5: The Serpent

    The fall was late and the winter fast approaching, but the midday gradually became insufferably hot for Connor in his small, old, beat up Ford festiva, with no AC and 45 mph the ludicrously low speed limit on this unkempt, abandoned road that led him west towards the secluded community known as Sycamore. Connor knew for certain that 55, or even 65, would have been perfectly reasonable for any competent driver, but he obediently submitted himself to the written command, which was reiterated on black and white signs roughly each 50 miles.

    Finally a speck of green appeared beside the forlorn highway in the brown and gray distance. It revealed itself as a roadside sign: Sycamore 60 miles. At last, Connor thought to himself, this labored journey would soon be over. The earth stretched flat before him, and on the horizon ahead he could just make out little brown lumps, what could only be the buildings of the town.

    The condition of the road grew even more abysmal as the gap closed between the choking, gasping festiva and Sycamore, but Connor felt that if he just kept it running, he would at least make it to the town, where repairs could be made. This thought had crossed his mind for the tenth time when the vehicle suddenly lurched into an unseen pothole and Connor felt the familiar pop of an overworn tire. Being, by nature, an economic man, Connor forced himself to turn off the engine, hoping in desperation that it would start again when the tire was replaced.

    Connor was not especially mechanically-minded (or -handed, for that matter) but he did have the benefit of having had to change a tire before. In twenty minutes the new tire was on, the flat was in the trunk with the tools, and Connor was proudly wiping gray grime across his sweating brow. Immediately, he realized what he had done, and polished the spot on his face off with his once-white sleeve.

    Back in the driver’s seat, Connor slowly placed the key in the shaft, and said a prayer of benediction for the poor motor. “I know you will do this for me, Lord, because you want me to make it to Sycamore, but please cure what lingering doubt I still have and cannot help having.” He firmly twisted the key and…

    The engine roared back to life. Connor sighed and laughed and knew that God was, indeed, with him, and he continued down the path that would shortly lead him to an inevitable victory over the powers of darkness.

    Connor was a man who often sees the glass as half-full, whereas many others, if they had been in the passenger seat beside him, might have noted to themselves the increased sputtering and shaking the car was now undergoing, not dissimilar to the coughing fits of the old, unbelieving Hanover. Connor Andrews did not even notice, at first, when the needle on the temperature gauge began slowly to climb from its agreeable midpoint toward the red H.

    As Connor glided past the rustic “Entering Sycamore” sign, he began to wonder if he was imagining a burning smell. The heat had only grown worse, and he reasoned for a moment that this might be affecting his other senses as well, but looking down at the dashboard he saw that it was, instead, affecting, most severely, the performance of his engine.

    For a moment, Connor was consumed with anger at the dreaded misfortune, but then he spied the first visible business sign in the empty street: Addison’s Auto. It could only be providence, he thought. He tried to brush away the frustration, but he couldn’t help thinking that God might at least have let his poor festiva hold on a little bit longer.

    Rather than burn the engine out, he turned it off and began pushing it into the large, dirt parking lot. The wind kicked up dust into his eyes, and his shoulder grew sore with the pressure as his hand steadily held the steering wheel, but Connor bore it bravely. Several other vehicles of different sizes and states of disrepair studded the lot randomly. Horribly untidy, Connor thought, as he again wiped away the sweat pouring from his brow. He would, at least, represent some kind of order. He parked his festiva parallel to the nearest car of similar color.

    Connor confidently strode into the dark, little office, barely more than a shed, and found himself surrounded by the buzzing of many fans. Behind the counter, his back to the door, a long-haired teenage boy appeared to be wiping a greasy, angular piece of metal with an even greasier rag. He turned only half-around at the sound of the door, took one glance at Connor, and then apparently decided that one glance was enough and turned his back again.

    “Whatsa matter, you lost?” the boy demanded, carelessly.

    “I don’t think I am,” Connor replied, trying only faintly to restrain the contempt in his voice, both for the boy’s appearance and his behavior. “This is the town of Sycamore, isn’t it?”

