Delfino
Outside of Poplar Bluff, Missouri
9 years, 131 days after
Hello.
It’s me, Delfino.
So, um…
Look, I ain’t much of a writer, but what the hell?
Way I figure it, this is my big chance. I can scrawl out a little journal here — a few pages, I reckon — hand it off to ol’ Baghead, and then I’ll be published. Immortalized on the page. A legend who lives on and on and on via the magic powers of the written word.
So I’ll have that going for me.
Of course, Bags isn’t himself just now. Lost a damn hand via machete. Not good.
I think it was the left. Pretty sure. I guess I should check that real quick. Want this journal to be accurate.
Hang on.
Back.
Yep. His left hand lies in an alley in Arkansas. Or whatever remains of it.
I remember when we snipped that little flap of skin that kept it dangling from his wrist and the hand dropped away at last… for a split second, I wondered if we should keep it. I mean, not seriously. It was an irrational thought or whatever. I just got the weirdest urge to snatch it up when I saw it lying there on the asphalt. A hand seems like the kind of thing you’d want to keep, you know? Important piece of equipment, that. Not something to go leaving in a mud puddle.
But no. It was already too late for it. Already gone. His severed paw was close enough to one of the buildings that I figure the fire took it in time.
Anyhow, he’s been sleeping in the backseat of the Delta 88, mostly. Drinking a lot of fluids. Taking pain meds. All that junk.
OK wait.
I should set the scene or something, maybe. Is that what you’re supposed to do?
We’re in Missouri now. I parked us in the brush near a small playground to sleep for the night, and it’s morning now. A gray-skied bullshit morning. Not raining, at least.
I’m sitting on a picnic table being devoured by green lichen. The wood planks have gone wonky, so the son of a bitch leans like a one-legged man. Better than nothin’, I reckon.
The wind rips through here once in a while and blows everything around. Grass flapping everywhere. Swishing like mad.
We’ve been taking it slow, to be honest with you. Way more breaks and sleeping than would normally be necessary. I don’t figure it would do Bags much good to arrive at his destination in his current state. So we’ll keep the pace conservative for now. Let him heal and whatnot.
He’ll need his wits about him when he gets where he’s going, and even then it might not be enough, I’m afraid. Right now he’s sleeping damn near twenty hours a day and not sitting up for more than two or three minutes at a time. I figure he’ll start getting better sooner than later, but… He lost a lot of blood, and I imagine he’s in a great deal of pain.
Pulled over to eat lunch just now, and I don’t see a lot of reason to hurry, so I’m back to writing. Ruth and I built a small fire in the grass field just next to the road, and I’ve got a pot of water on for tea. Rare and expensive as shit these days, but I think I enjoy it more than I used to. Supposedly it’s not even real tea. Some other plant, according to the rumors. Tastes good, though.
Citrus notes. A hint of banana followed by a spicy burst of cloves. Smooth mouth feel. Or whatever.
Ruth sits out next to the fire now, picking at a patch of clover, poking sticks at the coals and what have you. Seems like we’ll never get out of Missouri. I guess at our current pace, it might be a while yet.
Now that I have this pen clutched in my fingers, I do remember some writing I did way, way back. Maybe a couple years after the world went to hell. It was a letter. A letter to a special lady friend, as a matter of fact. And it wound up depicting some harrowing shit. I think I know where it is, too. Would make another excellent entry in one of Baghead’s books. Maybe I’ll draw him up a little map or something.
Ha. Didn’t take ol’ Bags long to figure out what I’m up to.
“What are you doing?” he just said from the backseat.
“Writin’.”
“Writing?”
“Writin’.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“So you figure this is your big chance, huh?” he said, finally.
I laughed.
“Yep. So happens I’m fixin’ to be immortalized on the page,” I said.
“I thought you weren’t much for the written word?”
“I’m not.”
It’s the truth. Only novel I remember liking much was A Clockwork Orange. Disturbing shit but weirdly funny. All that crazy slang. Everything was “horrorshow” this and that. Malenky. Rot. A pain in the gulliver. And I liked all that stuff about “your humble narrator.” That bit always stuck with me for some reason.
Anyhow, I guess a lack of appreciation for literature never stopped anyone from writing a book before. Why should it start now?
I went out to get my water off the fire, and once the raging boil died back a little, I packed a wad of dark stuff into the little tea strainer and set it to steep. It’ll only take a few minutes, and once it’s done, I figure we can get a move on.
It’s getting to be late in the day now. I don’t figure we’ll drive long after dark, either, so I should probably get things wrapped up and be gone. Your humble narrator needs to get back on the road.
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