Stella Artois Comes in Cans

“You are a beer mug, not a champagne flute. Remember that, Josie.” Charlie said this as he handed me a blue vinyl emergency roadside kit with a silver bow on top. The kit, a goodbye gift, was stocked with things he insisted I’d need for my cross-country drive: jumper cables, duct tape, tire pump, travel mug, Fix-a-Flat tire sealant, flashlight, flares. We were standing in front of my condo—former condo—and I imagined we were both thinking the same thing: It takes a special kind of financial incompetence to lose money on San Francisco real estate.

“The only other necessities are Triple A membership and a killer stereo system.” Charlie opened my car’s passenger side door and peered into the old Subaru. “I don’t see a CD player. Or a hookup for your iPhone.”

“Charlie, the car’s an ’01. It has a tape deck.”

He shook his head. “A good stereo is a must. You’ll lose your mind somewhere in the Midwest without one.”

“I’ll be fine.” Tears burned the backs of my eyes. A move from San Francisco to Scranton, PA, is a downgrade that is impossible to exaggerate. I’ve heard others who were banished back to east coast towns proclaim missing the four seasons or, more ridiculously, wanting to live closer to family. But I couldn’t put a positive spin on my situation. Returning to my birthplace—a long-depressed Rust Belt town notable for its institutionalized corruption and as a sitcom setting—was something I’d vowed never to do. It was a move that felt more like punishment than a new start. It was the cumulative result of not one or two bad decisions, but rather, bad decision-making as a way of life.

Charlie looked off to the side and seemed to be calculating his next move. “You know what?” he said, after a long minute. “I have another present for you… A Sirius XM system. All we have to do is go to Costco and get it installed.”

“I’m broke, not stupid. I’m not letting you buy me a satellite radio.” I pecked Charlie quickly on the cheek to signal it was time for us both to move along.

We’d met in flying trapeze class. Charlie was the coach. He was subsequently fired for showing up to work drunk. Afterward, he took a job as a security guard at the Union Bank of California branch I frequented. When my condo went into foreclosure and I had to do a short sale, I withdrew the sum total of my fortune, $7,869, from my bank accounts and put it in a safe deposit box, along with my grandmother’s wedding band and my father’s Omega JFK commemorative watch. Over the ten weeks it took me to list and sell my condo, I’d visited the bank weekly to extract cash from its hiding place, and that’s how Charlie and I reconnected.

A week earlier, friends had thrown me a going away party but since some of them were people I’d also met in flying trapeze classes, Charlie refused to come. This is why he got a private farewell. When the tears started streaming down my cheeks Charlie understandably mistook them for sadness over saying goodbye to him. But, really, I knew what I would miss most was not my friends; it was my condo. The sweeping southeastern exposure, the sunrise over the East Bay, trumpet lilies in the meditation garden, eucalyptus trees in Buena Vista Park. Also, I’d miss the weather.

As I opened my car door, Charlie took hold of my shoulders and leaned in close, hunching his tall frame over me. “Keep dreaming. Never abandon yourself. You’re a shot glass, not a wine goblet. You fall and chip, but you don’t shatter,” Charlie said. He sounded dubious.

I’d known the move was inevitable long before I’d told anyone. It was 2012 and I was still reeling from the economic implosion of 2008. I’d made a few half-hearted attempts to reset my compass, but after losing the last of my lucrative corporate writing contracts and taking out home equity loans that exceeded the principle I had invested in my condo, I gave up. A job teaching writing at a community college in Scranton, where I’d be surrounded by family, was the best gig I could scare up. Health insurance and a modest pension, a rental apartment I could afford. The me who would arrive in Pennsylvania would be practical, smart, and I had nearly a week of driving to make the transformation.

Once on the road, it took only until Utah for me to regret turning down Charlie’s offer of a satellite radio. Driving across country—80 East all the way—might be the most tedious thing a human being can do. I had no company other than an old Zydeco cassette, the five-tape box set of all 27 hours and 16 minutes of Ulysses read with an Irish accent, and talk radio. I knew I was on the verge of becoming totally unhinged when I started looking forward to evening baseball games. In Laramie, Wyoming, while eating a hummus sandwich in the Sweet Melissa Vegan Café, I briefly considered taking what was left of my cash and renting an apartment right there. But, of course, I got back on the road and drove, not just farther from away from the sanity of San Francisco, but away from sound judgment itself.

