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| Photo by Daniel Oines |
My Typewriter Gave Up The Ghost were living their dream, for
the moment. The six of them described
their band as chamber pop, and as such, they had a guitarist, bassist, trumpet
player, keyboard player, drummer and a singer who occasionally played the
harmonica. At the moment, they were on a
tour of the United States, playing in basically any bar that would let them. They made just a little more money than they
needed to make it to the next gig, which meant they slept either in the van, or
at the home of a fan or a friend in the area.
At the moment, My Typewriter Gave Up The Ghost were all
about as stoned as a person can get without just falling asleep
mid-Twinkie. They were currently driving
west across South Dakota, mile after mile of straight road through farm
country.
“I don’t know man, it sounds cool when ZZ Top does it, but I
don’t think it’s right for this band,” the drummer of My Typewriter Gave Up The
Ghost said in response to a suggestion by the singer that he add some
electronic drums to his kit.
“Whatever, you guys never take my suggestions,” the singer
said. It was true, too. He’d been a late addition to the band,
recruited when someone pointed out after a show that none of them had
especially nice voices, but were otherwise pretty good. His ego grated on the others a bit.
The guitarist, who was laying uncomfortably on top of a pair
of speaker cabinets, didn’t even open his eyes when he said, “that’s because
your ideas suck.”
“Whatever. Your ideas suck,” the singer said. He sulked for a minute or two before he
forgot what they’d been talking about and started looking for the bag of potato
chips.
“Stay out of my chips,” the guitarist said.
The singer looked sharply at the guitarist, and wondered how
the hell he’d even known he was looking for them. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,”
he said.
“Good,” the guitarist said.
“Can you two get along for a little bit? You’re harshing the
van. Again,” the bassist said.
“Who asked you?” the singer said.
If the trumpet player had been awake, he would have agreed
with the bassist, but as it was, he was asleep in the front passenger
seat. At the moment, the keyboard
player was driving. He’d been awake
since three in the morning, and was stoned enough that his eyes were barely
open anyway. He’d pretty much missed the
entire argument in the back of the van because he was too busy focusing on
simply not falling asleep while driving.
***
Jake and Lance were driving east through South Dakota at the
moment. They were coming from Wyoming,
on their way to visit a friend of theirs who had moved to Sioux Falls chasing a
girl. Jake was driving, with some good
old Hank Williams on the radio. Lance
was asleep with a mostly-empty bottle of Miller High Life tucked between his
legs.
Lance had fallen asleep about thirty minutes earlier, which
was OK with Jake. Lance was a good guy,
but he had basically just become Jake’s buddy by default when Jared had moved
to Sioux Falls. Every now and then, he
really got on Jake’s nerves
Jake was driving a nineteen seventy eight Ford F-150. It had seen plenty of use, and creaked and
groaned as they rolled down the highway.
It drove like a tank, but it had lasted like one too, so Jake didn’t
mind. It had originally been his uncle’s
farm truck, until that uncle offered to sell it to Jake for a song in order to
finance an above-ground pool.
At the moment, Jake was a little jealous of Jared. He wanted to meet a girl and move somewhere
that wasn’t Wyoming.
He was a little jealous of Lance too, since he’d swiped the
last beer without Jake noticing.
***
Death and Andi appeared on the side of the freeway in South
Dakota. There was a lot of farm field to
see, no matter which direction you looked.
The road was empty too.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Andi said. “There aren’t any cars around, how can there
be a wreck?”
Death was busy getting her stopwatch and clipboard
organized. She hoped she was going to
have enough time after this collection to get everyone to the gateway and then,
perhaps, get a cup of coffee. Maybe even
lunch somewhere. Tacos sounded
good. So did Indian food.
There’s nothing quite
like a good chicken vindaloo after a big collection, Death thought.
“Yes, I’m sure we’re in the right place,” Death said to
Andi. “There will be cars in…”
Death looked at her stopwatch.
“…forty five seconds.
You know, you really don’t have to watch this. I can almost guarantee you’ll find it
disturbing.”
Andi lifted her chin and said, “I told you already what I
think about it.”
“OK, it’s your choice,” Death said. She checked the stopwatch, and looked both
ways, trying to spot a pick up truck and a van.
Her stomach growled.
“Was that you?” Andi said.
She looked mildly horrified.
Death sighed and said, “Yes, that was me. It’s been a couple years since I’ve
eaten. Excuse me.”
“Why haven’t you eaten in two years? Is it a hunger strike thing? Making a point to someone? Or punishment for something?” Andi said.
Death smiled and said, “No, it’s nothing like that. I simply haven’t had time.”
“You haven’t had time to eat… in two years?” Andi said. She sounded utterly amazed. “Wow, do I ever feel bad for occasionally
getting cranky because I wasn’t able to find a Snickers bar when I wanted one.”
Andi was quiet for a couple seconds, then said, “I wish I
could bring you something to eat, or do something to help while you grab some
lunch.”
“Thanks Andi,” Death said.
“If I think of something you can do, I’ll let you know. Whoops!
Here they come now.”
Death pointed at a spec in the distance, heading west. She checked off an item on her list, and then
looked down the road the other way.
There was another spec, this one headed east.
***
A month and a half of sharing a van with six other people and
their musical equipment will cause tempers to occasionally flare even among
best friends, and the members of My Typewriter Gave Up The Ghost weren’t best
friends.
