Talk Vomit

By Anthony Ceschini

Schedule highlighted in watermelon pink, smudging his name and cutting week to two words: NIGHT SHIFT. In place of trapped, tagged, rabid feeling is numbness. Things go on. All things must pass. Screaming never gets feeling back. 

First night, Dave says no more than he has to. Drivers look at their reflection in his hair like it’ll make gas pump quicker. Happens whether or not he shoots shit about football or illegals or Pennsylvania autumn that may as well be winter bustling, now that it’s June. He gets some who drive on when they see him, risking breakdowns on side of road. He gets college shits pretending to talk on their phones so silence is filled. Second night, no urge to shower until little edge-lord Nazi and his gram drive over hose, sounding bell. Their truck kicks curb as little Nazi steals the wheel, gram hollering, little Nazi dumping slushie down her cleavage — Dave closing door of booth softly while gram pummels kid with knuckles. 

Third night, and Dave forgets iPod. Disgustingly loud rock is what props sanity, what shields him from real chatterboxes who are so detached that they overlook his intimidating scar. He does panic-search of little booth by pumps. Inside he’s got fussy radio, a decades-old computer with solitaire (boss favors it over phone line, figuring smart phones are cheaper, and, besides Dave, who doesn’t have a phone these days?), a Western novel that makes great doorstop. All the excitement gets to him and he has to step outside to light cigarette off one that’s lost flavor behind empty ear. Hums Metallica, hums Led Zeppelin.

It works for awhile until the eyes drift out of boredom. 

Parking lot is vast cracked ocean with orange blush. Across street is law firm sharing condemned space with remains of toy factory, buried above ground. Take short stroll, hit a cyclone fence. Depending on where you’re standing, you’re either the prisoner or the onlooker gawking at the neighborhood beyond, at the unwashed rugrats and late retirees, living on collapsed porches, smoking ninety-nine cent cigars.                              

This is town’s receding hairline. 

Just run, Dave thinks. 

As he blows perfect rings his attention turns to silence that always follows this thought at stalking distance. He swears on his decaying life that silence has gotten louder. He’s not one to trust himself, especially when he can count on one hand the hours of sleep he’s gotten this week. But then blood drains from his stomach, the one thing he can trust, and he stares through smoke, through the cyclone fence. All lights are off in neighborhood. Hard to tell where one house ends and next one begins. 

Starts walking stiff-legged past dumpsters and pine trees. His vision blurs around edges. 

What’s fucking humming? 

Steps closer, ears perched. It’s neighborhood. The entire block is harmonizing from basement of its throat — that monochord Indian shit. He strikes out at silence to break it, crush it into powder. Drags heels against gravel and shuffles back to booth. Slams door, turns on computer so dust-caked fan hisses and churns. The thrumming outside cuts right through. Fuck. Shut service window. Lock door. Fucker. Turn on moth-ball-scented radio and blare static. Only when Dave stops to feel his heart does he know he’s losing. Nausea, hitched breathing. Brain is tongue pressed against a 9V battery.

Should call someone. The boss, or dad. Tell them what? That the town’s meditating and the sound is shaking him loose from the earth? 

Call them on what, idiot? 

Tiny bells echo back from across infinity, doubling, tripling, and he is ripped out from himself with a velcro sound. He opens window. Same vast cracked parking lot, law firm and toy factory worth less than ninety-nine cents. 

“Yo!” A Honda civic leads curving line of cars, its linebacker-sized driver ringing wheel in lieu of Dave’s neck. “What’re you doing in there, beatin’ your meat?” 

Dave flies outside and does his thing while driver watches over. The old ones never complete more than two sentences, Dave never tests luck. But as he works trigger finger on pump he has to chew lip before he goes asking looney questions that’d only prove his burnout tweaker ways. 

Next in line, PennDot worker hiding in shadow of visor mirror, flicking fifty at Dave as he says, “Better make it unleaded.”

“No problem.” Questions prodding lips from inside: You hear that? You guys find anything you aren’t supposed to mention? Are the tectonic plates spinning? 

“Having some issues?” 

“No no no, it’s no problem. Here. There, you’re all set.” 

PennDot tosses phone onto passenger seat and revs car as if helping gas circulation. Dave catches, holds his gaze.

“The hell you coming to work for stoned?” Penndot’s last question before peeling out. Kicked-up dust drifts into next car in line, driven by woman. A girl, really. She smells like vape juice. Her money smells. 

“Hey. How’s your night going? I’ll take twenty, please and thanks.” 

Dave takes bill with knuckles. Each move is small and precise. Anything more will make him puke.

 He senses woman’s concern–morbid curiosity? Whichever one makes her turn off radio. Her expression cracks as she waits for him. Leans out driver’s window, training ear around parking lot. “You hear that?”

Dave nods and nods and keeps nodding. Woman rubs temples like she’s nursing monster hangover. Headlights blink behind her. Long horn blasts barely make her flinch. When she opens eyes she’s got the twenty back, tucked into her knuckles. Dave pats her roof, meaning, You’re good to go, drive safe. Already approaching next car in line, leaving girl no choice but to drive on ahead. 

Witch with bent glasses hands him roll of quarters. Of course she hears nothing as Dave stutters and mutters, “…gon — gonna have…call —”

“Wasat?” 