My breaking point occurred somewhere in Nebraska. If, when you hear the word “Nebraska" you draw a complete blank, you are not alone. Nebraska is wholly unmemorable, stretching on, flat and featureless, gray concrete flanked by browned-out fields sown, presumably, with rows of genetically-modified corn. It was an endless chasm between where I was and anywhere I wanted to be. When I passed the silver late model Cadillac Escalade, abandoned on the shoulder of the road with its license plates removed, I thought nothing of it until a few miles later. That’s when I spotted a man sauntering along the highway in tight jeans and a cowboy hat, carrying a huge rucksack. I slowed—from 95 miles an hour all the way down to 20—to get a close look. He looked good—tall, broad shoulders, a back that tapered down to a perfect butt. Still, boredom, more than anything, compelled me to stop.

I hesitated, then rolled down the window. “Need a ride?”

He turned toward me slowly, as if he’d just then noticed I was there. He dropped a banana peel on the road and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Beautiful day,” he said.

The look on his face, you’d swear he was strolling along a Caribbean beach. As he reached for the car door, I got a glimpse of his eyes. Catlike, green, narrowed to a slit. I couldn’t decide if his eyes were pretty in a cool way, or if they were just cold. I had a brief second thought about giving him a ride, but his smile swung me back around. He eased into the car, the treacly scent of bananas and carnal companionship radiating off him. He tipped his cowboy hat, and said, “Robby. Robby the Rodeo Clown. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“Rodeo clown? That’s something I don’t hear every day.”

“Hmm,” Robby said.

“That Caddy back there… Is it yours?”

“I ain’t got a car,” Robby laughed. He opened his rucksack, and pulled out another banana, which he held as if it was a gun.

“How did you end up here?”

“Well, ma’am, a lovely lady showed me kindness and picked me up,” he smirked, pulling the trigger on the banana.

I suppressed a shudder. I wracked my brain for a conversation starter, but could think of nothing. The useless radio had lost all reception and buzzed with static. I grabbed my iPhone and checked to make sure I had bars. I made a big production of noting said bars so Robby would know I was 911-ready. But he was paying no attention to me. He’d bolted upright in seat, his eyes darting around the car.

“What’s that noise?” he hissed. “Turn off that damn radio.”

I wondered if he had a sensitivity to sound, and things like crinkling cellophane and cracking knuckles bugged him. “One of my friends has misophonia,” I stammered, punching at the radio. “She can hear someone snapping gum from a mile away…”

“Shut up!” Robby twitched, his eyes bulging. He clung to his backpack like it was a life preserver and unbuckled his seatbelt. He twisted from side to side, searching the backseat. He grabbed my arm and pointed to a bee flitting on the window behind him.

“Get that fuckin’ bee outta here!” The volume of his twang hurt my ears.

I rolled down the backseat windows. The bee flew toward the windshield. Robby screamed, batting at it with his banana. I opened the rest of the windows and the bee flew harmlessly away. I turned to Robby and smiled sweetly. Seeing him terrorized by a tiny bee made him seem less threatening. I touched him lightly on the shoulder and he jumped, jabbing at the buttons on his door, sputtering, “Close the windows!”

The windows creaked and for a sickening moment I thought one might be stuck. I tried to distract Robby. “I happen to love bumblebees! I love their fat, fuzzy bodies and tiny wings.” My speech raced, and my voice shrilled. “Did you know…” I paused for dramatic effect and to catch my breath. “Aerodynamically bumblebees shouldn’t even be able to fly. Some say they are definitive proof of the existence of…”

“Hate those fuckers! Bees are my kryptonite.” Robby the Rodeo Clown practically spat.

He sank back into the seat and gazed straight ahead. I tried to imagine a scenario where I could open the passenger side door and push him out. I fingered my iPhone, wishing it was pepper spray. All the crap Charlie had packed into my roadside emergency kit, but he’d neglected to include Mace. Robby was whistling low—the Old Spice jingle, over and over—looking as bored as I was in the minutes before I picked him up. We drove for miles, the only car on the road, except for an occasional pickup truck speeding by in the opposite direction.

“Where are you headed to anyway?” My tinny voice was barely a whisper, but the undercurrent was loud and clear: How soon can I get you out of my car?

