Hell on Wheels

-i-

Your Cheatin’ Heart

Last thing Buddy remembered were the headlights of the oncoming car. He and his drinking buddies were drag-racing outside of town.

The only problem with a game of chicken is that each side just assumes the other side will blink at the very last moment. Oh well.

Buddy thought he was a goner for sure. Expected to see his whole life pass before his eye.

Problem is, when you live in Archerville, there’s not much life to pass before your eyes. That’s why they were drag-racing at two in the morning.

But, for just once in his life, he got lucky. Here he was, waking up in his old bed, in his old bedroom, in his old house—like nothing much happened the night before.

To be sure, that was usually the problem. Nothing much ever happened. Not in Archerville.

But at least he wasn’t a bloody, mangled corpse with a nametag on his big toe.

Indeed, as he lifted the covers, there wasn’t a scratch from head to toe. Yes, his lucky day.

Must be the Man Upstairs was looking out for him.

Not that Buddy was what you’d call a choirboy.

Well, that’s not quite true. He was a choirboy—down at the First Baptist Church.

Why it was called the “First” Baptist Church he never knew. After all, there were only two churches in town, and only one was Baptist.

He only joined the choir to see Thelma more often. Thelma was a cheerleader. One of three.

Not exactly homecoming queen material. But in Archerville, you couldn’t afford to be too choosy.

And it’s not as if the football team was star quality, either.

No, he wasn’t the least bit pious. Around these parts, too much piety was downright unmanly.

But he was saved.

Heck, he’d been saved lots of times. Down at First Baptist, you could get saved every Wednesday evening and twice on Sundays.

He’d been saved more often than just about anyone else in town excepting for his best friend Sonny.

He and Sonny once had a bet on who could get saved the most times.

Down at First Baptist, getting saved was a lot like going to Archer’s Drive-In Cafe. They passed out salvation like so many hamburgers. Faster than you could flip a hamburger bun.

One order of fries, BLT, and chocolate shake, with a side dish of salvation, coming right up.

In fact, Buddy was better than saved. One time he went over to the other church in town and got himself saved, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost.

The neat thing about getting saved is that you had to lose your salvation before you could get saved again. Losing your salvation was the fun part.

Getting saved was foreplay for getting laid. A juicy, quarter pound patty of fornication sandwiched in-between two toasty slices of salvation.

First you got saved, then you got screwed, then you got saved again. Is this a wonderful world, or what?

There was a reassuring rhythm to life in Archerville. Go to First Baptist to get saved, then go to the Archerville Drive-In Movie Theater to lose your salvation, then go back to First Baptist to get saved again.

Under the circumstances, he had every incentive to be a punctilious Sabbatarian. The Puritans had nothing on Buddy when it came to Sabbath-keeping.

Buddy got out of bed, dressed, and headed down to the pool hall to see how well his other buddies survived last night’s head-on collision.

In Archerville, everything lay within walking distance, but folks drove everywhere anyway. Drove across the street.

Driving was part of the mystique, whether it took the form of a dung-lined pickup truck or a garish Cadillac Eldorado.

As he drove to the pool hall, everything was just the same. Same washed out sky, like a B&W TV. Same dirt roads. Same flat, brownish, North Texas prairie on all sides to the receding horizon. Same sun-bleached one and two-story buildings along “main” street. In a strip town, every street is main street since main street is the only paved road in town—or out of town.

Archerville was an act of the will. A small town between nowhere in general and no place in particular.

No reason for being. It simply was.

Like the dirt.

And the tumbleweeds.

Lots and lots of tumbleweeds.

As he pulled into the back lot, both cars were there—apparently undamaged.

Well, not quite.

They were pretty banged up. Peeling paint and pitted windshields. Dusty and dented from hood ornaments to tail fins. Dirt was a way of life in Archerville.

But they were always banged up. Point is, they were no more banged up than usual.

As he entered the pool hall, Hank Williams was wailing from the jukebox: “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.”

The jukebox only played four or five songs—all by Williams.

His buddies were all there, unharmed and unbruised.

In the next few days, Buddy quickly fell back into his old routine. He had no other routine to fall back on.

Everything was the same—only different. Something seemed to be just a little bit off.

Hard to put his finger on it at first. But, for one thing, the days were longer. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time the sun went down.

Life in Archerville had always been a bit unbearable, but he was learning that there are degrees of unbearableness.

