State Trooper
The rules are arbitrary. It is circumstantial.
This piece was inspired by the Bruce Springsteen song “State Trooper.”
Thank you Lyrics and Fire for the additional inspiration.
A dark river flows in conjunction with an endless stretch of synthetic black poison. Bald tires barely cling to the wet surface. I don’t know how long I have been awake for. I am not sure about the reality I find myself unliving in. I have heard of truckers and their black dogs. I’ve heard rumors about streaking forms that cross between the lines—memories of previous visions that invade when one’s guard is down. I need to keep my shaky vigilance up.
There is more to this road than it lets on. Much more than towers and static. Behind every obstruction, there might be a predator waiting to snap its speed trap on me. The rules are arbitrary. It is circumstantial.
Maybe these preening boars are hungry too.
Maybe their domestic partner is angry with them.
Weak coffee in the thermos and a dry sandwich. No love between the stale slices. They become a long night on the turnpike—a living, breathing bad mood with a gun. Nothing rots like authority. Nothing struts like insecurity and a gun.
Nothing huh?
What do you have to say about nothing?
You have nothing. Nothing on the horizon. Nothing in the glove box or the wallet. A couple of bucks and a union card. There is a backseat as well. I can see it in the rearview.
A coat.
Crumpled and balled. It serves as a reminder, but I can’t quite place it. I know I am heading to my baby. I knew I was wearing that coat. I was wearing it earlier today…
Why am I on this road?
There is the WMCA 507 relay.
I am heading home. I think this is heading home. It is all circles. I don’t know which entrance I got onto the turnpike from. There is a cloverleaf to it. The highway’s straightness is just an illusion. It loops over and under itself.
Tying knots, nooses, and nets.
The patches of grass that cover up steep drops are repeating a pattern. They babble like those waters.
They talk, talk, talk.
They whisper regrets to me in between static and the hum of my bald tires.
Buzz..thump…buzz.
I Double nickel right by that overpass. Then I speed up again. The car engine goes mute. I can think for a moment. The interior of this car feels bright. Lit up by the refinery radiating its toxicity on this silver sedan.
My conscience is clear.
What about you, Mr. State trooper?
Do you have anything to confess? Lying there in the black pool, squirming on the side of the road. You are kicking your jack boots in the mud.
Trying to run away.
Run away from it all.
A never-ending black expanse of freedom lies before you. So, run.
Run!
The blue and red sparkle off high tension wire, flashing above with a moment’s unnatural delay. Like a steel string plucked wrong on purpose.
Ping.
You never should have followed me down here. I have nothing to lose. Well, almost nothing. I can remember—a something—I had to lose, once.
I gave you a chance, didn’t I?
How many chances have you given?
Blubbering about some wife and child. They are not my concern. I am protecting and serving myself. You are praying to the same god that swore you in. That god wasn’t listening back then, and it sure as shit isn’t listening now.
Squeals. Muddy squeals.
HSSS— your gold and silver have corroded, and that corrosion will be a testimony against you; it will devour your flesh like a fire—HSSS
A brown button-up shirt nearly splits. It is holding back a torrent of fetid hate and bubbling guts. A paunch spills over a thick belt and an ornate buckle. Soft flesh cascading down and around a leather holster. A shiny gun dares you to question reality,
“Son. You’ve got a real attitude problem.”
Whose son was he referring to? The son of his god. Our father used to say the same thing to me. Every day. He had a thick belt too. Thick and wet like the road beneath us. The belt goes on as far as I can remember. This attitude of mine does too.
The snarling boar standing in the rain with a plastic bag stuck to its hat isn’t gonna be the thing that changes me.
Is it Father?
There is the WMCA 507 relay.