    “Yeah, ‘tis.” His back still turned

    “And this is a shop for auto repairs, isn’t it?”

    “A real Sherlock, ain't ya?”

    For a moment, Connor’s voice seemed paralyzed as he mimicked the motions of speech, but in his frantic frustration no words came forth. Perhaps it was in this way that Connor so cleverly avoided the utterance of even the slightest profanity.

    “Well, whadja need?” The boy put down the greasy metal and turned at last, greasing now his hands with the rag (a process visibly unnecessary, considering the state of his hands before).

    Connor fixed the dirty-faced lad with a stern stare. “I… need…” he said slowly, “my… car… fixed.”

    “Well, what’s wrong with it?” The boy stared him back with apathetic disdain.

    “I’m not a mechanic, I don’t know what the matter is.” Neither budging from the stare.

    “D****t, we’ll be here all day.” He slapped the greasy rag on the counter in front of him still holding the stare. “What’s it been doing wrong’s what I need to know.”

    Connor finally broke the line of sight and looked up at the ceiling in furious desperation. “Child!” he thundered. “Take me to your boss, NOW!”

    The miscreant did not recoil at all from Connor’s authoritatively raised voice. He grimaced instead. “You don’t call me child, buster.” he said, squinting his eyes. “But I’ll still help you find old Adder. At least you can go and bother him and not me.” He pushed open the knobless backdoor and stormed out. Connor exited again from the front and stomped angrily around the building.

    The boy faced the dusty lot, put his hands around his mouth in bullhorn fashion, and bellowed. “Addison! Adder! Adder, where the hell are ya?” There was no reply. It seemed evident to Connor that the adolescent was screaming to a graveyard of dry automobile bones.

    “The boss’s here somewheres.” The boy started tramping toward Connor’s festiva and its dilapidated companion. For a minute, Connor waited with his hand to his head, groaning over the depravity of the miserable child. Then, perceiving that he might be meaning to wreak further havoc upon his property, Connor quickly strode out after him.

    The troublemaker had placed himself between the two vehicles and looked in through the windows of the junk-heap truck. Connor was momentarily relieved, but then the boy turned and began inspecting his festiva, and he quickened his pace. The teen put his greasy hand on the car’s window, creating shadow to see past the glare, and Connor continued quickening his pace, right up to the side of the old, junked companion car. Within arm’s reach of the dusty metal his foot struck something hard, and Connor was immediately aware of a sharp pain in his heel. He cried out and jumped back.

    Wriggling out from underneath the truck, a thin middle-aged man cursed and slurred in a coarse voice, and brought himself to his knees. “Hell! Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Putting a veinous hand on the truck, he slowly gained his feet.

    Simultaneously, Connor had knelt down to inspect his wounded ankle. He groaned, “I’m lucky you didn’t break my foot, it bit right through the shoe!” he exclaimed, pointing at the black wrench that had been dropped to the ground.

    “You stepped on my head!” He took a few slow, deep breaths and then rolled his eyes. “Well, let’s call it even, Bucky. I’m not the type to hold a grudge.” He forced a slight smile through his dirty wrinkles and extended his hand. “No harm done.”

    Connor was not certain that no harm was done, but he concluded that he would not be the kind to hold a grudge either and shook the hand, wincing (partly from the pain in his foot, partly from the realization that his hand was now also full of grease.) “You’re Addison, then. I’m Connor Andrews; I just got into town and my car broke down.”

    “Oh? Well, all right. What’s the matter with it?”

    “Refuses to say,” the miscreant broke in. “Too good to be helped, it seems.”

    Addison read the disapproving look on Connor’s face and his smile widened slightly. “You’ve met the Guttersnipe, I see. It seems he’s taken to you, as much as he does to any visitor in Sycamore.”

    “You should’ve stayed the hell out,” Guttersnipe muttered, as he climbed onto the back of the old truck. “The b*****d called me a child.”

    “Yeah, well, he doesn’t know better yet, does he?” Addison offered.

