Vike
Legacy Name: Vike

It was the worst cup of coffee he’d had in his life. Boiled cabbage rolled in rotten eggs and stuffed in a sweat sock couldn’t rival the flavor of the black sludge floating in his cup.

“How’s everything tasting, Hon?” The waitress came prancing over. There really was no other word to describe her movement. He glanced at the crumbs that were the remnant of his meal. The toast had been burnt and the eggs runny.

He offered her an easy smile. “I always know where to come for a little home cooking.” Not saying much considering his wife’s cooking skills were limited to soup and microwave dinners.

The waitress beamed. “You have a nice day now.”

He didn’t linger, knowing the morning rush was about to start. He left a ten- the early shift was usually the surly types- and paid his bill at the counter.

He could see the sun rising over the distant highway, painting the roofs of passing cars a buttery gold. It reflected off the front bumper of his rig, nearly blinding him. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes, the peace of the moment shattered. He had six hundred miles to go before he’d get paid again. He climbed into the cab that was both his sanctuary and his prison.

His wife had teased him constantly about how clean he kept his cab. There were no food wrappers littering the floor nor papers strewn across the empty seat. The only real decoration he had was a pair of blue fuzzy dice she had given him as a gift. Every day he tried to convince himself to throw away this last reminder of her presence. He wrapped his hand around the string that held his old life in place and released it with a growl. Not today.

He was happiest on the highway. One could feel almost like a king, glancing down to observe the snatches of life in all its intriguing variety. A lady in a fur-trimmed jacket nearly missed her turn as she was paying more attention to her makeup mirror than the road. A beefy man devoured a double bacon cheeseburger, his hand casually slung over the steering wheel. A family of four, their rear view almost completely obstructed by hastily packed suitcases and a pink inner tube shaped like an octopus. The little boy pressed his nose to the glass, considering the massive red cab with awe. Vike grinned and touched the rim of his cap, his smile fading as the overburdened blue van switched lanes and moved to join the line of departures. Vike’s booted foot caressed the gas pedal gently, setting the rig in motion. The life of a king is lonely.

The woman behind the desk had horn-rimmed glasses and a beehive hairdo from another decade. Its unnatural orange hue turned pink in the neon glow of the motel’s sign that shone through the window at her side. The plaster of the walls was badly cracked and an odor of mothballs lingered in the air. She pursed her lips and stared at Vike as if he were some microscopic specimen she intended to dissect. He met her gaze easily. “I’d like a room for the night.”

“Eighty bucks and we don’t do checks.”

He slapped the bills on the counter, eight rumpled tens. She held each one up to the light but could find nothing to object to. She dropped a key with a grimy tag into his outstretched hand. On the tag was printed a black 3.

“Check-out’s at ten or you pay another night.”

Vike shrugged and trudged up the shabby stairwell. He could almost swear his grandmother had used the same carpet in her living room, only hers had not nearly so many unidentified stains. Dirty brown must have been all the rage sixty years ago.

He tossed his lone suitcase onto the bed, half-expecting the springs to come flying out like in some cheesy cartoon. This was the kind of place families came to at three in the morning when they’d somehow passed all the tourist traps and Mother was screaming at Father that the children needed a bed though they were sleeping soundly in the backseat.

He flipped on the TV which, to its credit, didn’t have rabbit ears. Most of the channels showed up as static. There appeared to be a grand total of three available and as he had no interest in power juicers or the real father of Cynthia’s baby he settled for the weather channel. He couldn’t even find a game.

It didn’t take him long to get bored. He decided to see if there was running water. The sink was cracked, he’d been shorted on towels and one of the cabinet’s doorknobs was missing. Still, the toilet had been cleaned recently and the shower worked. Small victories.

He used to lie awake some nights and listen to her breathe in time to the slap of the waves on the shore. She’d run down the beach toward him, laughing as they both fell in a heap on the sand. She’d stroke his cheek and tell him that was what life was all about, that carefree joy they shared. He wanted to ask her now why it hadn’t been enough. She’d left him on a night just like this, when the moon was full and bright, and his future had meant something to him. She’d left no note, hadn’t even bothered to wake him. He’d been able to smell her perfume for hours after her departure. Her clothes and books had been stealthily packed and moved while he worked. She hadn’t even left him one photo, though she’d drawn the line at breaking into his car. Or maybe she’d forgotten the existence of the dice. She could do that.

His return to reality came in the form of a moonbeam that shot through the window. He squinted at the door with its broken latch, searching for the tremble of the handle. She would walk as if considering each step, placing each perfect ankle with the precision of a dancer. He continued to stare long into the night, but all that pale ray illuminated was the carcass of a beetle, dried up and turned onto its back.

Story by Pureflower
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