“Even hell would be better than this!” he said to himself.

When he could stand it no longer, he decided to drive out of town. Just drive. Keep on driving. No destination. Just get away from it all.

And so he did.

The highway was straight as a ruler. One mile like another. The terrain by turns undistinguished and undistinguishable.

Still, he felt his spirits lift a little just to leave Archerville behind. The car radio played “Cold, Cold Heart” by Hank Williams.

His mind wandered. He lost track of time.

The numbing road was like a mind-massage. Nothing to think about.

After driving many miles he saw a sign up ahead: ”Welcome to Archerville—pop. 259.”

He was dumbstruck. How was that possible?

He didn’t remember turning the car around. But then, having allowed his mind to drift, maybe he made a turn back a pace, but forgot about it.

This time he did turn the car around and drove in the opposite direction—out of town.

His mind wandered. He lost track of time.

After driving many miles he saw a sign up ahead: ”Welcome to Archerville—pop. 259.”

Not only was he dumbstruck, but angry, and desperate.

He turned the car around once again. This time he’d pay attention. Keep his eye on the odometer.

But the odd thing is that after he went several miles, the odometer began to go backwards.

At last he gave up and drove into town. I won’t say he went “back” to Archerville, for at this juncture the difference between backwards and forwards is kinda hard to sort out.

As he entered the pool hall, Hank Williams was wailing from the jukebox: “There’s A Tear In My Beer.”

After thinking about his situation, he decided to leave the car behind and hike out of town. If the road was going in circles, he could bypass the road and go for a walk.

It was a long walk to the next town, but it’s not as if he had anything better to do with his time.

But it was hot. And dry. The day never came to an end.

He was wracked with thirst. By now he should have died of heatstroke. But he didn’t die.

He was tired—dead tired. But never at the point of collapse. Somehow, he kept on going.

Numb from heat and fatigue, he accidentally stepped on a Mohave rattlesnake. The pain was excruciating.

Now he knew he would die. Die within a half hour. But even that would be a relief.

He kept on walking. With the pain throbbing. Waiting to die.

But he didn’t die. The pain began to subside.

In the distance he thought he saw the figure of a man. As he drew closer, the figure became more distinct.

Then he knew who it was. His father! The father who walked out on his mother 14 years ago, when he was only two years old.

The father he hadn’t seen for 16 years. The father he only knew from old family photos.

Not that his mother kept the pictures around. Not after he abandoned his family.

But Buddy ran across the photos one day when he was rummaging through the closet.

And now, after all these years, was his father—lost in the badlands of Archerville or thereabouts. Wandering the badlands for 16 years.

There he was, looking the same way he did in those old family photos—not much older than Buddy.

What was there to say to this man? Both father and stranger.

Buddy was speechless. At a loss for words, he pressed ahead. Kept on walking mile after mile until he spotted a small town up ahead.

As he entered the pool hall, Hank Williams was wailing from the jukebox: “Why Don’t You Love Me Like You Used to Do?”

-ii-

Caesars Palace

Last thing Jimmy remembered was relieving himself in the restroom at Caesars Palace when he felt a stabbing pain in his back. He managed to turn around and see leather-gloved goon in dark glasses wiping the blood from his knife. The man cracked a smile as Jimmy felt his feet give way. He blacked out as a pool of blood began to form around the urinal.

Next thing he knows, Jimmy woke up in bed. The wound was gone. Assuming there was a wound. Assuming it wasn’t all a bad dream.

He tried to remember more about the dream. Snatches came back to him. He was computer geek and online gambler. He developed an algorithm to beat the casino.

He dropped out of MIT to come to Vegas and test his algorithm. And he was successful. Too successful.

Or was it all a dream? Only one way to find out. Still groggy from sleep, he got out of bed and dressed. He went over to the window.

There, from several stories up, he saw Las Vegas Strip in all its gaudy, 14-karat gold plated splendor.

Then he took the elevator down to the main floor of Caesars Palace.

So it was true—or was it?

Everything looked the same. At first glance.

Well, not quite. He studied it some more. Something slightly off kilter. Not quite right.

For one thing, folks were dressed more formally. They even stared at him—in his khaki shorts and Hawaiian T-shirt.

What he needed more than anything was a good stiff drink to clear his head. So he headed for the bar.

After all, it was the happy hour. At Caesars Palace, every hour was the happy hour. There was no day or night. Just one long, never-ending day.

