The Introvert

one


The gun was a long barrel, twenty-two caliber pistol. Although oily to the touch, the metal showed a light patina of rust. There were eight shells in the cylinder. I still remembered how loud the gun was when it was fired. As kids, my brother and I would stuff cotton balls in our ears while Dad practiced his shooting. The trash dump behind Bigeloe Mill was a refuge for rats. Dad often lamented between swigs from a pint bottle that the mill should be paying overtime for his exterminating service. He would hold the gun and sight down the barrel, much like using a rifle. Even with ears plugged with cotton, the report was jarring. The worse part was when Dad hit a target. Our job was to scamper into the refuse to drag out the evidence of Dad’s marksmanship. I had learned early on that a wounded rat was still dangerous. The scar on my ankle was proof. A stout stick with protruding nail proved to be the perfect retrieval device. Just wrap the tail around the end and drag. Little brother always stayed a good five feet behind me, holding a rock just in case. After placing the rat in a row with the others, we would retreat behind Dad and wait for the next boom. I asked him one time what happened to the dead rats. They were never there when returning the next week. I can still remember the whiskey breath as he leaned in. The other rats eat them, he said with a laugh. For a ten year old, the notion of rats, feeding on themselves was a horror. To this day, I hate rats. And guns.

The pistol felt like a weight in my hand. Emulating Dad, I snapped my wrist. The cylinder popped back into the frame. The sound was a sharp, metallic click. Rufus raised his head to regard me with beady black eyes. He yawned, glanced at the darkened television and went back to sleep. They say that a sharp blow to the temple is enough to kill a person. I pressed the barrel against my own. What does a person think when pulling the trigger? Sadness and regret? Relief? I couldn’t help but remember the kid in ninth grade. He was accidentally shot in the head by a friend. Due to the high velocity of a twenty-two, the bullet bounced around inside the skull like an angry hornet. He lived four hours. It seemed that if a person was going to do the deed, he needed a bigger gun.

Mid morning is as good a time as any for a nap. Rufus had other ideas. He interrupted my effort by sitting at my feet with the remote in his mouth. I had never known a dog or person for that matter who like to watch television so much. He had his own in the spare bedroom but preferred watching the sixty inch in our living room. Couldn’t really blame him for that. At least, he preferred sports over anything else. Considering that the options would be re-runs of soccer and baseball, I opted to get up.

First order of business, breakfast. Bloody Mary’s was the current drink of choice. I rinsed out a half gallon water cooler, added a quart of tomato juice, pint of vodka and half bottle of hot sauce. Throw in liberal dashes of Worcestershire, add ice and stir. Grabbing a cup and pack of celery, I was ready for the great outdoors. The mid August sun assaulted me as I paused on the porch. At least I had remembered to grab my shades. Rufus was doing his familiar routine, running circuits around the front yard on his well worn path. After two laps, he put nose to the ground and sniffed his way across the driveway. He disappeared into the red tip hedges that separated my yard and Hugh’s.

Hugh Cantrell was a character. A cross between John Wayne and Archie Bunker, he was ex-Navy, widowed and pushy eighty. The steel gray hair remained in the fifties style known as a ‘flat-top’. His squint was perpetual regardless of whether a Kool Menthol hung on the lip or not. He rose every morning at five, donned boots, khaki’s and a clean white tee shirt. After black coffee and toast, it was time to patrol the yard. More importantly, the pecan trees. Five of them, large and reaching, shaded his lot. Hugh was crazy about the trees. So were the squirrels. The old man and the bushy tails had fought over every single nut from day one. That war is what broke the ice between me and my neighbor. I had been warned about Rufus, crossing the hedges. It’s not an easy task to corral a hyper Jack Russell. Hugh had his own means. He came down the sidewalk with a cane in one hand, Rufus in the other. The dog was having a fit, snarling and snapping. Undeterred, Hugh marched into my yard, held up Rufus as evidence and read me the riot act. His eyes blazed as he cursed out the side of his mouth, the cigarette jerking in an angry rhythm. I let him vent. Then, produced a dead squirrel that Rufus had brought through the hedges that morning. After that, everyone got along just fine.

