Lasting Impressions

published.

CHAPTER ONE

It amazed Dale Hawks how his mind shut out all noise around him, no matter how close its proximity. He realized this as he tripped over a large rock, breaking his concentration. He stood bewildered for a moment, trying to re-establish where he was and where he'd been headed. Looking up from the gravel, he stared at the outstretched highway before him. He hadn't heard a car go by for hours, or so it seemed.

Cars had sped past, equally oblivious to him on the side of the road; the shoulder's dust and dirt swirling around Dale, encasing itself on his skin and clothes, but he paid no attention. He looked ragged and tired, although he was certain he'd only been hitchhiking a few hours. He believed the next vehicle that stopped would be his ticket to freedom; a new start. The last few weeks were like a dream from which he'd just awakened. The images were so real, but their meanings were now lost.

Somehow he knew that was for the better.

As the first warm rays of daylight began burning off the morning fog, the highway became busier as more suburbanites headed to work. Walking backwards, Dale held out his thumb hoping for a ride, though even he'd admit he probably didn't appear very trustworthy on this particular day. He hadn't shaved in three days. His once soulful eyes were sleepy and crimson red. His wavy brown hair was greasy and tangled. He concluded the sole person he could expect to stop was someone with the same general physical attributes.

Lost Boy Chic.

By 8:50 the traffic thinned as the sun climbed majestically into the cloudless blue sky. Dale checked his watch and continued up the road, trusting a motorist would take pity on him. However, as the minutes stretched to hours, Dale's patience frayed. With each step he felt his body temperature rise. It was a feeling he dreaded; one he'd had the last time he found himself alone looking for a lift. Where those three weeks had gone was anyone's guess. Dale didn't know. The one thing he was certain of was that if this sensation managed to overtake him, he would lose valuable time out of his life, a life that already had as many holes as it had memories. Exhausted, he decided to sit for a minute to collect his thoughts and calm his growing anger.

As he picked a spot in the ravine, he knew it was too late. The damage had already been done. The metamorphosis was already taking place. Sitting helplessly, the last thing Dale remembered was a snake advancing toward him in the tall grass.

Whether it was real or a hallucination, he wasn't sure.

***

Referred to as The Dirty Diner by truckers, The Five Star Roadhouse, was empty when Dale strolled in, and he headed straight to the bar. From the overhead speaker system a country twanger was lamenting about the woman and her dog who'd recently left. From the stage area and accompanying posters on the walls, Dale assumed there'd be a similar sounding singer performing later in the evening. The cold and gloomy atmosphere was anything but festive. The wagon wheel light fixtures were running at half their normal wattage and the floor was still soiled with splashes of beer and cigarette butts.

None of this mattered to Dale.

Where can I find a washroom in this place? he yelled toward the back room.

Within a few seconds a woman in her mid-thirties (she'd seen better days), walked out of the kitchen. Are you shouting at anyone in particular, or just at me? she asked, stone-faced.

I need to use your facilities, lady. If you could help me, I can do my business and get out of this hole.

Sara could tell this creep was deadly serious and she wasn't about to tell him the washrooms were for customers only. Normally she'd have no reservations telling him where to go but her eyes locked with his. His pupils were unmoving, as if he was looking deep within her, not merely at her. As much as she wanted to turn and get on with her day, she couldn't stop returning his stare, strangely excited by the presence of this stranger.

Without shifting his gaze, Dale walked toward Sara, dropped his knapsack on the bar and noted the name embroidered on her employee shirt.

Sara, he spoke softly, that's a pretty name. I used to have a girlfriend named Sara. That was a long time ago. She's what you'd call ancient history. They found her body in the woods, stabbed fourteen times. He paused and smiled. They tried to blame it on me.

Sara could feel his breath as he circled her. Her mind kept telling her to run. Or yell. Do something! This kid is crazy! Get out! For some reason, she couldn't. Her justification was that he didn't really sound dangerous, even though he was talking about his murdered girlfriend. With every word she was drawn in by this wild-eyed young man.

Sara, he whispered in her ear.

Yes, she sighed like a teenager. She remembered this mixture of emotions: hope, coupled with anxiety. She took a deep breath and whirled around to face Dale.

Do you remember why I came in here? he said seductively.

Yeah, sure. Through those doors on your right.

Dale followed Sara's outstretched hand. Before leaving he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her lips. I'll be back in a few minutes. Will you still be here?

Sara felt weak and giddy. I'll be here.