    “What?” Connor exclaimed. “You call him Guttersnipe; is that supposed to be better?”
    “Well, that’s his name.” Addison walked around to the other side of the festiva. “Snipe, for short, if it’s too hard for you to remember,” the dirty boy said, and put a toothpick between his teeth. At a gesture from Addison, Connor handed over his ring of keys, and soon the hood of the car was up and Addison was poking around the engine.

    “And the boy calls you Adder,” Connor mused. “Does everyone have a nickname around here?”

    “Just about,”he replied. “It’s a small town, a tight community, We all rely on each other; we’re all connected somehow. We’re all runaways from other lives. It’s a live-and-let-live place. No real traditions, not many elders, except for me. Not even really any laws, except what comes naturally. No churches, nobody on our backs telling us right and wrong. Everyone does as they see fit. It’s really the way to live. No ambitions. Of course, everyone eventually has ambitions, and so they leave. I’ve stayed around here about 20 years, but everyone else in this town has come and gone within a decade…”

    “Well, what’s wrong with it?” Connor broke in on the monologue.

    “Nothing wrong with it, just as I said, people get ambitions, or get judgmental, and they leave, and it’s no hard feelings as far as I’m concerned…”

    “With the car, Adder, what’s wrong with the car?” Connor had mostly stopped listening after “no churches.” He was growing impatient and angry, and also very sweaty.

    “Ahh, the car,” Addison laughed at himself, “of course. Well, nothing’s in great condition, to tell you the truth, but I do see what the main trouble is. There’s a slipped belt right here. Cracked too, nearly in half; you’ll need a new one. It’s the, uh… Snipe, what’s this belt here that hits the power-steering, water-pump, air pump and whatnot?”

    “What kind of a mechanic doesn’t even know the names of all the parts?” Connor sighed, angrily.

    “The only mechanic you’re gonna find in this one-horse town, buster,” Snipe’s high-pitched voice shouted out. “And I’m sure as hell not gonna help you now.” He jumped off the old truck and went back inside, to rejoin the hissing of the office fans.

    “He’s right about that.” Adder said, turning around and sitting on the bumper. He folded his greasy arms across his greasy, dirty shirt. “Now, I could just run into town on my motorcycle quick-like and get you a new belt. I’d be back in about two hours, then I could probably put it on in another hour. That could be the only serious problem, but there’s no way to be sure. It would probably be better for you if I just tow it into town. I’d have to do it after dinner, then they’d probably have it taken care of in two days. They have the equipment, you see, but it is slow business out there. Seems that’s always the case, nothing is ever all in the same place at the same time.”

    “It’s all in the Lord’s time, I suppose,” mused the preacher. “I was planning on having to spend a few days here, anyway, so it’s really no great shame.”

    “Haha, yes, the Lord’s time. That’s a good way to think of it. A good way to think of anything that doesn’t go our way, though I prefer to call it fate, myself. Less of a loaded term, I think, ‘fate.’”

    Connor’s sweaty brow turned stern. “I was not speaking colloquially, my friend. I’m here on the Lord’s work, and I have no doubt that the minute my primary purpose here is achieved, my car will be ready for a speedy return.”

    “Well, you’re a believer in miracles indeed, if you really think that junk-heap will ever go very speedy ever again.”

    If looks could melt, the Adder would have become a pool. But the old man merely smiled apologetically at Andrews’ steely gaze. “Well, I suppose, when you said ‘speedy,’ maybe you were speaking colloquially. I mean no harm, my man.” The righteous indignation still did not fade from Connor’s eyes, but Addison went on, ignoring it. “So you’re staying a few days. There’s a little local B’nB, though it’s a bit expensive for not much. Or, I could offer you a corner of a room. Just be warned, the Snipe snores.”

    The mere thought of sharing a room with his new arch-nemesis, the miscreant, shook Connor Andrews out of his righteous stupor. “If you would point out the inn, I’d be appreciative.”

    Addison curled his tongue, as if restraining from comment that perhaps the word “inn” might be a little too idyllic for the town’s B&B. But restrain himself he did, and behind a sly smile he simply said, “Yes, I’ll show you.” He stretched out a lanky, greasy hand to point the way.