I stared at the hole where Rufus had disappeared before heading around back. The grass was knee high and made my legs itch. There’s a huge weeping willow that’s over growing the storage shed. Underneath, a hammock that’s strung between sturdy posts. With the flowing green boughs reaching to the ground, one is almost invisible within. In other words, a perfect place to hang out. I settled back on the ropes, pushed off with one foot and had breakfast.

Why do dreams, often times not make any sense? Grace and I are walking down by the river. We’ve got a blanket and basket for a picnic. One minute, she’s putting out the spread, the next, removing her blouse. Her breasts are perfect but I’m horrified and try to shield her from prying eyes. She holds my hand and sinks down on the blanket. Try as I might, I can’t break the hold.

It’s Karl. He’s the one tugging on my hand.

“What are you doing, Goddamnit.”

Karl let go. “I thought you was dead. What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing. Taking a nap.”

“It must be nice. Maybe I ought to sell the store and join you. I could get use to a life of leisure.”

“Sure but we both know that Rosalee wouldn’t stand for it. Not one minute.”

“Grace neither, if she were…here.”

“Well, she’s not, is she?”

Karl straightened up. His eyes went shiny. For such a big man, he could cry at the drop of a hat. Actually, it was a single tear that forged our friendship in the first place. Tenth grade and me a third string linebacker. It was the time of segregation. The coach was a racist prick and sent Karl out onto the field by himself. It got so quiet that you could hear the grass grow. The lone black boy stopped ten yards away. Even through the helmet, I could see a single fat tear course down his cheek. My throat got tight and I felt awful for him. Crossing the short divide with outstretched hand is probably the bravest thing I’ve ever done. He introduced himself as Karl with a K. That’s exactly how he said it. For some reason, it was important that people knew that his name was spelled with a K not the letter, C. From that moment on, he was known as K Karl. He was dependable, trustworthy and sometimes, a pain in the ass. Like right now. Invading my green space.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I suggested and refilled my cup.

“Yeah and you should too. While we’re on the subject, keep Rufus off the lot. I step on one more turd and I swear to God, I’m gonna lose it.”

I had to laugh at that one. “He’s what, eight pounds? How big can they be?”

“They all smell the same. How am I suppose to be a respectable business man, trying to sell paint and nails while reeking of poop?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll take care of it.”

“Yeah? Like you’re taking care of your house? For God’s sake, Lowell, take a look around you. This place is going to shit and you with it! At least cut the grass, I’ve probably got ticks crawling all over me, right now.”

“Black widow spiders, too.”

“What?”

“Growing up on the mill hill, we had this Weeping Willow. I use to swing on the limbs, pretend like I was Tarzan. Mom was always yelling to stay out of the tree. It was full of spiders. I never saw one but…who knows.”

“Dammit Low! I’m serious here.” Karl glanced around, brushing at his arms. “It’s time to get control of yourself. Give me the jug.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Give it up,” he held out a large hand.

Sometimes in life, a moment of clarity comes. You see what’s unfolding and exactly how to deal with it. If Karl wanted the jug, he’d get it. Unless, I beat a hasty retreat, no small task when wrapped in a hammock. But, there was that clarity thing working.

I rolled hard left and the hammock dumped me to the ground. Ever seen a football player land on the ball? Hurts like hell. For my money, falling on a plastic jug has to be worse. Before I could even suck air, Karl had me by the shoulders, lifting. My feet were scrambling and found the trunk of the tree. With the added leverage, I pushed off and tried to slip past him. Karl was going for the jug. Fingers clawed at plastic, the top flew off and soaked us with Bloody Mary juice. Rufus came through the boughs like a furry missile. The attack aimed at Karl’s ankles. The big man tried to kick and get clear at the same time. The hammock snagged him and he went down. Right on top of me. Rufus was still snarling and biting.

“It’s ok, boy,” I gasped. “Stop it. Rufus, I said stop! Come here.”

For once, he listened and came to me. He licked my face and I got a secure hold. He was trembling. Karl rolled off and sat up, gulping air. I was fine right where I was, lying on the ground. Both of us was embarrassed, rolling around like school kids. We let the moment hang. Karl spoke first and just the sound of his voice started Rufus to growling.

“Rosalee was right. You can’t help a man that won’t help himself. We don’t know what else to do. She’s fixing Italian, Saturday night. Wants you to come and eat with us.”

“Ok, sure.”