She watched him walk away. When he finally disappeared from view, she sat on a bar stool. Her heart was racing. She felt silly for acting like a virginal schoolgirl. Regardless, she was also thinking how it would feel to make love with . . . What is his name? She'd ask when he returned.

Sara dashed to the back room to locate her purse and pulled out a small mirror and makeup. She applied a little blush here and a little there. Next, she put on a liberal amount of red lipstick and furiously brushed her hair, trying to look her very best. Satisfied with the results, she hurried back to the bar area, anticipating the moment her mystery man returned to sweep her off her feet.

***

Dale entered the battered door marked Dudes, not knowing what dangers lay behind it. Inside he found grimy floors, paper towels scattered everywhere, and enough cigarette butts in the urinals to fill a pack. He located a relatively clean area on the floor, put his knapsack down and walked to the sink. Turning on the water, he scooped it onto his face and looked at the cracked mirror. The deep penetrating eyes that stared back disturbed even him.

Hey there, good buddy. Long time no see.

He grabbed a small towel and a leather knife case from his sack. Continuing to stare at his reflection, he pulled the knife from its sheath. A smile washed over his dusty features as the gleaming four-inch piece of metal was released from its covering; the light from the washroom's single bulb danced on the blade. Setting the cover aside, Dale placed the knife on the basin. Combining soap and water he produced a thick lather, which he applied to his face before picking up the knife again, bringing it close to his skin.

Like Sara out there, be gentle with me and I'll bring you out to play more often.

With a rock-steady hand he scraped the knife's sharp edge across his cheek; the sound reminding him of ripping apart Velcro - both sides desperately trying to hold onto their grip. The knife brought a new identity - a new look - to the man in the mirror. One that was different, but the same. More honest. More sincere. More trustworthy.

The white soapy lather progressively turned reddish-pink as numerous nicks and cuts were made by the unforgiving blade. Undaunted, Dale continued to place the cold metal to his skin. As his hand made the final sweep of his throat, his eyes lit up as though wishing his accuracy would be off, and fate could step in to stop his internal madness. Regrettably, as in the past, today he would be given another chance to prove his worth.

Next he changed his clothes: the old thrift shop jeans replaced by a trendy brand name pair; his shabby shirt giving way to a fashionably striped one; his boots replaced by expensive leather loafers. Once satisfied with his new persona, Dale stuffed his old clothes inside the knapsack and slicked his hair back, Elvis-style.

Wait until that bimbo gets a load of me, he growled at his reflection, splashing on some cologne. If she thinks she's good enough to sample this merchandise, we'll have to show her otherwise.

His smiling face seemed to take on the form of several people all at once.

It's good to be back. Now let's go out and play, he declared as he kicked the washroom door open.

***

Hearing her patron's approach, Sara straightened up on her stool. Her mind was reeling with the possibilities of what might occur next. As Dale entered the room, Sara wasn't sure her legs could support her if she was required to stand. Regardless what he was about to ask of her, she assured herself she was ready, able and very willing.

Thanks for the directions, Dale said as he brushed by her. You really should clean those toilets though. I was afraid something was going to bite me.

Dale stopped and assessed Sara, who looked utterly mystified. As had happened earlier, her eyes locked with his. Her heart felt as if it might pound its way through her chest.

I trust you didn't assume I'd want to get down and dirty with an old tramp like you? If you did, I feel really sorry for you, Sara.

The eyes appeared the same, but Sara sensed some change had occurred. You're a bastard, she said, getting off the stool.

I'm glad you're taking this so well. I was afraid you'd crumble under the humiliation of yet another man turning down your sagging body. Dale smiled as he spoke and stepped toward the front doors.

In full pursuit and seething with anger, Sara cried out, You're not as hot as you think you are. Most sons of bitches aren't! She had almost reached him when he spun on his heels and grabbed both her arms.

I was the best thing you ever had, baby, he grimaced. You're never going to forget me or what happened here today. You'll replay every second in your scattered head, but you'll never discover the truth of what went wrong. I'll give you a hint though: we're not going to be together because of something that you did, not me, sweet Sara - you.

The gritty edge in his voice gave it a sinister quality. He released Sara, who from sheer fright had fallen to the floor paralysed. The rage she felt a moment earlier was gone, replaced by overwhelming bewilderment.

What did I do? Why is he leaving? What’s wrong with me?

Outside, Dale inhaled the fresh morning air and proceeded toward the road.

If they don't know the rules, they shouldn't be in the game, he said to himself. Smiling, he opened his knapsack to retrieve a pair of sunglasses. And of course, if you're playing against me you should expect to lose anyway. He glanced back at the roadhouse and his grin widened. Isn't that right, Sara?