“9, 1…” 

Muscles giving up; the quarter roll a thirty ton weight that pulls Dave to hard concrete. Cheek touches down first, setting off early Fourth of July display, one massive burst of hot color, then nothing but cloudless, starless black. 

\\\

Black turns gray. Gray turns white, like clique light at end of a tunnel, except light breeds as it barrels forward, splitting in two. The note Dave hears doesn’t come from angel’s ceremonial trumpet but from some pissed off asshole’s horn. Dave’s half-way conscious when car grazes shoes. “Jesus Christ!” a woman hollers from above. She must be warmth his head keeps wanting to rest against, a warmth that smells like burnt grape juice. His eyelids flit. Too much light. Too many horns. He’s giving up, undoing himself so woman carries him further than his own legs could ever take him. And it works. Woman’s thighs pumping at his back means he’ll wake up somewhere soft, somewhere quiet, if he can just turn his mind off — get it to stop goddamn thrumming. 

Scuffle for balance ends with woman’s loss. Dave’s skull hits bent kneecap. Twin lights flare up, converge. He tries rolling away but locked arms hold him, and he flails, skull taking three more whacks. Wide awake, blinded by pain, he lashes out until arms unlock and spill him on gravel. Ground isn’t soft, but settled. Slightest twitch of pinkie sets spinal fluid to bubble and pop. Best to lie motionless, stolid. Even better to wait for hot tire and pray it doesn’t swerve at last second.

Hands grab his shoulders. A pair, then two pairs, then he’s back on rickety feet, surrounded by shouting voices:

“Let him go, he needs an ambulance!” 

“He’s fine. There’s some Ibuprofen in my truck, it’s a bit expired but —”

“I can’t stay around all night. I got work at four.”

“Well someone better give that junkie some damn thing. That gas ain’t pumpin’ itself.” 

Too many glistening faces, too many beards to uproot. Only one face that’s riled and close to tears. Dave lurches and takes the woman’s shoulders and now he’s leading her towards her car, which shines iced-blue LEDs on wall of men, handsy men, God-lovin’ men who were raised below walls of fathers that could never in a million lifetimes be torn down by some whore and her junkie boyfriend. 

The wall parts like it’s a hedge. Woman breaks free to free car from ditch. An eruption of curses follows her and Dave. Some bald, squashed, principal-type figure sidles up. “You leave,” he goes, “we’re calling the cops. Your girlfriend never paid for her gas.”

“You leave,” another man spits, “and we’re pumping it ourselves!” 

All threats. No action. 

Woman starts car as Dave flies into backseat. She reverses, but front wheel only grinds against dirt and grass. She doesn’t care, she has ass off seat, pedal pressed flat on the floor. It’s every scene from every horror movie Dave wasn’t supposed to watch growing up. Next the men will pound on windows, fists turning bloody, and right before glass shatters the car will free itself and be on the highway in time for credits. 

Dave peeks over backseat. The wall of men stays broken. The loose pieces don’t move from their spots. They watch woman burn rubber down to hubcap. They’re in no position to help. They’re in no shape to give chase when scene beat comes and car does a perfect u-turn, dust replacing fog machine. It’s almost anticlimactic. 

Couple miles later. Woman says, “Hey.” 

“Mm.” 

“You ok?” 

Dave hasn’t considered it. But when he does, he does it carefully. What he thought was pain is only the void left behind, like abrupt order in a loud room. Engine fills that void, and because it is short-lived, and because it reminds him of thrumming, of — “Where can I puke?” 

“There’s a bag back there. Should be a green one.”

When he’s done spitting rope he begins double-knotting the bag. Woman reaches around seat, takes bag, undoes his work, wretches once, then makes triple-knots, all while steering with bare knees. 

She reaches around, a fresh Swisher Sweet pointed at him. “Sorry, I chewed all my gum.” 

They smoke with windows up. 

“So, Dave…” 

“How’d you know my name?” 

“I can read cursive.” 

“God. I almost forgot I had this on.”

“Let’s burn it.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’m serious, man. We’ll use my lighter.” 

“What were you saying before though?” 

“I was saying, I was going to ask you if we should…if it’d even be worth talking about.” 

Dave exhales a noseful of smoke. For some reason the noise he makes gets woman laughing nervously. It quickly devolves into fazed giggles. She coughs out what’s left.

“I’m starting to believe that no place is right for me,” she says. “I mean, I just left a place back in Lancaster that almost killed me. Before that it was my sister’s place. I was only there ’cause mom couldn’t stand my ass. I mean…I was only driving by. I’ve been driving to see where I go, and I needed the gas. And I don’t even know why I’m telling this.

“I’m Valerie, by the way. Not that it matters.”

 “Yeah, it does. 

“Thanks, Valerie.”

“’Course. I have a whole other pack.” 

Dave won’t correct her. He has things to say that have to come out before they disintegrate. Things to say more to himself than Valerie. After half a decade of waiting for words, they float vividly before him; impulse to speak would be too much even if he were alone. “I never would’ve got out of there. I owe my dad so much money…nobody thinks I even tried staying in college. I never tried as hard in my life, my whole fucking life. I started thinking…I don’t know.”

“That struggling would actually be easier.” 

Despite thick smoke, Dave nods, and nods. What Val’s confessed, what he’s confessed to Val, loops in his mind. Same thing must be happening to Val, who’s rolled window down to clear smoke, only to wage one-sided war on her hair. She can’t fight wind. 

Miles later, they have forged perfect silence.