Dark Days Under a Black Sun

LARKS

The tall man left his car by the pumps and started walking towards the station store. Sam called from the curb. Always good to give them space.

“Hi, excuse me, sir, are you heading to Seattle?”

Of course, he was; there was nothing between Ritzville and Seattle but Moses Lake, and this man wasn’t a steelworker. But it was always good to hear “yes” first thing.

“I am,” said the man. He was at least six and a half feet tall, broad at the shoulders, and muscular. He had light brown eyes and skin, black hair buzzed close, wore an orange tank-top, khaki shorts, and flip-flops, and smelled faintly of cannabis.

“Oh, hey great,” Sam said. “I wonder, may I have a ride, please?”

The tall man stepped forward, smiled, and held out his hand. “Yeah, sure. I’m Marvin.” His grip was firm but not demonstrative. “I’ll be a few minutes. Can I get you anything to drink?”

It was awfully nice to ask, Sam said, but he was just fine.

When Marvin entered the store, Sam took a longer look at his car, an early nineties Hyundai coupe, boxy and strangely small for such a man. Sam sat on the curb and tugged at the straps of his hiking pack. It would be a tight fit, but it didn’t matter, he had his ride.

“Ready?” Marvin said. As they walked to the car, he handed Sam a bottle of spring water, just in case: “It’s good to stay hydrated.”There was room enough in the trunk for Sam’s pack next to a blue gym bag and a worn Army sack, and just enough to wedge himself into the passenger side of the small vehicle. Though almost a foot shorter than Marvin, he was long and thick from the waist up and had to slouch to avoid the roof. Marvin seemed perfectly comfortable, folding his limbs as needed and extending where there was space for it. This achieved, they pulled out onto the highway.

~

“Are you a tiger?” Marvin said, filling the car with a deep, warm voice.

“I’m sorry?”

“A tiger. Your shirt.”

“Oh, this, nah,” Sam said. “I was just in South Carolina a few weeks back, picked this up at a Clemson game. I like to wear something bright when I’m hitching. And also, I figured it might help me get rides with older folks if I wore something to cover up the ink.” He pulled up the long sleeves of his shirt to show a constellation of black birds on his forearms.

“Hey,” Marvin said, smiling, “those are great. I haven’t seen anything like it before. Where did you get them?”

“A friend of mine makes woodcuts,” Sam said. “These were part of a bigger project she did a few years ago. I loved the birds, so she made me a print.”

“Beautiful. Like they were carved with a knife.”

“Yeah, she’s good.”

“Shame to cover them. Does it work?”

“What’s that?”

“Do old people give you rides?”

Sam chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes they do. I never really know what’s working or not. I shower and shave clean before heading out, wear a bright shirt, keep my pack in order. But it seems pretty random, who picks me up.”

The chuckle was calibrated for the audience, for the moment. It was a light, mirthful sound, but measured: he was a jovial fellow, but not a clown. Fifty thousand miles ago such artifice had bothered him. Now it was reflex, and not entirely disingenuous, just the accouterment of the affable traveler.

“Nothing is random,” Marvin said. “We’re all exactly where God wants us to be.”

“No doubt,” Sam said, nodding. So he would be a God-fearing man for a few hundred miles.

“Do they mean anything, in particular, the birds?”

“Not really. Never wanted a tattoo until I saw her birds and it just felt right.”

“Mmm, that’s the way to do it,” Marvin said.

The sun was half gone, and in the gown of orange light, Sam took in the landscape. A hitchhiker’s habit; the right observation could help move through an awkward silence—though that was hardly a possibility in Marvin’s little coupe. The interior was tidy. Not immaculate, but well kept. There was a carefully sealed crack in the dashboard above the glove compartment, which featured a lock in doubtful condition. The floor mats were an imperfect match for the upholstery, which was worn, but unstained and unabraded. Altogether, the modest two-door had held together nicely—but no glue or mechanic’s sure hands could suppress the intrusion of the highway. The floorpan seemed to provide as much protection from the rumble din of the road as a cafeteria tray on wheels, and Sam could imagine a good swipe with a boxcutter making the coupe a convertible.But rides were seldom posh, and he saw no rippled welding marks, no rust, no mold or perforations. No reason for concern. If there was the slightest discomfort of rushing along at 80 miles per hour in little more than a die-cast shell, Sam also enjoyed the sense that there was only the thinnest membrane between him and the plains of blanched shrubs and low yellow grass that stretched out to the horizon in all directions.