A new group was playing—something called the Rat Pack. Must have been a new group. At least it was unfamiliar to him.

There was some guy performing tonight by the name of Sinatra. Jimmy liked his style. A bit old fashioned, perhaps. But Vegas was a magnet for retired couples who were drawn—moth like—to the irresistible appeal of the one-armed bandits.

So maybe this new guy...what was his name again?...Frank something...that’s right...Frank Sinatra—maybe he was there for them.

After his second Martini he felt brave enough to try his hand at the tables. His algorithm worked like a charm.

Once you’re on a winning streak it’s hard to know when to leave. Still, there was that dream—or nightmare, to be more precise.

So maybe he shouldn’t press his luck. Not for fear of being unlucky, but being a little too lucky for the comfort of the Management. Better to win a little at a time.

And this time around, he didn’t dare head for the public restroom. Instead, he went back to his suite.

As the days went by, he became more confident. His anxieties began to fade like...well, to fade like a bad dream.

Maybe it was nightmare after all.

It was a simple existence: eat, gamble, sleep; eat, gamble, sleep.

Well, “sleep” might be a bit of a euphemism.

As a gawky, computer geek he was never much of a babe-magnet.

But what he lacked in sex appeal, he made up for in green appeal. His winning streak, however, discreet, did not go entirely unnoticed by the pretty blonds who used to frequent the tables. Indeed, the only reason they seem to be there was to scope out the winners.

Since Jimmy was in a hurry to make up for lost time, “sleep” was, indeed, a bit euphemistic.

Jimmy felt as though he’d died and gone to heaven.

To be sure, this wasn’t just everyone’s idea of heaven. More Muslim than Christian.

But he was fine with that. All that stuff about harps and clouds and cherubic choirs in the sky was hardly his idea of how to spend eternity.

Everything he knew about heaven he learned from Hallmark.

When he wasn’t at the tables, or otherwise “occupied,” he was in the bar. It didn’t take him long to notice a certain sameness to the entertainment.

The performers rotated: Sinatra one night, Sammy another, Dino another—or Liberace, or Elvis.

Of course, Elvis had been dead for years and years. Even Jimmy knew that.

The King was way before his time. More his father’s generation. No, more his grandfather’s generation.

But Vegas was the world capital of Elvis impersonators, and the one performing at Caesars Palace was almost as good as the original, if not a bit better.

So Jimmy kept winning and eating and “sleeping”—winning and eating and “sleeping.”

Everyone was nice to him. Everyone loves a winner.

But, of course, no one loved him for him. Just his money. Just his talent.

Everyone in Vegas was on the take.

He made a lot of “friends,” but not a single man or woman he could rely on in a pinch.

Little by little he made so much money that he wondered if it wasn’t time for him to quit while he was ahead.

And even for him, his “heavenly” existence was getting stale. Time to pack his bags and go home.

Taking his bags down to the first floor, he headed for the main entrance. He’d take a taxi to the airport and go home. Or buy a new home. And a new car. And a new...well, you get the idea.

Funny thing. He couldn’t find the main entrance. It wasn’t where he remembered it was.

Well, that came as no surprise.

It had been so long since he came to Caesars Palace. One lost track of time. He had no idea how long he’d been there. Weeks? Months?

At Caesars Palace, time had a way of coming and going without going anywhere. There was no difference between one day and another. Just a run on day, 24/7, year in and year out.

Since the first floor was the size of a city block, he simply retraced his steps. Perhaps the main entrance was on the north side of the building instead of the south side—wherever north and south were.

Like the passage of time, it was hard to retain your sense of direction in the self-cubical world of Caesars Palace.

Not finding the main entrance in that direction, he kept looking in every other direction. But he never found a door. Or exit sign.

Embarrassed, he sheepish asked for directions—beginning with the bartender. Everyone gave him directions. Pointed here and there.

But he never found a door. Or exit sign.

In his desperation, he took the elevator to the second floor.

At this point he was prepared to break a window and jump from the second flood. He might sprain an ankle or break a leg, but at this point, even hell would be an improvement.

He never imagined that any place as big as Caesars Palace could feel claustrophobic, but the smothering, suffocating sense of entrapment was getting to him.

He used a fire extinguisher to break the window. Only it didn’t break. The extinguisher bounced off the windowpane like rubber on rubber.

He went down stairs and began screaming at the waiter, waitress, busboy, bartender, card dealer.