With his shades in place, Dale stuck out his thumb and prayed it wouldn't take long to be picked up. With this warm-up round behind him, he was raring to start a new game in which the stakes would be much higher.

CHAPTER TWO

Do you know how dangerous those things are? Sheila Atkins yelled from the porch step.

Jeremy could barely hear her above the roar of his new motorcycle. The look on her face wasn't one of joy.

Mom, get a life, he called back. I'm 19 and an upstanding citizen. Do you really think I'm going to ride through town like a maniac?

I don't want to see my baby get hurt, that's all, she replied, resigned to the fact she couldn't convince her son of the dangers of motorcycles. I'll see you tomorrow after the conference. Your father and I are leaving in a few minutes.

The word baby made Jeremy cringe. Hopping on the motorcycle, he performed a wheelie for his less than appreciative mother and sped uptown. With the wind on his face and hot summer air being forced into his lungs, Jeremy couldn't wait to show off his new ride to his gang. This two-wheeled marvel would reaffirm what everyone already knew: Jeremy Atkins was the coolest.

In a town of 1300 residents, there were few stand-outs. Jeremy Atkins was one of those few. It helped that his father had been the Mayor of Lasting for 15 years and his mother was the principal of Lasting High School. Even though Jeremy would admit that a portion of his heightened status was attributed to his parents' stature, he was also aware he controlled his future. He'd pushed himself to achieve what those Army ads said every young man should strive for: Be all you can be.

At the age of eight he became a humble paperboy with a few dozen customers. When another courier quit, Jeremy immediately picked up the slack and the extra money. When he quit five years later, his daily route had quadrupled in size.

As the all star athlete in baseball and hockey, Jeremy Atkins' name became synonymous with winning. Along with the awards he reaped, he was also an honour roll student, proving to everyone he wasn't a dumb jock.

In his mind, whatever or whoever he touched would simply turn to gold. He had a sure fire plan that would see him become King of all he surveyed. No doubt about it, he was destined for greatness.

***

The three young men in the parking lot heard the motorcycle's engine several blocks away. As the noise drew louder, they each wondered what their self-appointed leader's new bike looked like and how fast it could go.

Jeremy came to a screeching halt in front of them and there was nodding approval of his new toy. Taking off his helmet, Jeremy waited for the accolades to begin.

Nice wheels, Jeremy, Mark McWhinney spoke up. Looks pricey. What did it cost your parents?

What's a few thousand to the Mayor of this town? Jeremy replied, sliding comfortably into the centre of attention. He lived for these moments. What about you, Frank? Does this beat that dirt bike of yours?

Frank Taylor shifted from one foot to another appraising the bike. It'd beat it on the highway but not out on the trails for very long. Frank gave a quick smile, but realizing no one had taken his joke the right way, he quickly elaborated on his review. This bike wasn't meant for dirt trails though. It's got real class, Jeremy.

Frank hoped he had saved his hide by sucking up to Jeremy so quickly. Like the others, he knew his friendship with the most popular person in school existed on a daily basis. One day you could be his best buddy and the next you might be another face in the crowd.

Thanks, Frank. I figured that's what you were trying to say. Jeremy turned to his last loyal subject. How about you, Ed?

Unlike Mark and Frank, Edward Belamy didn't get anxious in the presence of Jeremy Atkins. They had grown up on the same street and his father worked in Stuart Atkins' administration. Edward was Jeremy's only true comrade, if such a post existed. Popular in his own right, even Edward knew there were benefits to staying close to greatness.

It does look like one fine motorcycle. If your father would give my old man a raise, I could get one too. He paused for effect, glancing at Frank before adding, Of course, not the exact same bike. Maybe a size smaller than yours.

An amused look registered on Edward's face as Frank nodded silently, as if to say, You did good, Ed.

It would have to be a lot smaller. I can hardly handle this one, Jeremy replied. He unclipped a second helmet from the seat. Are you ready to take a spin, Ed?

Depends. Will you be on the bike at the same time? Edward quickly shot a look at Frank, whose face paled noticeably.

Jeremy didn't reply to Edward's question, turning back to Mark instead. Mark, do you think Ed is trying to be a smartass or was he born that way?

Definitely born that way, Mark replied without hesitation. Affected by all those drugs his mother did when she was in high school.

Not to mention all the guys, Jeremy joked.

Ha, ha, ha, was all Edward said in his mother's defense, as his friends laughed. Let's see what this thing can really do. Edward grabbed the helmet and climbed on the back half of the seat, as Jeremy pushed the ignition button.