Karl gave me a long look. His eyes were shiny. “Understand, she wants to have an intervention. If you don’t show, I guess we’re done with it.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“I think you know what it means.”

“Damn, K, lighten up. You want the jug? Here, you can have it.”
“It ain’t about the jug.”
I laid under the tree for a long time after he left. Rufus finally calmed down and began sniffing around, licking up what booze he could find. I hated to think it but he seemed to like the stuff as well as me. Not that I ever gave him any. One drunk in the family was enough. What really bothered me was Karl and his last words. When he said them, the look on his face was the same one the day we buried Grace. That was a place I didn’t want to go to. Not now, not ever. Needing a diversion, I got up to check on my crop.

The storage shed behind the Willow is where the pot plants are growing. Believe it or not, the origin of that marijuana dates back thirty years. Jim was our tight end in school. He had hands of glue and eclectic taste before anyone knew what the word meant. The first to grow hair below the collar, he turned us on to Grand Funk and weed. The guy just had an aura about him. What he didn’t have was luck. The draft lottery came along and Jim drew the number one spot. Before you could say, holy shit, he was fast tracked to basic training and on to Nam. Eight months later, listed as missing in action. The town mourned and school buddies toasted with cold beer. I myself, received a small box wrapped in brown paper. Inside was a bag of plump black marijuana seeds. I dubbed the strain, Jim Weed and some thirty years later was growing my first crop.

The two plants flanked each other, competing for light from the lone window. Buds were starting to appear and by first frost, there would be clipping and drying to do. I watered, tossed a little fertilizer and turned the plants before locking up. Rufus had disappeared. Somehow, I needed the company. When it seems that you’ve ran out of friends, a pet is more than adequate. He had probably wandered over to Mr. Cantrell’s place and that’s where I went.

The other side of the hedges was an oasis of shade. The temp had to be ten degrees less and I took my time, enjoying the respite. I found the old man, sleeping on a straight backed chair at the rear of the house. His head was on his chest, cane and pellet rifle beside him on the grass. I backed up, yelled for Rufus and waited a beat before rounding the corner.

“He ain’t here,” Hugh greeted me and reached for a cigarette. “What in hell happened to you, Funk? Is that blood on your shirt?”

“No, I spilled a drink.”

“Missed shaving this morning, too. You look like one of them hippies that I use to kick the shit out of. Ever had a straight razor shave? Hell man, ain’t nothing like it. I was in Japan one time in back of one of those Geisha houses. They advertised the straight razor. Let me tell you, that little Geisha girl had hands like an angel. By the time she was slapping on the talcum, I had a hand up her robe. She giggled, took my money and straddled me right in the chair! Best forty dollars I ever spent.”

“That’s some story,” I agreed, jumping in while he paused to take a puff. “I’m just looking for my dog.”

“Yeah and I’m just looking for some snatch. Eighty-one years old, I’ve had pussy on five continents and a wife that was crazy about it. What am I doing? Sitting in the sun and thinking about it.”

“Well, um…have you considered a dating service?”

“Shit, that’s for sissies. The day I can’t walk down the street and get my own pussy is the day I hang it up. What about you? I ain’t seen no good looking gals around your place.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Look, I’ve got to go.”
Mr. Cantrell squinted up at me, showing dentures. The smile was predatory. "I got moonshine.”

“Moonshine?”

I knew it was a bad idea. Kind of like adding dynamite to a fire. Yet, when did a bad idea ever stop a man? At least have one drink. It was the neighborly thing to do.

By the time that the sun was an orange silver on the horizon and the mosquitos buzzing about, we had consumed a mason jar, one sleeve of saltines and a block of sharp cheese. The songs sung were Navy and dirty, tears shed, real and salty. At one point we even arm wrestled. Thankfully, I was still capable of getting the old man inside and to bed. After locking up, I wobbled toward home. I never felt the red tips as I marched through. Rufus was laid out in the tall grass, rolling on his back and snorting with pleasure. It looked like fun. I managed two steps before puking down the front of my shirt. The world was spinning and I needed to lay down. Right now, in the grass. When I woke up, the night was cool, stars were out and Rufus was whining. I finally got us in the house.

