Tom Piccirilli is the author of more than twenty novels including SHADOW SEASON, THE COLD SPOT, THE COLDEST MILE, and A CHOIR OF ILL CHILDREN. He's won two International Thriller Awards and four Bram Stoker Awards, as well as having been nominated for the Edgar, the World Fantasy Award, the Macavity, and Le Grand Prix de l'Imaginaire.
His latest novel, to be released June 12, is called THE LAST KIND WORDS, and some reviewers are already calling it one of the best things Piccirilli has ever done. Author James Rollins had this to say: "Piccirilli straddles genres with the boldness of the best writers today, blending suspense and crime fiction into tight, brutal masterpieces."
Just yesterday, Piccirilli did a fantastic interview over at Dead End Follies (check it out here) and today on his mad media blitz I'm very happy to welcome him to Psycho Noir. Here's a brand new story from the master, from the anthology FANTASTIC STORIES OF THE IMAGINATION.
Riding the Bus
Tom Piccirilli
My mother had a recurring nightmare about a bus. It would pull up in front of the house in the
early morning darkness and wait at the curb.
Everybody she knew who’d died would be on board. They’d turn their lifeless eyes to her and
beckon for her to join them. The door to
the bus would open and a driver, hidden in the shadows, but who she suspected
was her own dead father, would hold out his hand to her.
Occasionally, when my mother moved tiredly and nervously
around the kitchen, purple-ish half-circles under eyes, my old man would ask,
“The dream again?” She’d nod and smile
in embarrassment at first, giggling sadly under her breath, and then her face
would fold in on itself as she struggled to hold back tears. They’d never discuss the details in front of
me, but once, crouched at the top of the stairs, I overheard her on the phone
with my aunt giving the particulars.
About how she was certain my grandfather sat behind the wheel although
she couldn’t make out his features in the depths of the black bus.
It scared the hell out of me. I was already a hypersensitive bookwormy kid
prone to a vivid imagination. Soon I was
dreaming about the bus pulling up to the curb, all those pale hands waving and
inviting her on board. I’d been to
funerals, I knew some of the dead. My
mother’s brother who’d been hit by a car two winters earlier, a great-aunt
who’d passed away in an elderly care facility we always visited on Easter. I recognized faces, their blue lips
whispering words I couldn’t quite hear.
By the time I was ten they had turned their gazes on
me. My dad had died of cancer by then,
and he’d taken over driving the bus. The
door would flash open and he’d grin at me, summoning me with an almost friendly
gesture, his large powerful hand so pale that it almost glowed in the dim
moonlight.
I’d wake up sobbing and moaning. My mother felt so guilty that she’d passed
the nightmare on to me that we went to group counseling and then had separate
sessions with the psychiatrist. I spent three months talking it out with a
cold-eyed condescending shrink before I wised up and pretended the dream was
gone.
So now I had to ask myself again why, at the age of
forty-six, I was riding a fucking Greyhound from New York to L.A.
It had something to do with my losing my driver’s license
thanks to my racking up three DUIs in quick succession this winter. After a lifetime of teetotaling I’d found out
in the last year that I had all the earmarks of being an alcoholic. My writing career was in the shitter, my
first marriage had bottomed out, and my
second marriage had soured before we’d gotten home from the honeymoon. My cat was gone. My dog was dead. My plants hadn’t made it. My ma had climbed on the bus six months
ago. I’d only had the dream once since
her funeral, but I’d screamed so loud that the gay couple in the upstairs
apartment had called the cops.
After twenty-two soft selling novels I couldn’t find a
New York publisher to give me a last chance.
I’d Kindled a couple of recent efforts and had so far had made a grand
total of forty-two bucks. The bank
stepped in and repossessed my car and most of my furniture, and the landlord
was sick of waiting for the rent and had given me the heave.
I was now beginning a new career as a housesitter. A screenwriter friend had taken pity on me
and decided to pay me a few bucks to watch over his home in the valley while he
went off to Fiji to film his latest epic for the next four months. It was a kind offer, but all things being
equal I would’ve rather been a sand mite wrangler in Fiji than his houseboy in
L.A.
I couldn’t fly. In
one of my drunken blackouts I’d gotten shitstorm crazy in an airport bar and
security had been forced to chase me through Terminal B while I screamed
epithets about Christian rock, the state of modern literature, women in
general, and our president’s economic stimulus plan in particular.
