Incarnations by Deal Chris

Author:Deal, Chris [Deal, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Crime
Publisher: Broken River Books
Published: 2014-01-30T05:00:00+00:00

NIRVANA

Hank was leaning his forehead against the window, and had been for the last two hours as he kept on pretending to sleep, like in the poem, that one little poem which put him on the bus, sitting with his head on the window, trying to get the drum circle in his head to stop pounding. The window was frosted over, and had been since he climbed aboard the night before. The bus had bad axles, and each bump was amplified sharply, and a well timed bump coupled with sudden turn managed to knock his head into the glass, seemingly at the epicenter of the headache. Hank groaned and cursed the window. The old man sitting beside him, with a long face and wrinkles that were all but indistinguishable from his acne scars, laughed. “Hangover?”

Hank nodded.

“You know what the absolute perfect cure for a hangover is, don’t you, boy?”

“What’s that?”

The old man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a half-empty bottle of bourbon. “Hair of the dog, friend.”

Any other day, Hank would have turned down the offer immediately, but considering it was four on a Friday morning and he was riding on a bus through the hills of North Carolina with snow coming down, he didn’t hesitate to take the offered drink. There was a healthy burn down his throat but it didn’t do anything for his head. The old man downed the rest of the bottle and started whistling an old blues melody. Hank leaned against the window.

The old man got off in a town Hank had never heard of and in his stead a woman with two small children got on. They did nothing for his head.

He concentrated on the sound of the engine, the tires on the road, and the voices of the other riders. It seemed to him a pleasant sort of white noise that he willingly fell in to, until the grinding of the breaks and the sudden stop sent his head forward into the seat in front of him.

It was still dark and snowing. The bus was parked outside a cafe and the passengers were filing out into the cold. Hank joined them inside.

Inside, he sat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee from the young waitress with a thrill. Country music played softly over hidden speakers. The waitress, whose nametag said Pamela, had curly, dirty blond hair and green eyes. She brought his coffee black and asked if he’d like anything else.

“Just coffee for now, please.” She nodded and went off to help some of the other passengers. The coffee was particularly good. He drank it in slow, steady sips, concentrating on the moment. It was good.

“Want a refill?” Pamela asked when the other passengers were content with their food.

“Sure.”

“What’s your name?”

“Chinaski. Hank Chinaski.” A lie.

“So where are you headed, Hank Chinaski?” she asked as she filled his cup.

“Right here, I’m thinking.”

“Really?”

“Really.

“Why’s that?”

“Because of a poem.” Concerning the odd look she gave him, he continued, “This poem, it’s about a kid on a bus, riding through the hills of North Carolina.

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