Ever had one of those mornings when you wake up and know that something isn’t right? It took me a moment, staring at the ceiling and that familiar crack that snaked outward from the light fixture. It looked like a lightening bolt. The thunder was in my head and the stomach churned like a bad burrito at two in the morning. I felt way beyond bad and my heart was pounding like a jack hammer. If I truly wanted to die, this was a bad way to do it. I ignored the ringing phone and rolled over.

The noontime meal consisted of aspirin and ice water with a liberal dose of loathing for dessert. The bathroom mirror knows no lie. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul. Mine, bagged and bloodshot was a bad Stephen King novel with an unhappy ending. The unkempt beard and deep frown lines above the brow reinforced the image. Here was a man that’s slipping away. The bad part is when you can’t muster the energy to care. It was clear to me now that Grace was on that bad roller coaster for a long time. Years even. True to her nature, she fought it like hell. I could have done a million things. Maybe one, just one single thing could have altered the course of our lives. Why not agree to a couples retreat at an overpriced resort? Feign interest in a pottery making class. Anything. The woman was scrambling for her life and all I could do was hold on to my anger. I knew she blamed me for Jeff’s death. Never in so many words, it was inferred. The elephant in the room? Our beast rolled over and we couldn’t get out of the way.

At least I got Rufus out of the way. Shooed him out the door and got the shower going. Wash my sins away and emerge, clean and new. I envy people that have God. Whether he’s real or not isn’t the point. Something to believe in, a focal point is the thing. What I can’t get past is the rational side of things. Where did God come from? The concept of a being with power to create heaven and earth, man and beast is, for me, a huge demand on faith. Where did his mojo come from? Aliens? In a skewed way, that makes sense. Zipping around in space, they created this place called earth. Fill it with people and think of the entertainment value. Kind of a cosmic Net Flix. Still, you have to ask yourself. Where did the aliens get their power? This was one conundrum with no bottom. At least I was sure of one thing. Today was a good day to buy a gun. A big one.

Mill Valley is aptly named. There’s Bigeloe Mill, situated on the northern end, one mile from the state line. The valley is bisected by the river, once again called Bigeloe. An Englishman once settled in our corner of the Piedmont to build a textile mill. He named the fledgling town after himself. Southerners do have their pride. Name their town after a King’s man? Not a chance. The river was a fair tradeoff. We might be stubborn but at least, reasonable. Most of the time.

My own, immediate trade off was bypassing busy Route Seven for River Road. The winding two lane was flanked by the Bigeloe River and a scenic drive any time of the year. When you’re out of work, hope and friends, time isn’t an issue. Just get to the pawn shop before it closed. An hour south was Greenville, my destination. Sure, you can buy a gun in Mill Valley, it’s almost a requirement in the South. However, people talk. As a walking suspect, I didn’t want to feed the gossip mongers.

The Maple Trees along the water were already tinging their tips with red and orange. My mood might have risen to knee level if not for passing the turn-off for Karl and Rosalee’s place. One word hit me in the face. Intervention.My friends had drawn a line in the sand. More to the point, Rosalee. This intervention business had her prints all over it. K man was going along for the ride. I get that. When married, if you don’t go along, you don’t get along. Rosalee was concerned. The problem was that, like most women, she didn’t understand the concept of giving space. Just rush in and fix things. Her day job only reinforced her nature. The official title was, Director of Student Affairs. In my day, it was called, Guidance Counselor. Any way you cut it, she bossed and fixed problems. Whether you wanted it or not. If this gun buying trip worked out, I might fix the problem for her.

I chose a pawn shop because it was on the edge of the city and eliminated traffic jams and one way streets. The usual, there were walls of guitars, racks of power tools and in one corner a portable cement mixer. The guy behind the counter was buzz cut showing skull with a side arm strapped to camo pants. He was spitting snuff in a paper cup. I could almost smell the testosterone and it was time to raise the macho level. What kind of gun did I need? I thought of Clint and the forty-four mag. Buzz cut approved. I bought a stainless model and one box of hollow points.

A couple of miles outside the city is a juke joint called the Road Side. The cinder block is layered with years of white paint, flat roof with rusted metal sheeting, no windows and a front and back door, both dented and scarred metal. They have the best hotdogs anywhere and the beer? Go to the Arctic, sit down with the penguins and drink ice water. It’s luke warm compared to the Roadside. After dark, the place changes character. There are shooting, stabbings and fighting. The police have the place on speed dial. At five in the afternoon, it seemed safe enough to grab a quick meal. I turned into the gravel lot.

