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Knight of The Wagon
Knight of The Wagon
By Logan Gardner
Smoke worms it way through the slit in the window, disappearing as the
wind snatches it jealously. Gunpowder dissolves the thin paper of my Marlboro
Light; the tide comes in, the tide goes out with every breath.
NPR is droning in the background: a woman’s voice that climbs the register
from top to bottom in every sentence of her narration, but interviews in a tone that
is level and subdued, like she’s having an actual conversation. I pop my cigarette
into my mouth as I reach for the radio. Drag on it while I turn the tuning knob. I stop
when I hear a snare roll followed by a cymbal crash. 94.7, Detroit’s #1 Classic Rock
My phone buzzes. I pick it up. A job crystallizes on the screen in thin white
letters behind a crisp emerald background. My lucky customer is only a mile and a
half away, at a nightclub in one of this suburban wasteland’s few “Hot Zones,” where
I roll down the window a little more and flick my cigarette. No smoking on
the job; it’s bad for reviews. I free the Java-‐flavored Monster from my cup-‐holder,
I reach down and put the car in drive, leaving the window down. The engine
purrs as I depress the accelerator peel out of the Meijer parking lot like Speed Racer.
I paid for the “Plus” model; the extra horsepower hasn’t disappointed in the least.
Sharp winter air slices through my North Face fleece, cleansing the car of
tobacco
scent.
Believe
it
or
not,
I
don’t
think
much
of
North
Face.
120
bucks,
and
it
can’t
even
keep
mid-‐February
off
of
my
skin.
But
it’s
1:37
a.m.,
and
it
feels
nice
to
get
I chose the Kia Soul for its shape and its ad campaign. You know the dancing
hamsters that travel through time and bring the party wherever they go? I liked
their style. Thought that maybe I could bring the party too.
As I cruise down 34th Ave to the pickup, it occurs to me this would be a
perfect moment, if not for the fact that I badly needed to go to the little boy’s room.
And now that I’ve realized I have to go to the little boy’s room, the thought becomes
my personal hell. This has been a recurring problem for me: a man with a heavy
diuretic addiction.
Sometimes, I think that the only thing that could make this job better would
be an onboard bathroom. Maybe a vacuum tube attached to the seat. I could flip a
switch, unzip and…find relief. There’s a place in this industry for something like that.
Maybe I’ll make it happen, once I get the capital. The way I’m racking up the dough,
I went into this UBER deal more than a little bit skeptical, but I’ve got to say
that it’s met my expectations. I rented my Soul thinking I would lease to own.
Instead I made enough money in the first six months to buy it outright. Since then
I’ve sunk about 600 more bucks into it, which has got me: a new subwoofer (I bring
the party), a two-‐year subscription to satellite radio (though I end up just using the
F.M. a lot of the time anyway), some interior colored LED lighting strips (I keep
them set to red), and an orthopedic, gel-‐enhanced Coccyx support cushion (which
keeps
gravity
from
turning
my
old
ass
into
a
patty).
All
of
these
amenities
help
me
drive
and
drive
and
keep
driving
even
when
every
other
UBER
in
town
has
gone
home. Plus, my old buddies Nicci and Caffi (my personal slang for coffee and
cigarettes).
The Soul is more than a car to me, though it sounds cliché to say it. It’s a tool
of my trade, an extension of myself. I love to drive, and so I must love what I drive.
Nicci and Caffi have my hands gripping the wheel hard enough to stop them
from jittering. My heart keeps pace with the snare in Thin Lizzy’s ’76 hard rock
anthem “The Boys Are Back In Town.” I sing aloud as I inspect the location on my
Wittenberg. What a name! This guy’s a rich prick or my name isn’t Bruce
Campbell. Reinforcing this perception is the fact that he’s bound from Smoke and
Mirrors, the glitziest dance club on this humble slice of the Detroit metropolitan
area, to a golf course condo on the other side of town.
I examine myself in the mirror as I bring up the window and bring out the
Febreeze. I use the Fresh Linen scent. My jutting chin darts away reflexively as I
release the moist scent particles into the fabrics of the vehicle.
The song changes to that one by David Bowie and Queen. You know the really
famous one that Vanilla Ice stole for that god-‐awful single? The bass rattles in the
back. Hope these people like to party, because I’m singing this one out.
Smoke and Mirrors, the sexy nightclub situated a ways back from the main
drag,
between
a
head
shop
called
Smoker’s
Discount
and
a
Buffalo
Wild
Wings.