A couple of leather-gloved goons showed up and took him to a backroom. As he was yelling at one of them he felt a stabbing pain in his back.

The next thing he knows, Jimmy woke up in bed.

-iii-

Anabasis

Last thing Paris remembered was bleeding to death on level five of an underground parking garage. Next thing he knows, he wakes up on a subway train. Did he doze off? Was it just a dream? He raises his T-shirt and feels his skin for a bullet hole.

A few scars from many knife-fights, but no blood or bullet holes. He doesn’t remember taking the subway tonight, but then, maybe he’d been hitting the bottle that night.

Not that he remember hitting the bottle, but if you hit the bottle, you don’t remember hitting the bottle.

It’s entirely possible that he did take the subway tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time he took the subway into town to see his girlfriend Elena. Always at night. Always under cover of darkness.

You see, Elena a gang girl. Only she was from the wrong gang—the Argives. Paris belonged to the Trojans.

Elena used to be the girl friend of Menelaus. For all he knew, she still was.

Needless to say, it was dangerous to date a girl from a rival gang. Doubly dangerous in this case.

For Menelaus was the brother of Memnon, chieftain of the Argives.

It was even more dangerous for a gangster to travel alone, without his homiez.

Normally, Paris had Hector and Artaxerxes by his side.

Compounding the peril was the danger of traveling into rival gang territory.

But all the danger made it all the more exciting. And that’s what everyone lived for. Sheer excitement.

Paris was planning to steal Elena from Menelaus, and take her back to Trojan headquarters. Maybe tonight was the night.

They normally met in the parking garage across the street from the subway.

He fished his cellphone from his pocket. “Hey, it’s me!” he said.

“Hi, Mom,” Elena said.

They used to speak in code language in case she was with the Argives when he called.

“Were we planning to meet tonight?” he asked? “I forgot.”

“Sure, Mom, I’ll pick up some pasta sauce on the way home,” she said.

“When will you be there?” he asked.

“I’ll be home in half an hour,” she said.

She was waiting for him when he got to the garage. Even under the withering glare of the halogen lamps, she was too beautiful to describe.

As they kissed, he thought he heard footsteps echoing in the distance. He pushed her into the shadows. Had they been followed?

He peered around the concrete column. Menelaus was approaching, with Ajax and Diomedes by his side.

Paris whispered to Elena that he was going to make a run for it. When they gave chase, she should make her escape.

The diversion worked—for her.

He darted behind parked cars, then headed down the garage, level-by-level and circle-by-circle—like a concrete netherworld.

But they cornered him on level five.

Last thing Paris remembered was bleeding to death in underground parking garage. Next thing he knows, he wakes up on a subway train.

Now he had something to think about. Was he dreaming? Was he still dreaming? Was this all part of one interminable nightmare?

Or did he die? When did he die? The first time? Did he really die? Or did he die in his dream?

Where was he anyway? Did he die and go to hell? Is this what hell was like?

Wasn’t hell where red devils with pitchforks and pointy-tails sautéed the damned like chunks of beef stew in the lake of fire. Was hell just one big bowl of Campbell’s soup?

Or was this Purgatory? But it didn’t seem to be a very good place to purify the soul.

Maybe hell was other people. What one hellion did to another. You died the way you lived, and lived the way you died.

Hell was not a torture chamber. Well, maybe it was. But not because it was made that way.

Maybe hell was just a big empty stage set. Hell was hellish because the damned made it a living hell. Hell was all around them because hell was already inside them. Hellish thoughts gave rise to hellish realities. A psychokinetic theme park for the damned. Disneyland in Dis.

Perhaps, then, as he thought to himself, he could break the cycle. Take the train back to Trojan territory. Negotiate a cease-fire.

But Menelaus would never forgive him. And even if he did, at what cost? Giving up Elena?

But giving up Elena was too high a price for Paris to pay. He needed to bring reinforcements, that’s all. Have his homiez along. More guns. Bigger guns. Ambush the Argives. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became.

Last thing Paris remembered was bleeding to death on level five of an underground parking garage. Not just Paris. But his homiez. And Menelaus—along with Memnon, Ajax, and Diomedes. The pavement littered with Argives and Trojans. The pavement red with the blood of Argives and Trojans.

Next thing he knows, he wakes up on a subway train.

-iv-

Lethe

Last thing Thelma remembered...what was the last thing she remembered? Remembering, that’s the problem.

