Hot Dog Highway

Uncle Phil stood in the highway; hands on his hips and comely smile spread across his bearded face. He wore a bright red sweater with yellow pin-stripes and corduroy pants natural to the style of his time. Rain fell around him, sogging the edges of his cardboard frame and slowly wilting his structural integrity into a collapsing blanket. Wind rocked him on the cardboard triangle that propped him upright. Given time he would be knocked over and become so much mush on the road. But not yet.

He had been stolen from a local high school’s Winter Formal. The theme school officials decided on was The 90s and had done a commendable job regarding the décor of the gymnasium, complete with life-sized cardboard printouts of the cast of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Uncle Phil’s likeness had been a particular hit with the student body, his middle-aged form and wizened face a perfect foil to the chaotic and youthful attendees.

That night, a group of them had gotten drunk and broken into the school. Amongst other light vandalisms, the capture of Uncle Phil was a particular prize. After an evening of partying and taking copious pictures with the famed judge, a prank was decided upon. In the hungover afternoon of the next day, they dragged the figure onto a nearby highway, just around a hillside bend – a surprise for an unsuspecting driver. Laughing and unable to grasp the seriousness of their action or the consequence for those who may suffer them, they ran away. Uncle Phil smiled. 

*

As Franklin drove home for Thanksgiving, he was regretting his recent decision. A rest stop vending machine and processed meat, all at 3 a.m. What an idiot. But he was hungry, and a hot dog seemed like it would hit the spot. Franklin wasn’t necessarily a stupid man; he had just been born with a relative lack of common sense. Where most people had this by natural design, he had been bestowed IBS. The cherry on top was he wanted a cigarette. Needed a cigarette. He had developed stomach problems in his twenties, during which time he was a heavy smoker. Two years and two hospitalizations later, his wife had made him give it up. Since then, whenever his insides jerked, the urge to smoke inexplicably rose again. In the cold morning, the dumpy middle-aged man drove down I-84 West, grinding his teeth and trying not to crap his pants.

*

The killer believed in the importance of saving the little moments. By consequence, he took a particular and near ritual pleasure in photographs – such as the polaroid he held now. Like all his Subjects, the woman was looking towards the lens with eyes like saucers and pleading tears. In the bottom right corner of the frame a glint came off the duct tape that bound her hands. He smiled with satisfaction. After a moment more he deposited it into the pocket of the fanny pack that laid at his feet. It was a soiled and dirty piece of attire that bulged with other such pictures.

He was about to yank the rusting teeth of the zipper closed when atop the embankment the baleful wail of an eighteen-wheeler called. After a moment he turned and picked up a packet of wet wipes that lay at his feet and began to clean his stripped-down body. He worked methodically and with meticulous attention like a cat grooming itself. Once finished he threw the used wipes into a trash bag with the rest of his blood-soaked garments. He wrapped the bag copiously with duct tape then threw it deep in the recess of a nearby culver. He moved to the neat and slightly dusty pile of clean clothes he had folded on the ground and dressed himself. He buckled on the fanny pack and threw the pack of wet wipes back into his worn travel pack.

He was about to swing it over his shoulder when he considered and set it down again. He retrieved an American Spirit from the pack kept under the outermost meshing of the bag. He lit the cigarette and checked the zipper pocket directly below the mesh. He nodded internally. The large Pyrex-handled knife was packed away where it always was. Satisfied, he swung the pack over his shoulder and walked towards the highway.

*

Franklin came out of the bathroom feeling altogether worse. Though he’d emptied himself, he could feel the ghost of the Hot Dog haunting his intestinal tract, a spectral menace whispering the promise it was not done with him yet. As he pulled out of the rest area, he saw a well-built young man with a travel pack walking along the asphalt, thumb hooked out. He looked up at dark clouds rolling in over the morning sky. In his earlier years, he’d often given hitch hikers rides and kept more than a few memories of the characters he’d met. Why not? He asked himself, it’s a long drive, it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to. He pulled up alongside the young man and rolled down the window.

“Where you headed?”

“As far West as you’re willing.”

“I can take you to Portland. Looks like rain, why don’t you hop in?”

The hitcher climbed in with thanks, and Franklin introduced himself. “I’m Buddy,” replied the young man with a snaggletooth smile. He dropped the overstuffed bag at his feet and shifted a dirty fanny pack to his side. They set off down the highway.

A few silent moments passed as rain began to lightly mist the windshield. “So, what are you doing on the road?” asked Franklin amiably.

“Just travelling,” replied the young man, “how about yourself?”

“Heading home for Thanksgiving.”

“Sounds cozy. Me, I could never do that,” he nodded out the window, “I like to move. Highways been home to me the last few years.”