Behind
this
strip
is
a
parking
lot
that
backs
up
to
woods
where
18-‐year
olds
without
fake IDs go to pretend they’re adults. Across the street is a movie theatre. This is
middle America date night central, and I am its Charon, ferrying fornicators upon
the rivers of cracker-‐flat, dinosaur-‐bone-‐flecked tar. I get into the line of ferrymen
that has formed in front of the club’s entrance. I pull Wittenberg’s number from app
and let it dial. He answers on the third ring.
“Hello?” He talks with the volume and enunciation of a deaf toddler, perhaps
to account for electronic music raging in the background, or because he’s three-‐
David Bowie has come to the bridge. I join in. “It’s the terror of knowing what
this world is about, watching some good friends scream: ‘let me out.’”
I see him come through the screen of glycol and immediately know him to be
the one I seek. He is tall and broad, younger than I expected (probably early 20’s),
but definitely rich. He is wearing a puffy black coat, open, and underneath is a
salmon button-‐down that reeks of Catholic school and travel lacrosse. His hair is
spiked, black and slick. We make eye contact and he proceeds in my direction.
Supported against his side is a beautiful little 20-‐something blonde, whose
head is drooping slightly, leaving her shoulder length hair to fall as a curtain in front
As he exits, the two door guards descend upon him. It takes almost a full
minute
for
them
to
let
him
and
his
lady
walk
free,
after
a
few
words
of
noisy
slurring
from
the
young
lady
that
set
them
at
ease.
They
approach
as
Freddie
Mercury
I swing my arm around and open the back door. The young woman collapses
and curls up into the backseat as I do, mumbling something in a babyish voice.
Wittenberg pokes his head in, assesses the situation, and turns to me.
“Is it alright if I sit up front?” He asks me.
“No problem,” I respond, affecting an easy cheerfulness. I aim to bring the
party, without discriminating. He does the clasp of the seatbelt around her waist,
He smiles at me as he slides his cheeks across my leather, his teeth glowing
blood red in the neon. His thick brow casts a shadow over his face. I force a smile
back at him as I shift into drive, and then return my gaze to the road, casting
occasional glances at the unfortunate, pretty little drunk in my rearview.
As I weave through the parking lot, I can feel his deep-‐set onyx eyes on the
lines of my face. I cast a sidelong glance at him, and he turns his eyes forward. Just as
David and Freddie are coming to the big moment where they plead with us to “give
love one more chance,” Stephen takes the initiative and turns down the volume.
“You’re Bruce Campbell, aren’t you?” I feel his gaze burning into me.
I chuckle, “No, I’m not, but I do get that all the time.”
“Come on. I’ve seen Evil Dead and Army of Darkness. I’ve seen every episode
of Burn Notice. Plus, I know that you grew up around here. I’m a fan, okay? You can
admit
it.”
He
sounded
like
he
was
speaking
through
a
mouthful
of
cotton
balls.
I
look
at
him
in
amazement,
“Jesus
kid,
how
drunk
are
you?”
He takes a moment to think this over, “Enough. Why would a famous actor
“Why don’t you take care of your girlfriend?” I suggest, keeping my voice
friendly in spite of my rapidly dwindling patience. “She looks like she could use it.”
In the backseat, Wittenberg’s woman has gone strangely rigid. Her breath is
coming less evenly, which is a concern. I consider the plausibility of demanding that
He ignores me, “And, if he doesn’t want to be recognized, why would he not
use a fake name on his account?” My next turn looms on the navigation program. I
take it, and arrive at the condo complex. They are all identical units: two stories,
beige-‐gray paneled with five-‐step stoops and spinach-‐colored front doors that look
I arrive in front of his condo and put my Soul in park.
“Do you need any help getting her out of the car?”
He shakes his head like he’s waking from a nap. “I’ll be fine…is there any way
I could get your autograph? I won’t tell anyone where I got it I swear.”
I become stone.
“Have a good night Stephen. Take good care of your girlfriend for me.” He
nods and turns away, opening his door. Shakily he pulls himself out of the Soul, and
slams the door shut. As he does this, I hear the click of a seatbelt latch being undone.
motionless, balled-‐up mass of the drunken girl, smashing into Stephen’s nose with
“Asshole!