The four day bus ride should be enough time for me to
finish up going cold turkey after a fairly rough bout with the bottle last
weekend. I should also be able to
tighten up the spec script I was hoping to show my friend’s agent. It was an action picture about a sixteen year
old girl cyborg who falls in love with the captain of the football team only to
learn that he’s a cyborg too sent by terrorists to assassinate a senator on the
steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The
script fell apart in the third act during the cyborg smack down that ends with
the two robotic teens having their first kiss together and their nuclear
reactors bringing apart the apocalypse.
No matter how many times I rewrote it I couldn’t control my subconscious
from bringing about a global meldown.
My fellow passengers seemed like an eclectic bunch.
Several college kids, a woman who looked like a welfare mother of two little
boys, a couple of elderly folks getting shipped coast to coast by their kids,
and other middle aged mooks like myself who were making a final run to the
sun. They downloaded books on their
e-readers, chattered on their phones, texted, or played around on their iPads
or laptops like me.
The driver was a morbidly obese Santa type, bald with a
well-trimmed white beard. He liked getting on the mike and chattering about
some historical or kitschy site nearby.
He really played to his audience and got them giggling, even led them in
a rousing rendition of Sweet Home, Alabama even though we were in Pittsburgh by
then.
We stopped every six hours at truck stop diners to
stretch our legs, grab something to eat, and .
Santa told us that he’d be with us for the long haul, no changing of the
drivers like the bus line sometimes did, so he’d have to legally park for five
hour stretches each morning between two and seven a.m.
Nobody seemed to mind except me. I’d really been hoping for him to pull a long
haul, a straight run across the country with the hammer down. I couldn’t sleep. I was already getting shaky. I knew my sweat smelled like Jameson’s. I couldn’t get the cyborgs to do anything but
blow the world up. We’d only been on the
road for ten hours and already I was cramping and as edgy as a box of razors.
It was probably a good thing that I couldn’t pass out. I worried that being on the bus would
reignite the nightmare. I could imagine
screaming and scaring the others to such a degree that they rose up against me
and dumped me out on the side of a highway in the middle of some piney wood
someplace. I saw Santa stomping on my
laptop and kicking it in a ravine. I
listened to them singing together as they rode away without me.
At two in the morning the driver pulled into a rest stop,
reclined his seat, stuck an inflatable plastic pillow behind his head, and fell
asleep in forty-five seconds flat. Most
everybody else was getting shuteye as well.
I climbed down off the bus and wandered into the café, got a little
coffee and tried hard not to look like a homeless street drunk begging nickels
even though I was damn close to being exactly that. The teenage waitress doubled as a lot lizard
whore and invited me to join her in the stockroom for biblical relations. She said it would only cost seventy-five
dollars and she’d give me a free slice of blueberry pie afterward. Appealing as that was I had to pass for
financial reasons and drifted back to the bus.
I toyed with the script for a while. I also toyed with a short story, the first
chapter of my memoirs, and the opening salvo of an angry manifesto I was going
to send my former agent. I had just
finished tapping out the phrase, “You syphilitic indulger in bestiality”
when the youngest kid of the slumbering welfare mother climbed off his seat and
wandered up the aisle. He bopped and
wove and knocked into the shoulders of sleeping passengers, who snorted and got
the boy giggling.
He took the empty seat beside me and whispered, “I can’t
sleep.”
“Me neither, kid.”
“I’m bored.”
“Me too.”
“My name’s Robbie.”
“I’m Tom.”
“Where are you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Why?”
“New York kicked me out.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t love me anymore.”
“We’re going to Nevada.
My mother wants to be a card dealer.
She says she can make a lot of money.”
I’d gotten a good look at the mother. She had the fake bazooms but not much of a
face. “Tell her good luck from me.”
“I’m with my mom and my brother Jason. How come you’re by yourself?”
“My wife left me.”
“Why?”
“She found somebody who makes more money and has a bigger
penis.”
“Robbie!” the mother shouted. “Come away from that man!”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Sure.”
The kid stepped up the aisle and I went back to my
manifesto.