Franklin could tell by the weathered complexion of the man it was the truth. That and the smell; earthy like rain and soil. And cigarettes. Franklin’s stomach gurgled. He shifted his thoughts. He had a friend who hitched across North America after college. They’d spent two years riding trains and camping along highways. The lifestyle always fascinated him. After a few more moments, he ventured, “Mind if I ask, what keeps you doing it?”

The young man’s eyes slid across to him. “I like the memories,” he said. Franklin nodded in agreement with something he did not understand.

“I capture them with this.” Franklin looked across and saw the other man had fished out of his bag an old Polaroid camera. He whistled, “Haven’t seen one of those since I was a teenager.”

“It’s a 635 Supercolor – hard to get nowadays. It’s the only way to take a picture. All these digital cameras, they don’t capture the things that matter.”

“And what’s that?”

The hitcher paused for a moment, thinking. “The experience. Wind through trees. The smell of people. Sounds they make. This captures that, like a living thing. You take a picture, and it whizzes, becomes warm like it’s…” he turned the camera in his hands, “Gestating. Pregnant. Then it births it out. And it comes out of the blackness.” He seemed to become lost in thought.

Franklin considered this. “I think I know what you mean, I –”

“Hey,” exclaimed the man suddenly. Franklin looked to the passenger, who was now pointing the camera at him. “Mind if I get a picture of you? This could be one of those memories!” A large toothy grin spread across his face.

His stomach acidly cramped. For an inexplicable reason Franklin’s skin crawled and he suddenly felt vulnerable. “To be honest… I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

The passenger continued to hold the camera in place. His grin remained. For an uncomfortable moment Franklin wondered if the hitcher had not heard or had simply chosen to ignore his request. He was about to re-state this when the young man dropped the camera. His eyes were half-moons, and his face held a smile that seemed plastic. “Of course, no problem.”

*

They drove in silence for a time and after a while the hitcher nodded towards an approaching turnoff sign plastered with the logos of Texaco and 711. “Could we stop? I’d like to buy some food. I’ll kick you a few bucks for gas."

“Sure,” replied Franklin. They took the turnoff and cruised into the gas station complex. He brought the car to a stop in front of a pump. “You go ahead. I’ll load up and park in front of the store when I’m done.” The hitcher nodded, handing him two dollars before getting out and walking through the rain to the small convenience shop.

After filling the tank, he parked in front of the 711. His mind was wandering when his eyes rested idly on the man’s bag. A beat-up thing stuffed to near bursting in amorphous lumps, like a snake that had swallowed some oversized prey. His eyes stopped when he caught the light blue packet in the outermost mesh. American Spirits. His brand. His colon chirped.

He leered towards it, just to see, he told himself – when something else caught his eye. It was a polaroid that lay on the seat, as if having fallen there. In the frame a woman looked at the camera. The light from the flash had lit her face well and he noted how large her eyes looked.

He shifted for a closer inspection of a prominent glare in the lower right-hand corner when he stopped. His stomach lurched. The specter of the Hot Dog had returned in gleeful vengeance. Sweat poured from his face as he fumbled for the door and yanked the key out of the ignition. He staggered out to find the nearest restroom and remotely locked the car, forgetting all about the picture.

*

The man whose name was not really Buddy bought a power-bar and eyed the clerk while he paid, wondering how they might look as one of his Subjects pleading before the lens. He had considered the man in the car for a moment, but there was no sport there. He was out of shape and seemed helpless, like a deer in the road. It wouldn’t be hunting to just run it over.

He smiled congenially after receiving his change and found the vehicle but stopped cold when he got to the passenger’s window. On the seat his latest picture lay, right-side up for all the world to see. The saucer eyes of the bound woman stared up at him through the glass. The killer looked down: his fanny pack was unzipped, its lip hanging and polaroids sticking out like a slack-jawed cow with its mouth full. The driver was gone. Hurriedly he tried for the door handle, but it was locked. Had he seen it? Images of the man on the phone with the police began rushing through his mind. He pulled at the handle several more times in an instinctual and fruitless application of force.

He was considering whether to simply break the window and make a run for it when the pop of the lock gave him a start. He looked around and saw the pudgy man waddling towards him, one hand pointing the electric keys at the car. His eyes were beady and face ashen. The killer gave an unsure nod to him, but no greeting was returned. He made the decision that running was not the answer.

Quickly he opened the door, grabbed the picture, and stuffed it into his fanny pack. He yanked it closed angrily and felt a moment of regret as the polymer sheet crumpled against the zipper. The driver had gotten in and was about to start the car when an idea came. “Hey, do you mind if I lay down in the back a bit? Get some shut-eye?” the driver grunted in assent. He transferred himself to the back seat and laid down. He made sure to have the man in his vantage point. He would wait and see what happened. They drove on.

