Tougher Stuff

TW: Violence, gore, ableist speech, strong language

We’d been driving for ten minutes before the old man spoke in a voice that screamed of a lifetime of chain-smoking, “Where we headed, boy?” 

I’d been asking myself that same question for days, and the answer remained elusive, but I had to respond, “As far as you’re willing to take me.”

“Well, that don’t really tell me nothin'. How long were you waitin' for someone to stop for you, anyway?”

“Um, not too long. Some cars drove by me without stopping. I had better luck hitching with truckers.” I thought about the blisters on my heels and winced.

The old man nodded and drummed his hands on the steering wheel, “Yeah, well, we been having some problems ‘round here. Different kinds of crime, ya know? Beverly had her barn broken into last week, and one of her chickens–. Well, it don’t matter now. And we’re a small community, so you probably made ‘em nervous, and they kept on drivin'. Where you from?”

“Originally New York, but I’ve been on the move for a while now. Trying to find myself and all that.”

The old man stayed quiet for a long while, so I turned my attention outwards. The mountains on either side of the road seemed to drown out the sky. I’d never seen so many trees before, and it gave me the heebie jeebies. 

“You know I ran away from home when I was a boy. Oh, I musta’ been fifteen? Sixteen? Young enough to think I was invincible and stupid enough to actually believe that. Well, I learned my lesson the hard way that I was very wrong.”

I turned to look at the old man’s face and wondered what kind of life he had lived up to now. He had to be in his seventies. “What happened?”

The old man seemed to collect his thoughts before answering, “Like I said, I was pretty young and decided I had everythin' figured out, and I ran away from home. Things were different back then. Kids used to run off all the time, so nobody came looking for me.”

“How long were you gone?”

The old man rubbed at the scraggly hairs on his chin, “Few weeks, I think, but I learned a lot during that time. You see, I met someone on my little journey. Somebody who would become my greatest friend. Well, eventually. I didn’t like him at first. He knew my daddy first and my daddy’s daddy, and so on. That's why he found me, brought me home.”

I didn’t think people talked like that outside of movies. When I was 14, I started calling my dad by his first name. “Who did you meet?” It sounded like the old man either couldn't understand how math worked or had experienced a serious hallucination. His daddy's daddy wouldn't have any friends still alive.

He smiled a watery, meek thing before answering, “Adam. He found me when I was lost and helped me out when we got back.”

I started feeling that I was missing something between the lines. The old man turned onto a dirt road, the car squealing with the effort.

“Anyway, Adam showed me that I didn’t need to run away from home anymore. You see, I had done it before. Run away, I mean. I wasn’t happy at home. Not with my daddy as mean as he was, but Adam helped me realize I didn’t need to be ‘fraid of my daddy no more. My daddy was mean, but I could be meaner.”

I fingered the pepper spray in my pocket and began to realize, with a sinking feeling, that I may need it. Darkness was descending from the sky outside the car, and the old man turned his high beams on.

“What did your dad say when you got back?”

The old man shifted his eyes over to my face, “My daddy died a few weeks after I got home. Heart attack. Just dropped dead one mornin'. It was the damnedest thing. He was as healthy as a horse before then, but when it’s your time, it’s your time. I inherited his business after that, so it wasn’t all bad. Uncle Bobby managed it til I turned 18. I had hoped to pass it on to my son, but, well. Things change.”

I considered everything he said. It almost felt wrong to comment about his mean dad, so I opted for the other route, “Your son didn’t want in on the business?”

The old man guffawed, and a spit bullet smacked against the windshield, “Just between us, Junior’s a retard. Sorry. Mentally handicapped. Kid can’t tie his shoes by himself. He's 'bout as useful as a sack of dirt, all told. So, no, no business for him. ‘Sides, I feel he ain’t long for this world.” 

“What makes you say that?”

“We’ll call it intuition. I’m usually right about these things,” He seemed thoughtful for a moment, rubbing his chin again, “How 'bout you? You ever thought about running a business?”

I snorted, and the old man quirked an eyebrow, “I couldn’t get through one semester of community college. I don’t think I’ll be running any businesses. What’s yours, anyway?" 

I realized that I hadn’t seen a house or any signs of human life since we had turned onto this road. Weren't there supposed to be cows or some shit this far south? My heart rate started to climb, and the car felt about ten degrees too hot.