Stephen falls back onto the curb, twin red rivers streaming from what
He lunges for the door, cursing, but is forced to recoil as a pointy heel sails at
The bubbly, “wasted” blonde slams the door and pushes down the lock,
leaving Stephen to gain his footing and he starts to slam repeatedly on the door,
“You’d better start driving Bruce.” Her voice is flutelike. It might’ve sounded
ditzy, were it not so grave. “Stephen’s fucking crazy, and more than pissed enough to
I consider the potential of this, and decide I love my Soul enough to risk some
potential legal consequences. I put the car in drive, and mash on the accelerator,
leaving the disfigured mongoloid hollering to the night in a growing pool of his own
humors. Fucker probably pissed himself when she hit him. I watch him disappear
into the rearview’s background, with the pretty little assassin still sitting in the fore.
I sense the answer to the next question before I ask it, yet feel compelled to ask it.
She answers with a bitter laugh. “He was a psychopath. I don’t remember the
night we met. I woke up next to him, he…changed me…inside. It hurt. So much. So…”
Subdermal emotion threatens the flat quality she’d attained ealier. A strange fear
“You don’t have to say anymore.” As soon as I say this, I regret it. Water is
gathering in the corner of her big blue eyes, reflected in the red light. I reach out and
stroke her hair, aware that this might be taken inappropriately but unable to stop
my desire to comfort her. Her breath catches and then evens out. She takes the
sleeve of my North Face and uses it to wipe away her eyes.
“I—I didn’t know what to do at first. He said he loved me, and I…maybe I
“—was not love. He is incapable of loving anyone, including himself. I’ve
heard that before, from my counselor, my parents, my friends. But still…it felt real.”
I pull the car over to the side of the road. I see her eyes widen for a moment
in fear. Her eyes dart to the door. I hold up a hand, “I’m not going to hurt you. I
promise. I’m going to take you home, but first I want to be sure of a couple things, to
make sure that this really is coming to an end.”
She calms down immediately. She can feel my good intentions, she says. She
tells
me
that
she
has
already
told
her
parents
about
the
way
Stephen
has
been
treating
her.
She
tells
me
that
he’ll
soon
be
notified
that
he’s
been
charged
with
assault, and that she’s been already been issued an Order of Protection that will
ensure that he will never be able to come near her again without facing jail time. She
hopes he goes to jail anyway, and I assure her that he most likely will. I am lying, and
I think she can tell, but seems to take some comfort regardless.
When I start driving again, Phil Collins and Freddie Mercury and Thin Lizzy
and all the other great bards of rock and roll have been replaced by a heavy silence.
She’s a college freshman, still living in the dorms. Stephen is twenty-‐three.
“Was he right?” She asks, point-‐blank. “Are you really that famous actor?”
Shake my head. “I’m a man who gets people home safe from the party.”
She looks at me strangely, “Wish you would’ve been there that first night. You
don’t think you would’ve let him take me, would you?”
I open my mouth, but she doesn’t let me answer. “I shouldn’t think like that. I
know it’s pointless to, but sometimes I can’t help it. What happened, happened. He
took my virginity, and I took his nose. Think it was a fair trade?”
I crank the wheel right and enter her residence hall’s parking lot. Pull up in
front of her building, put the Soul in park, turn back to face her.
“I don’t think it’s possible to make what he did to you even. But I’ve seen a lot
of people get fucked up in my life. And you really, really fucked him up.”
“I
really
did,
didn’t
I?
It
felt
good.
What
an
asshole.”
I
nod
sagely.
“Go
get
some
sleep
kid.
And
take
care
of
yourself.
Also,
here’s
my
card. I’m not always in town, but if I am and you need a ride somewhere, give me a
call. No charge.” I hand my card back to her. She looks at it and smiles faintly.
“Thanks Bruce.” She wraps her arms around my neck and then scoots out and
disappears inside. My hand lingers on the gearshift. I stretch my wrist…didn’t know
I could grip the wheel like that. I put my old Soul in drive, and roll through the lot.
I drain the remainder of the can of Monster Java, which zaps me back to the
road. I turn up the radio, nice and loud, flipping over to satellite to find some heavy
metal to keep myself awake for the drive home. I have forgotten my urgent need.
I am halfway home when I decide that I can’t make it and pull over to the side
of the road to take a piss. I leave my Soul idling while I unzip my fly and free myself
I watch for a moment as my body begins to flush itself of Nicci and Caffie. The
urine forms a crystalline arch that stretches from my urethra to the stars, and then
comes back to earth where it lands with a cheery gurgling sound. When I’ve finished,
I squeeze, pull, and shake, to ensure that no drops remain.
I am at war. I want a cigarette bad, and for some reason I feel guilty about it.