*

Franklin winced as his intestines jiggled with every divot and unhealed pothole that now seemed to proliferate the asphalt like blooming weeds. He imagined the Hot Dog holding court over a bacchanalia of disreputable partygoers in his digestive tract. Sriracha Sauce grinding with American Cheese Slice and Pickled Herring, while in the corner Fish Bones and Mustard Seed fought over a girl. God, he wanted a cigarette.

Beads of sweat streamed down his forehead as he focused on driving, ever aware of the blue packet in the bag that his passenger now clutched in his lap. He imagined the feel of the rolled paper between his fingers and the taste of the filter clutched in his teeth in that sweet moment before lighting a fresh smoke. He could not help but keep turning his head to look back. Just ask for one, he has a whole pack, the devil on his shoulder hissed. You don’t need it; an opposing angel declared. He gritted his teeth.

*

The driver’s fate was sealed. Ever since the gas station, the killer had lain prone in the back with his bag and watched. The middle-aged man was constantly fidgeting and sweat trickled down his face in nervous sheets. More than that, he continuously made surreptitious glances towards the backseat. The pudgy little man either knew, suspected, or – dread of dreads – had already contact the police. Well, no matter. He would take care of him. Should the police be on the way, he will at least have one last picture for his collection.

The moment would present itself, as it always did. For the time he enjoyed the little things and catalogued them in his sensory memory –the ritual of anticipation; the rumble of the tires as his body shook on the linoleum seats, the drizzling afternoon sky which pattered the window above his head. Yes, he could wait.

*

The rain had begun to fall in earnest when Franklin reached his breaking point. After a particularly robust bump he could feel his actual stomach move, actually move, like the maniacal Hot Dog had obtained a saw somehow and was making his escape. Breaking out to exact vengeance on the impertinent mortal that had dared consume him. Screw it, he thought. If he was going to be miserable, he might as well have a cigarette.

“Hey, Buddy, you awake?” he managed through grinding teeth. You’re better than this, a voice pleaded. The hell I am, he shot back. A muffled cough answered him. “I noticed you had some smokes. Mind if I grab one?”

There was a small silence. “Absolutely.”

*

He knew it would come. The killer retrieved the cigarettes with his left hand while slowly unzipping the exterior-most pocket with his right. He reached in and felt the girded Pyrex handle as he grabbed the knife. He sat up with the backpack in his lap and looked through the windows. No other cars were on the road. He extended his left hand with the pack through the gap between the driver and passenger seats. The driver reached out for them while keeping his eyes on the road, but he let them slip from his hand. They bounced off the passenger seat and then onto the floor matt below. “Whoops, sorry.” The driver muttered some response and bent down. The car had just begun rounding a hillside bend, and he managed to maintain the turn while quickly lowering his head and reaching over to the passenger side. The killer withdrew the knife from the bag and leaned forward, positioning himself. The neck lay open and below him in a perfect target.

He drew back his hand and prepared a strong and practiced downward stab… when something caught his eye.

“JESUS CHRIST LOOK OUT!”

*

Franklin looked up just in time. What he saw was the Hot Dog. Large and red like grilled meat with an evil power-stripe of mustard running down the middle. It had escaped and found him. My insides will be shredded as the thing dances on my crumpled body because I asked for a cigarette, slashed a voice of naked panic within him. He slammed on the brakes and the car screamed through the rain.

In the half-moment before the impact forced his own knife through his eye, the killer knew what his victims had felt. Helpless and afraid, looking up at an apathetic figure wearing an unwavering grin.

Uncle Phil slammed into the hood of the car; his proud visage broken. The great and homely smile pasted itself to the windshield in so much inky paper goo.

*

Franklin did not remember waking up after the impact. He was told his head had been cut on the steering wheel as the car had slammed into the guard rail. By some distance removed from memory he suspected he had screamed when he found his passenger staring at him, face smashed into the dashboard and knife skewered through one eye. He gathered from the rigorous congregation of police and their extensive questioning that the youth had been involved with something bad. He lay on the ambulance trolley as the sky darkened and looked on as officers gathered around his passenger door, one holding the dirty fanny pack while another looked through the collection of pictures they contained.

He knew these things should have concerned him. He knew that he should have been thinking of how to tell his wife he would not make Thanksgiving. Even more, that he should have been wondering why his passenger had a knife through his eye. But these things did not fill his mind. It was the small blue packet that lay next to his front tire, that even now filled him with desire. His stomach growled.