Jeremy revved the engine a couple of times, then popped the clutch, giving Edward only a split second to grasp for something solid to hold onto. They squealed out of the parking lot, leaving Mark and Frank in a small cloud of dust.

Cruising out of town, Jeremy hollered at Edward, So what do you think?

I think we should dump Frank as a friend.

About the bike!

Oh, this? Edward replied casually. Not bad. How fast do you think it'll go?

Let's find out.

Even as their speed increased, Edward's enjoyment decreased. It wasn't that he didn't like travelling fast - that part was still exhilarating. The problem was one that had been creeping into his consciousness lately, involving his frustration with why Jeremy Atkins was perceived to be the only Golden Boy in town. Edward respected Jeremy's numerous accomplishments, but he was also growing tired of playing the role of second fiddle. A recent incident involving his last girlfriend and Jeremy hadn't helped matters.

Things should change, Edward said, knowing Jeremy couldn't hear a word against the whistling wind. With this in mind, Edward glanced down at the retreating pavement and said aloud, Someday, Jeremy, you'll be grovelling to be my shadow.

***

Twenty minutes had passed since Jeremy and Edward had departed on their mini road trip.

Where did they go - Graceland? Mark asked impatiently.

I'm sure they'll be back soon. Then Jeremy will give us a ride, Frank replied, although even he was having doubts.

Do you think Jeremy gives a damn about us sitting here, Frank? Mark's tone reflected his growing annoyance. By the time Jeremy thinks of us, we'll be old men. Mark stood and stretched. Are you going to stay here all day?

Frank looked down the street, thinking he'd heard the motorcycle. At least a little while longer.

I have better things to do than to wait for the triumphant reappearance of King Jeremy, Mark said.

Frank got to his feet and confronted Mark. Are you jealous?

Frank's voice carried an attitude Mark didn't care for. He met Frank's advance, grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him against a nearby brick wall.

You may be pretty book smart in the classroom, but to Jeremy you were his meal ticket to pass calculus. Mark paused and laughed. You didn't think Jeremy invited you to hang with us because you're so cool?

Mark began to walk away. Frank was reeling from Mark being brutally truthful with him. He would concede that at first his induction into Jeremy's trusted inner circle was due to his academic prowess, and not any prominent personality traits he possessed. Still . . . the longer he spent with the guys, the more his initial misgivings dissipated. Now he didn't know how to respond.

Why did you just say that?

Turning, Mark said, I only want you to see who you're keeping company with. I don't have any secret agenda.

Before Frank could reply, the sound of a motorbike came within earshot. I told you Jeremy would come back, he said gleefully.

Oh joy, oh bliss, Mark said. He's come back to save us from ourselves!

Frank paid no heed to Mark's antics. If only Jeremy knew what Mark really thought of him, he pondered. So how was it, Ed? Frank asked.

Not bad, Edward said taking off his helmet, I've never had bugs smash against my teeth at that speed before.

How fast were you going? Frank piped up.

About 120, give or take 10, Jeremy replied smugly.

Really? Mark asked in disbelief.

You have a problem with that? Jeremy shot back.

Cool off, Jer, Edward said.

Responding as if Edward had exceeded some line in their friendship, Jeremy tore the spare helmet from Edward's hand and restarted the bike.

"Look, I don't need any of you losers helping me to get ahead in life. If you don't believe what I say, fine. Just remember, it's my choice who I allow to hang around me."

Jeremy gunned the engine and fishtailed the bike out of the parking lot, while the others bickered amongst themselves.

What a tool bag, Mark remarked. What's got him so bent out of shape?

Couldn't tell you, Edward said.

What did you talk about out there? Frank commanded. Did you say something that pissed him off?

You're only mad precious Jeremy didn't give you a ride, Mark jeered.

Lay off him, Mark, Edward said looking toward Frank. He's not worth it. Edward's facial expression became hard. But for your information, Frank, I didn't say a damn thing to Jeremy. At that speed, you don't have time for any meaningful conversations. Obviously I'm speaking from personal experience. Edward looked away from Frank. Now, if you ever get the chance to ride with Jeremy, you can give us your thoughts on the whole experience. Until then . . .

Edward pivoted so quickly that Frank couldn't think fast enough to react. Edward's fist slammed into Frank's mid-section, doubling him over and leaving him gulping for air on the sidewalk.

. . . keep your mouth shut, Edward concluded, walking away.

Mark, knowing his loyalties might be questioned if he didn't leave now, glanced down at Frank's rumpled body before jogging up beside Edward.