Robby stopped whistling. He stopped munching on the banana and waved it at a billboard that was still too far away to read.

“Matter of fact. I was just thinking about that. Right up there a few miles is Seward.” He pronounced it, “Surd.” “Happens to have one of the best sights in this beautiful state of Nebraska.” Robby said this without a trace of irony. “Whaddya say we stop, take a look at the World’s Largest Time Capsule?”

Sure enough, that is exactly what the billboard read. I relaxed. Sightseeing is a normal activity. I was certain the time capsule would be in some sort of museum, surrounded by people, where I would be safe and easily able to rid myself of Robby. But that was not to be. The World’s Largest Time Capsule, a small windowless building with a low-pitched roof and overhanging eaves, was planted in what appeared to be someone’s backyard, a few feet from a kiddie swing set. Next door, a man was mowing his lawn.

Robby flung open the car door before I’d even come to a complete stop. When I put the car in neutral, he reached across the dashboard, turned off the ignition, and pocketed my keys. He did this so quickly, I didn’t realize what was happening. He left his bulky backpack on the passenger seat as he strode off in the opposite direction of the time capsule towards the neighboring yard. I stared at my empty ignition.

I scrambled out of the car, my long, tie-dye dress catching on the stick shift and ripping when I tugged it free. “Why did you take my keys?” My voice squeaked. Robby squeezed my key ring into the back pocket of his tight jeans. My panic was momentarily replaced with admiration of his firm butt until I remembered I was essentially a hostage. “What the fuck?” I finally yelled. “My keys.”

Robby ignored me. I stumbled after him, nearly face-planting when I tripped over a small mound of earth, kicking up a cloud of copper-colored dust. I reached Robby, out of breath, on the verge of hyperventilating. I grabbed his jacket and yelped as he batted my hand away. His eyes, glinting like shards of green glass in the late morning light, were trained on the guy mowing his lawn. The man leaned over the handlebars of his lawnmower, let out a long, piercing whistle, shook his head at Robby, and said, “About time.”

“Man of my word, Harry.” Robby’s voice was a growl, and I reflexively stopped, watching him continue to march towards Harry, the trail of copper billowing behind him. Robby scanned the area, his mouth curled into a sneer. He reached under his jacket and pulled out a silver gun with a long black tube attached to the barrel. The tube must have been a silencer because the only sound the gun made was a series of metallic pops when Robby fired three shots into Harry’s chest.

Years earlier, my car had broken down in Watsonville, California, which is one of those old Gold Rush towns. The sole form of entertainment there was a Wild West reenactment. I briefly thought that’s what was happening—that I’d stumbled into a scene of sorts and the guy he’d shot would jump up and laugh at the look on my face. But then, Robby turned the gun on me. “Ma’am, I really hate to do this,” he said.

I was half-dazed. I felt like I’d smoked too much weed and everything, except me, was moving really fast. A hollow buzzing sound—the sound of fear—surrounded me, and I heard nothing else. No rumbling cars, no barking dogs, no wailing babies. I stood stunned, gaping at Robby. I snapped out of my stupor, though, when I realized the copper cloud was not merely dust. Something more menacing had been hiding in that mound of earth I’d tripped over.

Robby strolled toward me, the gun aimed at my head. “Close your eyes,” he said, and his own eyelids fluttered as if he was demonstrating what he wanted me to do.

Instead, my eyes widened as I watched the copper cloud zoom straight towards Robby’s face. Robby flailed frantically and tried to aim his gun at the bees. I bolted to the driver’s side of my car and crouched. I heard the pop, pop, pop of Robby’s gun and the sound of bullets ricocheting off my car. I wondered if Fix-a-Flat could repair a bullet hole and if I’d remembered to get my spare patched after my last flat. Robby was cursing at the bees, calling them vile names, threatening to kill them, as if he could intimidate them into leaving him alone.

I bobbed my head up just above the side view mirror, which was immediately shattered by a bullet. My body twitched with fear and my feet slipped out of my sandals. I fell face first. From that vantage point I had a perfect of view of Robby besieged by bees.

Robby howled in pain and fired off a few more shots. I wondered if it was true that bees die after stinging. I crouched next to the driver’s side door and held my breath. Robby shuffled towards the car, muttering.

“Ma’am?” His voice sounded weak.