The old man turned his whole face to meet mine, and I swear his eyes went a shade or two darker as he said, “Livestock.” 

I cleared my throat and picked at the hole in my jeans, “So where are we headed? I haven’t seen anything in a long time. I kinda feel like I'm in the middle of nowhere.” 

“Well, son, can I call you son? We’re goin' to see Adam. Or, rather, he's comin' to see us. Maybe he can help you the way he’s helped my family.” 

I jiggled the door handle a little, but it didn’t budge, “Ok, look, I appreciate the ride, but I’d like to get out now. You’re going too far out of the way.” 

The old man chuckled and reached over to turn on the radio. Elvis’s smooth, crooning notes drummed on my ears, “Son, you said yourself that you’ll go as far as I’ll take ya, so that’s what I’m doin'. Adam’s gonna help ya find your purpose, ya hear?”

This wasn’t right. The old man had lost his marbles, and I would pay the price, “You better let me out of this car now.” 

He pulled the car over and unlocked the doors. I scrambled out, feet slipping on wet gravel, and I hit the ground. My teeth knocked together, and I wondered if I cracked a molar. The old man turned the radio up loud and called out over the noise, “Thank you, Johnny. You’re helping a lot of people.”

I stood up, a dribble of blood cried down my chin, and that’s when I saw it. I didn’t have words for what the thing was before me. It was like simultaneously gazing at a black hole, a mummy, and a wild animal. 

I’d never admit it, but my voice cracked hard enough to bring me back to prepubescence, “What the fuck?!” 

The old man smiled and walked around the front of his rusted beater, never taking his eyes off the beast before me. “Johnny, I’d like you to meet Adam. He’s been a family friend for a long time—almost like an heirloom.”

It was tough to say, but wetness started soaking into my jeans, and I didn’t know if I was just that sweaty or if I’d pissed myself, “Why are you showing me this?” 

Still not looking at me, the old man reached out to the beast, almost like a caress, and I swear his hand disappeared into it. I took a step backward, and my ass hit the car. Distantly, I noticed that the radio had changed from Jailhouse Rock to In the Ghetto. I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity because my mom used to sing Elvis songs when she made her famous lasagna, but I couldn’t open my mouth. 

“I told you, my son ain’t the business type. But Johnny,” he finally looked at me then, his bottomless eyes roaming over every inch of my quaking, malnourished body, “I think you’re made of tougher stuff.” 

The thing started to move, making a horrible wheezing sound, and I began to cry. I can’t even remember the last time I cried, let alone in front of another person. Wrenching the pepper spray from my pocket, I fumbled with the plastic top. I held it up warningly and said through clenched teeth, “Don't you fucking come near me, or I'll spray your ass back to whatever hell hole you crawled out of."

The thing took a step toward me, and I glimpsed its talons scraping along the ground. Skeletal paws gripped the gravel beneath and crunched, leaving tiny pebbles in its wake. My breath hitched, and the pepper spray fell from my hand, rolling under the car.

Screw dignity. Through my dripping snot, I begged, "Pl-please. Please don’t. I’ll do whatever you want. Just. Please. I won’t tell anyone.”

The old man tsked at me, “Johnny, this is what I want.”

The thing moved closer again, and if I had any doubts about pissing myself, I didn’t anymore. I could smell it. The beast gurgled and cooed, but I couldn’t bear to look at it. I closed my eyes hard enough to hurt and locked my knees. If I was dying, I would do it on my feet.

A few seconds or a few years passed before a chill kissed my cheek. Something hard and oily touched my bottom lip, and I whimpered high in my mouth. I couldn’t open my eyes. I wouldn’t.

Then, with the cadence of a thousand voices, I heard, “Look at me.”

I mewled like a newborn fucking kitten and opened my eyes. My knees gave out, and I hit the ground again, gravel punching into my skin through the hole in my jeans. The thing was inches from my face, blunt, black teeth dripping hunger onto my forehead. I saw maggots crawling through its sunken cheekbones and pus leaking from its lips. I looked up into empty eye sockets. Streams of blood fell from nothingness, and everything seemed to fade away. I began to feel a choking sense of despair that wanted to drown away every thought I had. I heard a screeching sound, and then--.