Night Auditor

Meredith (1)

Interstate 10.

An insanely long, boring stretch of road that covered the entirety of the Florida panhandle. On this somber road I drove in my gray Kia Soul, passing small town signs like boring channels in last night's motel TV.

Destination? I said to myself that I would come up with one on the road. Two weeks and about two thousand miles later, I still had yet to decide on one.

Purpose? There were a few in mind but nothing that I would label as the Official Purpose per say. That was also in my pending bucket.

Publix trucks with their fat bosoms mostly blocked the road. Then of course there were the Mazdas going twenty over the speed limit because they thought they were crowned kings of the road.

It didn't matter though.

It was three in the morning and there was comfort from not being the only soul (excuse my pun) in this gloomy interstate with nothing but the view of green and brown hues of trees and bushes outlining the limits of the road.

Oftentimes I wondered how I ever arrived from Point A to Point B. How long had I been in a trance, what with my mouth gaping wide open and all (sometimes it does gape, but not all the time)? My attention had been partial yet it was as if I was one with my Kia, not having to actively think about the dive itself. Time was no longer linear, just a background reminder that I was still part of this world, part of the daily circle of life I no longer participated in.

I didn't mind those moments of involuntary daydreaming state especially if the daydreaming involved staying at a log cabin in the Colorado mountains or drinking my sixth margarita for the day on Carnival cruise. Anything was better if it meant not having to yell out one-sided fights against drivers (who didn't deserve their driving privileges in the slightest bit by the way) who mostly had no idea they were being loudly cursed at by a five foot woman in her small Kia.

Not that I had any control over my road rage.

I really didn't.

When an idiot abruptly changed to my lane without a turn signal or when an imbecile would swerve between traffic just to get a few feet ahead, the angry sweat would pool on either side of my temples and my hand grip on the wheel would be so tight my palms would blush red after.

Sometimes, however, I would see him.

If I were filling up my car, I would see him watching me intently from another pump on the other end of the gas station. If I were in my motel bed, he would find a corner to quietly observe me from while making it known that we were there in the room as I was. If I were on the road on nights such as tonight, he would be a mute pole appearing in between dead trees, his forceful gaze grabbing mine from afar.

But I wouldn't look back.

Sure, if it were any other creep just staring at me from pump two then yes, I would be furious and probably start a fight with a man twice my size.

But it was him. And when I saw him, there was no anger. Just seven months' worth of bottled up sadness spilling out as the rotten smell of fear.

I had seen him a few times before and quickly learned how the visits would end with me shivering in my motel bed, or in my car, trying to forget the horrific image of him. His anemic skin almost shining in the dark. The thin veils of his rotting skin submitting into the deepest crevices of his once handsome face. The bulging of his eyes I could clearly see even through my tightly shut lids.

Most of the time, he was gone.

And even in his retreat I could feel the looming presence of him.

In him there was no peace, no calm, no sign of anything other than the empty void beyond life. Billy, as it seemed, did not rest in peace.

That made me angry the most.

That Thursday night seven months ago was proof that life punished the good. That there was absolutely no reward to living your life as a kind person because it would all go away the second the universe decided it was your time. Cold cases proved there were murderers who got away with their evil only to get a second chance to life which their victims singlehandedly paid for. Scarred men and women who had to continue on with their lives while they tried to bury the image of the demon as it violated their body in the most horrendous of ways.

Billy was neither a murderer and for damn sure he wasn't a rapist. And yet, through his short visits from death, he always looked like he had suffered the torture murderes and defilers should have.

Ahead was a huge flashing sign erect like a blinding oasis slapped in the middle of this dark, humid highway desert. On the sign was a black and yellow bee with its stingy butt poking out to its left and its gloved right hand pointing to the gas station beneath bright names that said Busy Bee. Next to it was another sign telling me of my next spontaneous route: two miles until the next exit to Interstate 75.

Deciding that the Busy Bee was as good of a stop as any, I pulled into one of the pumps.

The gas stations, with its cartoonish mascot plastered on every single pump, was deserted except for the parked sixteen-wheelers with its drivers either sleeping or jack off, and of course Billy, like the ever-punctual ghost that he was, faithfully standing on the other side of the pumps where I expected to see him. The convenience store, with its huge signs advertising the variety of lottery tickets it sold, was closed for business. I peeked through the window for good measure, hoping the store just had shitty lights so I could get myself a Monster. But there was not a soul in the store and for a moment I wished I could ask ghost Billy to be my genie and fulfill my wish of a can of Monster.

Interstate 75 had a bit more life to it than its panhandle equivalent. Thirty miles in, I counted six signs stating which exits to take for tourists heading to Disney World, and another eight signs advertising the new Galaxy's Edge in Hollywood Studios. Only other thing competing with the Disney signs were billboards for adult stores which conveniently included which numbered exit horny travelers should take. Neither of which I had been to, neither of which I was interested in adding to my ever-changing itinerary.

Though Billy would have loved a visit to Hollywood Studios. He was a big fan of the Star Wars franchise and he always talked about wanting to take a vacation in Orlando and spend a week between Disney parks. I wasn't a hardcore fan like Billy was, but I tolerated Star Wars and Billy's enthusiasm was contagious at times.

But Billy now seemed as far away as Clovis even despite the occasional glimpses of him through death.

Except for when the agony comes in my dreams, of course.