“Give me my keys.” My tone was uncharacteristically strong. I reminded myself that I was a beer mug, not a wine glass.

“My bag,” Robby rasped and it was clear all was not well with him.

I peeked out at Robby, whose face and throat were red and puffy. He clutched his chest as he dropped to his knees, then fell forward. His contorted body resembled a huge hinge.

I hesitated. The old me, the quixotic former San Francisco homeowner who blew her once abundant income on flying trapeze classes, would not have had a second thought before complying. She would have asked Robby to promise not to kill her and rushed to hand him his bag. Then she would have been dumbfounded when he shot her anyway.

“My bag… Please.” Robby sounded like he had laryngitis. He’d dropped the gun and rolled onto his side, one hand on his stomach, the other clawing at his throat.

“My keys. Throw them to me. And the gun.” I hardly recognized the voice that came out of my mouth.

Robby moaned. As bad as he looked, those green eyes of his still sparkled with malice until he began to heave. He studied the small puddle of vomit he’d made and tried to sit up. Instead, he collapsed and slithered towards the car, leaving his gun behind. He reached into his rear pocket, and I dropped to the ground again, certain he was pulling out a second gun. I gasped as my car keys rattled to a stop a foot in front of my forehead.

“My bag…” Robby’s voice croaked. He tried to say something, but the words were caught in his throat, which, like his face, had swelled grotesquely. Drenched in sweat, he rolled onto his back, unzipped his jacket, and ripped his plaid shirt open. Hives covered his entire torso.

I dashed to the passenger side of the car, opened the door, and grabbed his backpack. It had to weigh fifty pounds. I crept closer to Robby, holding his bag in front of me. He looked harmless, but then again so does a giant panda until it grabs you by the ankle and takes a big chunk out of your thigh.

Robby begged me to get the EpiPen out of his rucksack. I opened the bag and rooted through the bundles of hundred-dollar bills. My fingers curled around the syringe. I stared at the money and listened to Robby’s whimpering, which had grown softer by the second. I shook my head, slung the backpack over my shoulder, and hopped in my car.

As I peeled out of the parking lot of the World’s Largest Time Capsule, I tossed Robby his EpiPen. I sped down the deserted dirt road and turned right onto a paved, tree-lined street where children were bounding around in their front yards. I stopped in front of a sunflower garden abutting a brick rancher. My mouth was dry as tumbleweed and my hands shook as I reached for my iPhone. I rehearsed the 911 call while staring at the open knapsack with hundred-dollar bills spilling out of it. I thought about Robby, a murderer and a rodeo clown. I hated rodeos; abusing animals for entertainment spoke volumes about Robby’s character. He deserved his fate. I turned off my phone and headed towards I-80 East.

Mere minutes later, I spotted the payphone in the far corner of a Taco Bell parking lot. I knew it was a sign—and not just literally—so I made the anonymous 911 call, putting the thousands of hours of Law & Order episodes I’d watched to good use.

Back on the road, I wondered if what happened to Robby was karma. After all, I’d tried to do something nice by offering him a ride. I prayed he didn’t die and I prayed he didn’t live. At some point I got sick of praying and I switched on my radio. I couldn’t find a station, not even a baseball game, and when I saw the billboard for the Walmart Super Center, I knew what I needed to do.

Twenty minutes later, the Walmart tech guy linked my iPhone to my newly purchased Sirius XM radio. It took a few hours of cruising with Rihanna and Beyonce and pondering the power of vulnerability with Brene Brown before worry over my own karma set in.

“Siri,” I said. “What if I did something terrible back in Seward?” I pronounced it, “Surd.”

“Interesting question,” Siri responded without elaborating.

“Can my soul be saved?” My voice quivered.

“I’m not I sure I understand that.” Siri sounded annoyed, so I asked her to play “Yacht Rock” and sang along with Steely Dan and Stevie Nicks. By the time I cruised into Iowa, I’d decided to embrace the new me in the here and now and let the hereafter work itself out. I grinned as I caressed Robby’s bag and thought of fiscally responsible ways to invest all that money. I vowed to donate ten percent to a rodeo animal rescue. Somewhere between Nebraska and that moment I’d become a pragmatic, scrappy, satellite-radio-equipped survivor, who trips and chips, but does not shatter.

This short story was published originally by 3 Elements Literary Review, No. 32, Fall 2021. Reprinted with permission.