The words poured out of me as I flipped from one project
to the next. None of it was good, but at
least it was there. I had to find my way
back into the game somehow. My fingers
tore across the silent keypad, my scalp slithering with sweat and the flesh at
the back of my neck crawling. My
thoughts raged, my work suffered, I composed love letters to my ex-wives, and
the insults grew more vicious towards my
agent. The hours died slowly but I
managed to smother them one by one until Santa finally woke up, hit the head,
got himself a huge breakfast of pancakes and sausage, and we were back on the
road.
I closed my laptop, slumped back in my sleep, and tried
to imagine what Fiji would be like. All I could see were burnished almond women
in grass skirts and a Hard Rock Café out on the sand somewhere. Waves of burning blue rushing up reefs of
volcanic rock. The same old jealousy
went for my throat the way it always did.
I read. Sentences
trailed past but left no impression.
Everything felt second rate to my own brilliance. I was vain but you had to be vain to have
lasted as long as I had in the grinding wheels of the New York literary
establishment. You had to be obsessive
and compulsive and filled to your eyeballs with a crazed kind of
self-confidence. I had the crazy part, I
wasn’t sure about the rest. My hands
trembled. My lips were dry. By the time
we stopped for lunch I was nearly doubled-over from cramps and I was ready to
smash a liquor store window to nab some Dewars.
The next stop was Indianapolis. A few folks got off, a couple more got
on. They were indistinguishable from one
another. Mr. and Mrs. Front Porch
America, and sons, and daughters. The seat beside me remained empty. Folks vibed that I was trouble. They shared conversation and snacks and
offered each other water and soda, and they all kept the hell away from
me. I didn’t blame them. I was glad nobody was making me socialize to
even the limited extent one could at the back end of a bus. I opened my laptop again. My fingers kept moving over the keypad. My own words glared at me.
Mile after mile we continued on. I thought Santa had to be completely insane
to choose this kind of life for himself.
I glanced out the window at the truckers roaring past and thought they
all had to be psychotics recently released from mental wards. Who else would willingly live out their lives
on highways leading nowhere?
It started raining in southern Illinois and the storm was
soon so savage that Santa was forced to hole up under an overpass. The rain lashed down. The kid Robbie and his brother Jason were the
only cheerful voices to be heard. The
rest of us mulled silently or spoke in hushed, frightened murmurs. Santa chattered on his little
microphone. Sometimes with the
passengers, sometimes with his bosses and fellow bus drivers, discussing the
weather and getting notices about washed out roads up ahead. I’d skipped breakfast and lunch and my
stomach was doing wonky things. I had a
couple candy bars. They’d have to
do. The sugar burned through my system
like a hot shot injection. I hadn’t
slept in more than thirty hours. I’d
been constipated for nearly twice as long.
My hands shook so badly now that I couldn’t even write anymore. Santa turned up the heat until it felt like a
sweat lodge. My chin dripped. I wondered how long it would take for me to
rid myself of my poison, if ever.
Santa started to sing a 50s crooner tune. The others laughed and applauded. They sang along. The rain came down like a typhoon. I imagined the bus starting to float away,
sharks and killer whales hammering at the windows. Some dolphin might take pity on me and carry
my laptop back to dry land. I’d be at
the bottom of the sea but at least my nasty letters would live on.
Eventually the storm eased up enough that we could limp
forward for another hour. Santa pulled
us into a truck stop and I jumped off and threw up in a raging gutter. Robbie stepped over and said, “You okay,
Tom?”
“I’ll make it, buddy.”
“Maybe you need something to eat.”
“I think you might be right.”
“I’m hungry too.”
“Let’s go in together.”
We entered the crowded diner. Every trucker for fifty miles around was
packed inside, drying off, taking a break from the storm. The kid’s mother and brother had grabbed a
booth in the corner. She looked timid
and spooked. She and her older son
shared a plate of fries, no burger, no other food in sight, drinking only
water. I thought of her dealing cards in
Vegas, picking up ten thousand dollar tips from fatcat players pulling down
millions. I couldn’t picture it, but I
couldn’t picture a lot of things.
I had enough cash left to splurge on a turkey club for
myself and a couple burgers for Robbie and his family. I sat at their booth. We all ate ravenously. The mother said nothing more than “Thank
you,” and I said nothing more than “You’re welcome” to her. Robbie asked me three hundred and
ninety-seven questions and by the end of his run I thought maybe I’d be able to
nap a little on the bus.