She was in a car with a bunch of drunken boys. Fast boys. Fun boys. Bad boys. They were drag racing. She saw the headlights approaching. She must have gone right through the windshield.

Next thing she knows, she wakes up in a hospital bed with a headache.

She gets out of bed. Looks in the mirror. No bruises or bandages. Just a headache.

But who is she? She remembers the accident. But what happened before the accident?

She looks at her hospital wristband. It says “Thelma.”

Okay. That’s progress. She must be Thelma. But who is Thelma?

She goes over to the closet and takes her purse down. At least, she assumes it must be her purse. She takes out the billfold and looks at the driver’s license. It says “Thelma.”

It also gives an address in Archerville. So she must live in Archerville.

But where is she now?

Archerville is too small to have its own hospital. That she knows.

Funny how she can remember other things without remembering who she is.

She goes into the hall and looks for the nurse’s station. As she walks past one hospital room after another, they are all empty.

The nurse’s station is vacant. Indeed, the whole hospital seems to be deserted.

It’s dark outside. She looks at the clock. 4:20. Must be 4:20 in the morning.

She rifles through papers at the nurse’s station until she finds some letterhead. It says “Wichita Falls.”

Okay, that makes sense—to the extent that anything makes sense this senseless night. An ambulance must have taken her to the hospital in Wichita Falls.

Her headache is subsiding. She decides to go home.

Goes back to her room, removes her hospital gown and changes into her old clothes. Her clothes are crumpled, but otherwise unbloodied.

Walking out into the parking lot, she finds her car.

Why would her car be there?

Why ask on a crazy night like this?

She gets in and drives home. Apparently she’s been to Wichita Falls before since she knows the route by force of habit.

Funny how she knows about this and that without knowing about herself. But amnesia is like that. A ghostly existence. You can go places you know. See people you knew. It’s like looking in from the outside. You rap on the glass, but nobody hears you. You wave your hands, but nobody sees you. Everyone is visible to you, but you’re invisible to everyone else. Amnesia is like that.

Not that she ever gave much thought to spooks or amnesiacs. Not until now.

As she entered the pool hall, Hank Williams was wailing from the jukebox: “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” The lights were on and the lot was full, but the place was empty.

She also tried the cafe as well as the movie theater. Same thing.

So she drove home.

The lights were on, but everyone was gone.

She looks at some family photos. There she was, as a girl, with an older man and woman. Those must be her parents.

A picture of another girl. Her sister?

She went to the kitchen and made herself a snack. Then she thumbed through her address book and made a few phone calls. But no one answered.

So she decided to wait until everybody came back home. She watched some TV. Looked at her watch. 8:47.

Why was it still dark outside?

She went upstairs. Took a shower. While she was dressing, she thought she overheard her mother’s voice.

She opened the bathroom door and went back into her bedroom. At least, that’s what she expected.

But when she looked up, it wasn’t her bedroom.

She walked over to the window. Below her was a big city all a-glitter with flashing lights and neon signs. Like a giant Christmas tree.

She went into the hallway and took the elevator to...wherever the elevator went to.

When she exited the elevator, she found herself in a huge room, surrounded by slot-machines, poker tables, craps, blackjack, roulette, and baccarat.

She wandered the floor. Went to the bar.

Then decided to retrace her steps. On her way back she thought she caught sight of her mother—the woman in the picture—going into the elevator. She called to her, but it was too late.

She waited to see where the elevator would go. When it stopped on the sixth floor, she took another elevator to the sixth floor.

But when she exited the elevator, she stepped out onto a subway platform.

She thought she saw her mother boarding the train. She shouted to her, but her mother couldn’t hear.

Thelma tried to board the train, but the doors shut. She beat on the glass doors. The train began to move. She beat on the windows.

She could see her mother inside. She yelled at her, but to no effect.

The train whizzed by and disappeared into the tunnel, it’s taillights receding from view like a dying cinder.

Had she died and gone to hell? Or was this a bad dream?

Come to think of it, maybe hell really was a bad dream. Hell is where nothing is ever the same. Nothing to hold onto. Perpetual impermanence. Duration without persistence. Inescapable escapism.

In her despair, she threw herself onto the tracks.

Last thing she remembered was the roar of an oncoming train.

Next thing she knows, she wakes up in bed. Before she does anything else, she rushes over to the window. There she sees...