted a name and number on his napkin. “Thanks. You’re an angel from heaven! You’ve no idea how much this means to me, and Finn Darby too. He just said to give you a big wet kiss for him.” Mick winked at me, grinning, as I pressed my hands to my cheeks and shook my head. I’d have to face her again, whoever she was, next time I went to Dr. Purvis’s office.

“Jesus flipping Christ,” Mick whispered as he closed the phone. “You ready for this?”

“What?”

“Dr. Purvis saw three more cases like ours in the past twenty-four hours.”

I wasn’t sure if that was good news, but it felt like good news. Mick and I smiled grimly at each other.

“You ever see Planet of the Apes?” Mick asked. “The original, not that shit remake.”

“One of my favorites,” I said, pleased that Mick and I liked the same film.

“‘Where there’s one, there’s another, and another, and another,’” Mick quoted.

I recognized the line: Three stranded astronauts, crossing a lifeless desert, come upon a single scraggly weed in the rocky soil. I nodded understanding. We weren’t alone. We weren’t freaks. It was a relief, even if it didn’t explain what was wrong with us.

The waitress was back with our food.

“You ever see Planet of the Apes?” Mick asked her. “The original, not the shit remake.”

“Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape,” she said.

Mick and I burst out laughing, drawing curious looks from the other tables.

“I bet that line comes in handy for a pretty bird like you, eh?” Mick said.

The waitress just smiled, refilled our coffee cups.

When she’d left, Mick asked, “How long were you, you know, dead?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes, as well as I can figure.” Out of the corner of my eye I watched the waitress duck behind the counter, feeling a longing to get to know her, knowing that wasn’t going to happen as long as my inner zombie was with me.

“It’s something, ain’t it? To know you were dead, that you weren’t in your body?” Mick said. He seemed to be watching my reaction, peering over his scotch.

“I definitely wasn’t in my body,” I said.

His eyebrows shot up. “When you were dead, you mean?” He paused, searching for words. “What was it like for you? Do you remember anything?”

“Hell, yes.” He was prodding, and I thought I knew why. “It was like I was watching from behind someone else’s eyes, seeing what they were seeing.”

Mick slapped the table, pointed at me, shouted, “That’s exactly what happened to me.” He didn’t seem to care that people were glancing his way. “Christ, I’m not off my head.”

“What did you see?” I asked.

Mick pressed his hands to his face. “I was inside my ex-wife, Blossom.” He lowered his voice. “She was, you know, having a romp with her latest beau.” He made a sour face. “So there I am, dead, inside my wife while this bloke Peter is also inside her, in a manner of speaking. It was a miserable four or five minutes. Absolute torture.”

The pain in Mick’s expression made me grin.

“Oh, sure, laugh. You didn’t have to go through it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t smiling at what happened, just your expression.”

“It’s all fixed, I’m telling ya. They vote for their friends, ” I added. The elderly woman who had been talking to Mick during his first outburst dropped her fork onto her plate. Struggling not to stare she scooped the napkin out of her lap and pressed it against her mouth.

Mick ignored it completely. He gestured at me with his chin. “How about you, eh?”

I described what I’d seen in Lyndsay’s apartment.

“Do you suppose this is connected to the voices?” Mick asked when I’d finished. He waved to get the waitress’s attention, pointed to his empty drink.

“I’ve thought about that. Maybe we’re somehow still connected to the people we were inside. The problem is, some of the things I say are about people I know, but this woman doesn’t. I just don’t see how she fits in.”

“Right, right,” Mick said. “That doesn’t work.” His eyes took on an empty glaze, and he added, “I’ve got to get it perfect. It’s got to be perfect.” Ignoring the stares, Mick swirled his drink, gazed thoughtfully into the glass.

His suggestion got me thinking. I had been focusing on mundane explanations for the voice—a physical illness that had screwed me up neurologically, or a psychological problem. But there were those few moments when I was dead, how I learned the attack originated in the subway. Maybe I was looking for answers in the wrong places. What happened when I was dead didn’t have a logical explanation, so why should the voices?

Mick looked at his watch. “I’d best get going.”

I felt a wash of disappointment.

“Let’s keep in touch,” he added as he pulled a bill from his wallet, “compare notes on how this thing plays out, yeah?”

I told him I thought that was a good idea.

“I got this,” he said, pointing at our plates. “Good choice, by the way. Top-shelf pancakes.” Our waitress was behind the counter; Mick went right on back there without hesitation, put a hand on her shoulder as he fished a bill out of his wallet. She laughed at something he said, and that feeling washed over me again, a longing to talk to her. Once I figured out how to stop the vocalizations, I planned to return to the Blue Boy often.