Out front was two mud splattered pickups, a motorcycle, moped and a low slung, black Lincoln. It was covered in road dust and missing a rear hub cap. A red Peterbuilt cab sat idling on the back lot. Perfect! Get in ahead of the nighttime crazies. The dim interior of the bar smelled of sweat and Pine Sol. Skynerd was on the juke box, asking for three steps. I took a stool and ordered supper. If not for Linda and Edie, I might have made it out of the place.

“Hey mister, got a light?”

Linda was the one asking. Around five feet, her auburn hair was a mass of curls and framed an oval face. She had good skin, good teeth and a perky nose. The nails were pink and matched her lips. The football jersey swallowed her small frame and she wore jeans and open toed sandals. Her companion was a study in contrast. Course and brooding, her lanky brown hair was parted in the middle. The eyeglasses were round frames, ala Lennon and she was thick across the cheeks, shoulders and waist. Style the hair and she could have gotten away with being big boned. With her attire, she wasn’t getting away with anything. The yellow halter top sagged with pendulous breasts. Even the aureolas were outlined against the taut material. The cutoff jeans showed varicose veins and she was wearing heels. Shiny black with sequins.

“Sorry but I don’t. Maybe the barkeep can give you a match.”
“At least buy us a drink,” Edie’s voice was husky and slow cured with cheap Bourbon and nicotine. She leaned in, her breast crowding my space.

“Uh….sure. I can do that.”

I had every intention of slapping a twenty on the bar and escaping. As I stood, Linda slipped an arm through mine and draped herself against me. The nipple on her right breast was hard enough to poke holes in cardboard.

“Will you be my partner, Mister?” She looked up at me.

“Partner? I don’t know what you mean.”

Linda giggled. “Pool. You like to shoot pool, don’t you?”

“Every guy likes to shoot,” Edie said with a wink. She threw her head back, tossing the contents of a shot glass. I was looking right up her nostrils. They were enormous.

“Really ladies, I’ve got to go.”

Their routine was well oiled. Linda had me on one side and Edie put a large hand in the small of my back. I was walked to the back wall and two, six foot tables. Julian was waiting and introduced as Edie’s boyfriend. The guy had a thing for black. His hair shone wetly under the light and was combed straight back with tendrils tucked behind his ears. Each lobe sported black studs. The tee shirt, belt, slacks and shoes all maintained his color scheme. Even the hair on his fore arms was black. Give him the right shades and he could step into the matrix.

“Five dollars a game alright with you?” He handed me a cue.
All right. Blow another twenty, finish my beer and head back to Mill Valley. I use to have a nine foot table in my den. This shorter bar table would be easier on the angles. Still, I was surprised that Linda and I won four games in a row. I liked watching her shoot. She scrunched up her nose, stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth and giggled, even when missing. She was absolutely adorable. After banking the eight ball off the far rail, I accepted a shot of Bourbon. And another.

When Edie called for a bathroom break, we manned the nearest table. Julian flipped his chair around backwards and straddled it. The handkerchief, pulled from a back pocket was thankfully, not black. He patted his forehead and asked me a question.

“So Lowell, what do you do? I mean, when you’re not hustling guys at pool?”

I laughed. “Just lucky tonight. Actually, I’m retired at the moment. And you?”

“I’m a trader. Mostly in futures.”

“Sounds kind of risky.”

“Life is risky, Lowell. You have to embrace it. No pain, no gain. Right?” He spread his hands wide. The fingers were blunt and nails down to the quick.

“Julian’s closing on a condo down in Miami,” Edie offered. The girls were back. “We’re going salsa dancing. Right babe?”

“Why not? You should come with us.”

“Sounds great,” I said and meant it.
Linda had assumed her spot, glued to my side. “There’s lots of movie stars that live in Miami. We saw Don Johnson once at the football game. He’s shorter than he looks on tv. They say he has a huge…ding-a-ling.”

“Huge as in length or girth?” Edith reached over Julian for the pack of cigarettes.

“I don’t know? Both?” Linda squealed.

“Why doesn’t Lowell weigh in on the matter,” Julian suggested.