Left alone to suffer, Frank's thoughts turned to revenge. You two will regret this, he said under his breath.

CHAPTER THREE

Fifteen-year old Olivia Baker was staring out her bedroom window when Jeremy rode by, causing her heart to skip a beat. Her mind raced through several hopelessly impossible situations concerning Jeremy and herself. With a rush of energy pulsating within her, she ran to the kitchen where her mother, Anna Baker, was drying the final lot of freshly washed breakfast dishes.

Mom, did you see Jeremy Atkins go by on his motorcycle? Olivia asked as she opened the fridge door.

Didn't see it, but sure could hear the fool thing.

"It's not a fool thing, Olivia retorted. It's a cool thing."

Olivia's mother shook her head. Fool, cool. Same thing, different generations.

Olivia poured herself a glass of apple juice. You wouldn't know a cool thing if it kissed you on the lips.

Anna shrugged. I've always believed that you should be judged by who you are, not what you own.

That may have worked in the good old days, unfortunately fashion and style are everything today. Look at me. Olivia appraised her worn jeans and plaid blouse. I won't ever be cool. I'll be an outcast forever.

Her mother turned in disgust. I've told you a thousand times I can only afford so much for you. I try my best and you should be grateful for what you have.

As her mother began to put the dishes away, Olivia exited the room. On the way upstairs, she felt a bit remorseful. She hadn't meant to get on her mom's case. Sometimes things slipped out.

To fight off this mild bout of depression, Olivia decided to make a quick entry in her diary. She opened the closet door in her bedroom and, perching on her desk chair, stretched her arms upwards, pushing aside a ceiling panel. Reaching into the space, she retrieved her most secret thoughts - all written in a small red book. Grabbing a pen, she flopped down on her bed and began to write.

Dear Diary,

Jeremy drove by today on his new motorcycle. He looked so cool. I was hoping he'd see me in the window and ask if I'd like to go to the beach to spend the day together. At sunset we could walk barefoot in the sand . . . hand in hand. And when we got to a secluded area, he'd lovingly look into my eyes and say I was the only one he's ever really cared for. He'd then kiss me on the lips. If I didn't die right there in his arms, I don't know what I'd do!!! But who am I kidding? Jeremy Atkins doesn't know I'm alive, let alone totally in love with him. Someday I'll get the nerve to talk to him. If only I had the courage!

I really should get going. Until next time, wish me luck.

She reread the passage and closed the diary with an audible sigh. It sounded like all the other entries she'd written during the past six months. She quickly replaced the book in its hiding spot and collapsed onto her bed.

I don't know how or when, she addressed the ceiling, but I'm going to get Jeremy Atkins, if it kills me.

***

Susan Parker had all her household chores finished by the time her mother came home for lunch. Marion Parker enjoyed being able to spend some quality time with her daughter each day during the summer months. She assumed this was one reason they got along so famously, to the chagrin of her recently divorced husband. To say Ted and Susan were complete opposites would be an understatement. So when the lawyers inquired about custody, it quickly became a redundant question.

From the looks of all the work you've done, I'm guessing you have important plans today, Marion said as she sat at the kitchen table. Anyone special?

Oh, you know . . . the same goof I've been with for three years, Susan quipped, taking two salads from the fridge and placing them on the table. Sitting down, she looked at her mother. Do you think he'll ever get around to proposing to me?

Her mother began to cough. Marriage? Haven't you learned anything from your parents' divorce?

Yeah, that if two people don't get along they should split up.

An expression of mild rage swept over Marion's face, only to slowly turn into one of mischief. How much is he paying you, Susan? I'll double it.

He who?

Your father, Marion said, pointing her fork in Susan's direction. I can tell by the glint in your blue-green eyes he's secretly paying you to make my life miserable.

I wish! Susan said with a mock look of outrage. I'm doing this for free.

No further words were exchanged as they finished their small salads.

Susan broke the silence by asking, Do you really think he'd pay me?

On his income, the paperboy is lucky to get paid every other week, dear.

Both laughed out loud.

I must admit, Mom, since the divorce your sense of humour has come back as wicked as ever, Susan said, grabbing the dirty dishes. So . . . you didn't answer my first question. Do you think Jeremy will ever pop the question?

Where you two are concerned, it's probably the only thing that he hasn't popped.

Marion, how dare you talk about your daughter that way! You should be ashamed of yourself, Susan said in a condescending tone.

"I've always had an open relationship with my daughter and if she wants to ruin her life with the town's most eligible bachelor, that's her decision. If he's handsome and rich, then what's a poor mother like me to