The steady hum of the engine. The sedan is holding up just fine for the mileage it has seen. A small hiss of bald tires hitting the black top cradles me to ease. It thrums away. The radio is only picking up static. A few muffled verses snort through here and there. I have my mind set on home. I am thinking of being with my beloved. I am comfortable with my anticipation. My full bladder reminds me I am alive. The only thing between me and salvation is this empty road; infinite lanes of freedom framed by high tension. I lose track of myself as white lines blur past. I encroached on some makeshift debris piled on the side of the road by Abram’s Bridge. A false dawn announces itself in my rear-view mirror. Blood red and corpse blue mix with butterscotch orange.
I am over to the side of the road now.
I don’t remember deciding to stop. The glove box holds nothing. Nothing that will get me home any sooner. It holds my attitude problem. It holds my inattention to all details. I stare at the latch as the sirens flash and the high beams blind me.
HSSS—He asked for a light and rushed in and, trembling with fear, he fell down before Paul and Silas. Then he brought them out and said, “Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”—HSSS.
The state troopers always make you wait.
The rain tapped on my windshield.
My left knee is shaking so fast I must hold it down with both hands. Every few minutes, I peek up into the rearview mirror. I am looking for any movement, some sign of my impending incarceration. I looked at the glove box again and decided that neither of us is making it home this morning. If I could have seen my eyes in the reflection, I might have thought differently.
A tall drink of water stretches a cloven hoof onto the wet gravel. A Clayton Moore type trots quickly to the driver’s side window. I refuse to roll it down, and I peer into the guts of this trooper.
Thump…tap…thump.
“You’ve got a real attitude problem, son.”
Tap…tap..tap…
Oink, I hear an echo off the overpass. It is followed by three more in quick succession. The wires overhead bounced it back to me in a round. Another oink squelched into a painful squeal.
A bristly, hirsute pink jowl flogs my window. A rank odor fogs. The two frothy holes of a snout begin smearing hot shit, snot, brown sticky bile, and mud on the glass. Steam flees from the black top. Its thick vapor hinders the luminance of the warning lights. The oink is superseded by the shrill gliding of a tusk against damp, polished aluminum. The window shatters, and I am dragged into the ravine. A crushing weight pins me in those black waters as flat square teeth rip and pinch my flesh.
There is the WMCA 507 relay.
It speeds past me again. Another blur of color mixing with the reflective whites and yellows. The red glow of the letters looks like brake lights or a siren. I shudder at the realization—I’ve got nothing.
No license, no registration.
Nothing to return to except the memory of someone who is nowhere and nothing. I only want to be home, and the nothing I cling to isn’t going to stop me.
The turnpike goes on forever. The fuel gauge still reads full. I flex the tendons in my right knee. This causes my foot to press all the way down to the floor. 55, 65, 75, 85, 95, 100, the speedometer keeps climbing.
The cherry top is behind me again, screaming and squealing. I can’t stop. The sun should be rising, but it isn’t. More black stretches in front of me. More black tar, more black water, more wet black wheels spinning, barely cling to the road.
The static on the radio mumbles about pearls and swine. As the flashing lights get closer, I see the trooper’s snout. He clips my back bumper, and the silver sedan spins out of control, flipping in the artificial light like a tilt-a-whirl.
Tap. Hum. Buzz. Oink.
There is the WMCA 507 relay.
HSSS— The captain approached him and said, “What are you doing asleep? Get up, call on your god!—HSSS.
“Son, you’ve got a real attitude problem.”
Fuckin-A-right, I do.
I twist the wheel and skid a full 180.
I aim Silver right at the high beams and those flashing lights. "Hi ho, Silver, oh!"
The Nephilim are plucking the high-tension wires. They are strumming their harps. The refinery’s glow is radioactive with churlish delight.
If you are looking for more music-inspired horror.
Oh man, gritty, hallucinatory, and mean. You’ve captured that 3:00 AM highway madness perfectly. It reads like a bad hangover at 90mph.
I'm in awe here. It's surreal, nightmarish, poetic... Wow. I can't even put words to it. Freaking amazing, Nathan.