Normally, I would have blushed but the question seemed reasonable and normal. Matter of fact, I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. The Road Side was a perfectly reasonable and normal place. Just friends, hanging out and having fun. The place was starting to fill up and everyone was smiling. I poured another round and considered the question.

“Well, I think that if you exclude porn stars, most guys are pretty much normal. Men seem to be fixated on length. I suppose it’s the woman’s preference.”

Linda’s hand was under the table, conducting her own research. Two years of abstinence and I was toast. Dormant feelings surged in my lower regions. The B-52’s began blasting ‘Love Shack’ from the juke box. Linda wanted to dance. I was almost embarrassed to stand.

The dance floor was a tiny square of dirty linoleum. Well oiled and loose, I bopped to the beat, bumped booty and did a reasonable robot. It was my go to move. Linda thought it hilarious and joined in. I was just about to bust out the moon walk when the tempo slowed. The guy was pining about a man loving a woman. Linda melted to my chest. Her hair smelled like shampoo and our groins were doing the slow grind. When the song ended, she suggested we go out and grab some air.

The parking lot looked like Walmart at Christmas time. It took a moment to find my car. I was parked on the end, next to the trash cans. Linda sat on the hood and offered me a cigarette.

“Can I ask you something?” She was serious. The first time all night.

I paused to catch the flame from her lighter. Clean for two years and it was absolutely divine.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Whew. For a moment, I thought you were going to talk about ding-a-lings again.”

“No, silly,” she punched my arm.

“Sure. You’re cute as a button. How old are you?”

She was lifting the hair off of her neck to catch some air. “How old do you think I am?”

“Hmmm….twenties? And don’t ask me, I’m way beyond that. Do you live around here?”

“Sometimes but I haven’t seen you around.”

“I’m up in Mill Valley.”

“I’ve got a cousin there! Works at a dentist office doing that hygiene stuff. She said she could get me a job.”

“Well, the world does need their teeth looked after.”

Linda batted her eyes. “Other things, too. Let’s get in the car and talk about ding-a-lings .”

Whoa! I flicked that cigarette away faster than a rabbit on a rocket ship. The first thing she did after slamming the door was complain about the heat. She wiggled out of the jersey. Just like that! Sweet baby Jesus! What is it about guys and breasts. We’re never truly weaned. That primordial need to suckle at birth is a life long imprint. I was feeling it right now. Her breasts were a perfect handful. She tasted like a hot strawberry pie. When I came up for air, she went for my belt.

“I don’t have a condom," I breathed.

“It’s all right. We can do it this way. I like it.”

I shoved the steering wheel back and my fingers in her curls. The sensation was warm, wet and languid. Yet, with two years of abstinence, I wasn’t about to run a marathon. Against my will, I grabbed the steering wheel. Every molecule in my body was surging out of one focal point. Sometimes, pleasure can be quite painful. Also, embarrassing.

“Sorry,” I mumbled when she came up.

“Don’t be silly,” she patted her lips with the jersey. “It was good, right. Five hundred dollars good?”

“Uh…yeah. Absolutely.”

“Good. So, pay up.”

“What? You can’t be serious! Five hundred? What are you, a prostitute?”
“No, Lowell. I just hang around this dump and give out free blow jobs for the exercise.”

“Funny but I don’t have that kind of money on me.”

“Please, don’t do this. Julian will be pissed and believe me, you don’t want to see him like that.”

“Ah, I see it now. He’s the pimp, that makes sense. Look Linda, nobody is shaking me down for five hundred. No way.

“Fine, it’s your funeral.”

She got out of the car, holding the jersey to her bare chest. I fumbled with my pants, zipping up. Entrapment! That’s what was happening. I had a half a mind to call the law.

“We need to talk,” He was standing at my door.

I was drunk, reckless and mad. Mostly at myself for being a fool. I piled out unsteadily and grabbed the door for support. Just as I straightened up, the world exploded. My head snapped back and collided with metal. There was a sensation of falling, tasting blood and gravel dust. Someone was talking, murmuring and urgent. Hands were at my back pocket, digging for my wallet. I tried to reach back. My body jerked from another blow. Doors opened and closed. An engine started. With one eye, I watched a wheel roll past. Then, there was nothing.