“What the hell do you need your own bag of chips for
anyway? This is supposed to be a team,
man. We’re a band, not a bunch of
roommates,” the singer said.
“What the hell did you need to buy drinks for those girls in
the last bar for? That’s the reason we
all had to have fucking happy meals for dinner instead being able to get pizza,”
the guitarist said.
Their discussion was getting louder by the second.
The trumpet player was awake now, and looked annoyed. Actually, everyone in the van looked
annoyed. They were, in fact, all a
little irritated about the bag of chips, and a lot irritated about the drinks
that didn’t even lead to phone numbers.
The keyboard player, still driving, was still doing his best
to stay focused on the task of driving the van, though it was getting
difficult.
***
Jake was lost in thought, thinking about his last girlfriend
and wondering if maybe he should have just stayed with her. Sure, she wanted to settle down and start a
family, while he wanted to get out and see the world outside of Wyoming, but at
least with her he hadn’t been so damned lonely.
He heaved a big sigh, and looked out his side window to the
North. There was a lot of corn out
there, and not much else. The road was
straight enough that he suspected he could probably go to sleep with the cruise
control set, and nap for fifteen minutes or so while the truck just continued
along its merry path.
***
The keyboard player had finally reached his stoned argument
bullshit limit.
“Would you two just shut the fuck
up? God damn it, all you guys do is
bicker and argue like an old married couple. I’m trying to drive up here, and
you two are back there just bitch bitch bitching about fucking chips and the
girls you wish you would have had the balls to hit on properly,” he said in a
loud, rapid-fire burst.
“Well, who the fuck asked you?”
the singer said.
Incensed, the keyboard player
spun around in the driver’s seat to give the singer a piece of his mind. He’d just taken a breath, when he noticed
four sets of stoned eyes opened wide, looking over his shoulder. He spun back around just in time to see that
the van had crossed the center line of the freeway, and on a collision course
with an old pick up truck.
“Fuck,” he said.
***
Jake had been staring out the side window, wondering if it
was too late to try and reconcile with his girlfriend when he caught a flash
out of the corner of his eye.
He turned to look out the the
windshield again, and saw he was now driving down the middle of the road,
almost perfectly over the center line, and about to slam his truck into an
oncoming van driven by a panicked looking guy with long hair and a v-neck
t-shirt.
“Fuck,” he said.
***
Death and Andi were standing in the perfect spot to watch
the collision. It seemed impossibly fast,
to Andi. For some reason, she thought
car crashes would look the way they did in movies, where there was plenty of
time to see every reaction and to appreciate how bad things had gotten.
Instead, the pick up truck and the van slammed into each
other so fast she could barely believe what she’d seen. The noise was incredible, again, nothing like
a movie, just a spectacularly loud WHAM
and then the sound of various pieces of car as they fell to the ground.
Three of the members of My Typewriter Gave Up The Ghost were
ejected from the van, one coming to a rest across the windshield of the pick up
truck, one landing in the bed of the truck, and the other tumbling along the
road before coming to a stop.
Andi noticed the wrong number of heads on the road, and
realized that one of the people who had been ejected from the van must have
decapitated the driver on his way out.
One by one, the souls of the newly departed appeared on the
road nearby.
“Nice driving, dick,” the singer said to the keyboard
player.
The keyboard player looked at the wreckage of the two cars,
and the bodies, and said, mostly to himself, “Oh, man, am I going to have to
spend eternity with this asshole?”
Then Death’s phone rang.
The eight fresh souls turned and looked at her expectantly.
“Sorry, hang on,” Death said. She pulled out her phone. Three minutes to the next collection.
She rubbed her face with one hand, and looked a little
distressed before she composed herself.
“OK, no time to waste.
I’m going to need you all to come along with me, please,” Death said,
and with that, they stepped out of the world.
Moments later, the gateway appeared. Brilliant light poured out of the doorway.
“So what’s through there?” Jake asked Death.
“I really couldn’t say.
Whatever it is that awaits you,” Death said.
“Well, it can’t be worse than hanging around with these
dickheads,” the singer said, and charged through the door.
“Does it make me a bad person to say that I’m really glad he’s
gone?” the guitarist said.
No one answered.
“In you go, everybody.
I’ve got another appointment, and I can’t keep them waiting,” Death
said.
The band members that were one friendly terms said their
goodbyes to one another, and one by one went through the door, followed by Jake
and Lance.
Death looked at Andi who was standing to one side, looking
back and forth between the doorway and Death.
“You too,” Death said, kindly, and gestured towards the
doorway.
Andi furrowed her brow, and said, “I was just thinking, you’re
really busy. And if the population is
growing, you’re just going to keep getting busier.”
“Probably,” Death said.
“And you haven’t had anything to eat in more than two years?”
Andi said.
“It’s getting closer to three years, yes,” Death said. She resisted the urge to check the clock.
“What do you say I stick around and help you out?” Andi
said.
The question caught Death completely off guard, and she sputtered
briefly.
“Well, I don’t… that is..
You see…” Death started, then paused.
She thought about it for a moment.
At the very least, Andi would be able to run some errands for her before
she finally moved on. Maybe she could
pick up a pizza while Death was tending to collections. And a little company wouldn’t be so bad.
“OK. Why not?” Death said.
The two of them were standing on the side of the road in
South Dakota again.
“Great,” Andi said. “What
next?”
Death’s phone beeped at her.
“Next we head to Florida for another collection.”