“Are you from the south, originally?” Marvin said.

“Oh, no, I was just hanging out there. I’m from New York.”

“New York City?”

“Queens.”

“Oh yeah? Why did you leave?”

“I guess twenty-six years seemed long enough.”

“That simple?”

“Pretty much. I had a shit job as a paralegal for two years after college—good money, but a shit job.”

Just two small mistakes, but Sam was annoyed with himself: never complain, unless they’ve already complained, and then you commiserate, just a few words; and never swear first.

“I hear that,” Marvin said. “You don’t need to tell me about lawyers. I could tell you about some fucking lawyers.”

“Yeah, seriously. But I had loans and it paid well, so I did it for as long as I had to. And then I left.”

“You just left. That’s great. To be able to just leave.”

“Well, no wife, no kids, and I don’t mind couches and hostels. I didn’t have a car, so just buses and hitchhiking—which is fun.” Sam never complained about hitchhiking. “When I run low on cash, I stop and do some temp work—paralegal, clerical, whatever. I pack a couple button-downs and slacks. Work for a few weeks and move on. If it’s someplace fun like Miami or Austin, a few more weeks.”

“And that’s it? You’re just going?”

“For now. I’ll stop at some point, but not yet.”

“How was Miami?”

“Really good. I was there for a while. My friend has a brother in the Coast Guard, and they had him in a one-bedroom right on South Beach. I was on his couch for a few days, and then he got restationed to Maryland. There were two months left on his lease, so he just gave me the keys.”

“Ahh man … stationed in South Beach.”

“Yeah, seriously.”

“Jesus. Army put me in Afghanistan, Iraq, Japan, Bahrain, Germany, C.A.R., Italy, Korea, Panama—too many. They sent me fucking everywhere. But not South Beach.”

“Woah, I knew they moved people around, but I didn’t think it was quite—“

“It isn’t. You go where they need you, and I trained guys, so they needed me everywhere.”

“What kind of training?”

“Self-defense, hand-to-hand combat.”

“Oh, intense. But not now?”

“Mmm, that’s the question. I don’t think so. Now I’m training guys here.”

“You mean private companies?”

“Nah, I train fighters, MMA.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I got a few guys, ex-Army, one Marine. And I fight too.”

“Oh wow, how does that work?”

“We’re a team, D.E.S.T.R.O.Y. Inc. Though we might change it because I can’t figure out what the letters should stand for. Too long, you know?”

“Mmm, maybe.”

“There are circuits. You have to jump through some hoops to get sanctioned. Permits and licenses.” And rules, Sam thought. And a ring and a ref. Not an underground fight club. Good. “We’re just getting started, still working out the details. But there are open tournaments too. So you do that, get some matches, build a reputation, a war chest for training.”

“How are you doing?”

“Well, like I said, we’re just getting started. So far it’s just me and Ray fighting. The others aren’t ready. Ray’s doing all right. Needs to get smaller, faster, drop a class. I’m 19-0, though only eight matches count towards my record. It’s kind of bullshit—bullshit and paperwork.” He shook his head. “I’ll have another pile waiting for me when I get back from Tacoma tomorrow. But we’ll get there.”

“What’s in Tacoma?”

“More bullshit, that’s what,” Marvin said. “Bullshit and fucking lawyers is in Tacoma.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You like music, Sam?”

“What? Oh, music, yeah, sure.”

“I want to put something on. You mind if I put something on?”

“No, definitely, I love music.”

“What kind do you like?”

“Oh, I like everything.”

“Everyone says that. What do you actually listen to? Or do you just turn on the radio?”

“Not really. I’ve been listening to a lot of old rock and blues, lately. Good road music. But I’m game for anything from hip-hop to classical.”

“Classical? Yeah, all right, you’ll like this.” Marvin flipped open the center console and withdrew a cassette tape adapter. Sliding it into the stereo and plugging the cord into the jack of his phone, he glanced down at the screen, moved his thumb around, and electronic music pounced from the speakers.