Santa called the passengers back on board. We clambered back to our seats and as night
set in shut my eyes and tried to fade.
After an hour of pretending, I sighed and sat up again. My hands were steady. I worked on the script. I managed to keep the cyborgs from bringing
about nuclear Armageddon.
Hours had passed.
The storm kept playing tag with us all across the Interstate. The moon was gone. No other headlights or brake lights appeared
on the road. The world had shrunk to a
sphere of night that we traveled within inch by inch, mile by mile. I wanted a drink, but not as badly as
before. I took my minor victories
wherever I could.
Others moaned in their sleep, hands flashing out. They muttered names. I thought I heard a guttural male voice call
out mine. I got to my feet and looked
forward and back. I heard my name
again.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
I stood and walked halfway up the aisle. The closer I got to the driver, the less it
seemed to be Santa. Lost in shadow, he
no longer had a face. His silhouette was
slim up there behind the wheel. Where
was the gut? Where was the white beard? I couldn’t make out any features yet, but the
profile was all wrong. My breathing went
shallow. I gritted my teeth. I took another few steps. I was almost up to that yellow line they
always make you stand behind. Moonlight
ran like molten silver. I cleared my
throat hoping he might turn in my direction.
The driver didn’t look at me. I
coughed louder. I sounded like I had
tuberculosis. Passengers stirred. I took another step and glanced left.
My old man was sitting there. I blinked at him. He blinked back at me. I didn’t know what to say or do. I thought I should bolt but a sudden surge of
shame kept me rooted where I was.
“Are you my father?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“For you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“You showing up on the bus.”
“I don’t know.”
”Am I dead?”
“Maybe.”
He seemed as lost as me.
“Is there still time?”
“Maybe.”
“Dad–”
“Ask your mother.”
Like I was seven years old and asking about a buck for
the ice cream man. “Where is she?”
“You know where she is.”
Of course I did. I
staggered up the aisle and crossed the yellow line. In the shadows I could see the faintest glint
of her eyes, as if she had been crying.
Perhaps she had been. Perhaps
that’s what it meant to drive the bus.
I said, “Hello, ma.”
“It’s much easier now,” she said.
“Yes, it would have to be.”
“We’re all here for you.
Everyone who ever loved you.”
“Not everyone but most of them.”
“All of us care.”
“I know. You
telling me I have to come with you, ma?”
“No, it’s your choice.”
I glanced back at my old man. He stared at me, the barest expression of
amusement playing on his face. I
remembered him fighting for every last breath while the cancer ate out his
lungs. He didn’t give up for a
second. He knew no matter how much agony
you had to go through, life was worth it.
My mother, my real mother, not this dream shade of her, never gave in
even when the struggle seemed like it would crush her into the dirt. The great-aunt we used to visit on Easter
dogged for every breath she could get out of her oxygen tank. My Uncle Kirby, the cong had to stick three
grenades practically up his ass before he went down.
And all the rest of them.
None of them had suicided. None
of them had been given a break or would’ve taken one if they had been. It was in my blood to steal every second that
was left to me. I might’ve been the biggest
loser of the bunch but that didn’t mean I was going to swing the wheel and hit
the wall on purpose.
They waited patiently, silently, eternally. I said, “Then I want to run out my string.”
“There will just be more pain and disappointment,” my
mother told me. “Your director friend
never set up a meeting for you with his agent.”
“That prick!”
“You’ll return home even more bitter.”
“Yeah, but I’ll make it back.”
“We’ll keep visiting.
We can’t help ourselves.”
“I know. And maybe
one night I’ll jump on board.”
“But not tonight?”
“No, but thank you for coming for me.”
I went back to my seat and finally fell asleep. When I woke up the sun was burning overhead
like a golden hammer, and Robbie was beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
“You were talking,” he said.
“Yeah? What did I
say?”
“Something about cyborgs.”
I thought, Fuck Fiji.
And fuck L.A. too.
I decided to get off in Vegas instead. The welfare mother didn’t have much of a face
but she had the bazooms and she was better than average in the sack. We shared a cheap motel for two days while
she looked for a job as a dealer. The
morning of the second day I bet against a fatcat shooting craps and made eight
grand in ten minutes. It wasn’t enough
for a new life, but it was a start. I took
my minor victories wherever I could.
