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part 1 of the story
The Road West

Mike Schneider

    The last thing Jeff Pachett needed on that July Sunday morning was for his car to begin missing and sputtering on the Ohio Turnpike. Well, not his car but the one he boosted earlier that day from the parking lot at Great Northern Mall in North Olmsted, after which he exchanged the license plate with one parked at the other end of the lot about a quarter mile away. Fortunately, when it started acting up he was within sight of the Middle Ridge Service Plaza and the engine didn’t stall until just before he hit the exit lane, where a quick shift to neutral left him enough speed to coast the rest of the way to a parking space without attracting attention.
    He looked around, plenty of cars from which to choose, so he wiped away all his fingerprints, grabbed his carryon bag from the passenger’s seat, went inside for an early lunch.
    A map on the wall near the door showed the Baumhart Road exit was only four and a half miles west. When the time came he would surely be able to get to it before his new car would be missed, but even if it were the highway patrol would not have nearly enough time to put out a BOLO on whatever vehicle he happened to choose. At the exit he would have no trouble hiding his identity from the cameras.
    After purchasing a hamburger, French fries, and large Coke he took a seat with a window on the parking lot to make sure the 2016 Kia Optima he abandoned was not drawing attention from law enforcement. It wasn’t.
    Hunger satisfied, what he expected to be a casual stroll through the parking lot looking for a replacement struck gold on the third vehicle, a 2020 Dodge Caravan, white, with tinted glass all around, the driver’s window down, and keys in the ignition. After visually surveying the area he opened the door, tossed his carryon over to the front passenger’s seat, got in and took off. A full tank of gas seemed a fine bonus, and he made it off the turnpike in less than six minutes, cap, sunglasses, and Covid mask on.
    “My ticket flew out the window,” he said as he handed the toll booth clerk a $50 bill.
    It was about 425 miles to Chicago. That would probably take him eight hours instead of the usual six, as he was driving federal and state highways now instead of the interstate. His aim was to spend the night in the windy city, head out on the second leg of his journey early Sunday morning. He was going westbound on US2, crossing OH61, somewhere near a place called Ceylon, according to a road sign, and thinking about where he could find a license plate, when a feminine voice from the back said, “Who’s driving my van and why?”
    “Jesus Christ!” he yelled, so startled he jerked upward and nearly hit his head on the ceiling. “Who the hell are you?”
    “I’m Alexis Moncota, owner of this vehicle. Why are you driving it and where are you taking me?”
    “I’m taking you to the side of the road where you are going to give me your phone and get out and walk,” he said as he immediately hit the brakes and pulled onto the berm.
    “Bullshit, buster! It’s my van, you’re getting out, not me.”
    He quickly turned the engine off, took the keys, got out and opened the side door where a shapely early 20-something gal with short black hair, alert blue eyes, fairly light complexion, full lips, the whitest teeth, and longest legs now had her back pressed against the opposite side, one foot on the floor to anchor her, the other leg drawn back, ready to kick him if he reached for her.
    He did reach and his chest caught her wrath. He jumped back.
    “Goddam woman! Take it easy, I ain’t going to hurt you!”
    “The question isn’t whether you’re going to hurt me. It’s how badly I’m going to hurt you, asshole!” she said with a determined confidence that made it a challenge not to believe her.
    “Ok. Look, I’m starting a long trip and it’s extremely important that I get to Chicago by tonight to stay on schedule. My car gave out at the turnpike plaza and yours had the keys in it. I didn’t even look to see if anyone was in the back. I won’t leave you by the side of the road, I certainly won’t hurt you, wouldn’t even if I wanted to as you seem more than capable of preventing it, but sweetheart I do need your phone because I can’t have you calling the police, or anyone else. That could result in a high-speed chase in which one or both of us could get killed.”
    As she looked at him he could tell she was assessing her situation behind those sparkling blue eyes. There was a long moment of silence that seemed like an eternity as he struggled to keep from blinking, and found it even harder to focus his eyes on hers and not stray to her nicely shaped breasts, or the rest of her body that, in the brief glance he had gotten, appeared primo in all respects.
    Finally, she said, “I’m heading west, too. Here’s what we we’ll do. You can drive because I’ve had very little sleep the past two nights, as you can tell by how long it took me to wake up after you kidnapped me, and it would be safer with you driving. But when we get to the point where we split up, I get it back and you’ll have to steal something else, take a bus, walk, or whatever you decide to do that will not include me or my van. I’m only agreeing to this because I get the feeling that although you’re obviously a douche bag you don’t seem like a totally evil person. I’ll put my phone in the glove compartment, you can lock it. I’ll sleep.”
    “Fair enough,” he said, the surprise apparent not only in his voice but also on his face, as he guardedly extended a hand to help her out of the van. She took it. Once she was out he opened the front door, took his carryon off the seat and put it in the back while Alexis got in and closed the door. He walked around front, took the driver’s seat, checked her phone, locked it in the glove box.
    Then the unlikely pair of travelers hit the road again.
    After four or five miles she said, “What’s your name?”
    “Jeffrey.”
    “Jeffrey what?”
    “For right now Jeffrey’s enough.”
    “Bullshit! You know mine, I get to know yours.”
    “Me knowing your name can’t hurt you,” he said. “You knowing mine could land me in prison for kidnapping, auto theft, and probably several other charges. Kidnapping is the problem, too long a stretch to take a chance on with someone whom I know nothing about.”
    They both remained quiet for a few minutes, then he said, “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”
    “You’re asking?”
    “You own the radio, it seems fair.”
    “As long as it’s good music go ahead.”
    “I like jazz and classical,” he said.
    “I’m pop and rock.”
    “Then I guess we don’t listen.”
    Again they were silent as the highway cut through the fields of the flattening prairie land of western Ohio. While he could have gotten back on the turnpike he decided against it. The road was always lousy with staties. When the first one passed them she could take hold of the wheel, grab the cop’s attention with the erratic swerving sure to follow.
    Finally, she said, “Ok. Let’s do this. We’ll listen to an hour of pop or rock, then an hour of jazz or classical.”
    “I go first,” he said, “my idea to listen to the radio.”
    “My radio.”
    He thought for a moment.
    “How about flipping a coin?”
    “Ok, I’ve got a quarter in my pocket,” she said as she moved her hand to retrieve it.
    He grabbed her wrist.
    “You don’t have a box cutter in there. Right?”
    “Of course not. “
    “I’ll get it anyway,” he said.
    “No way!” she yelled, quickly and forcefully slapping his hand away. “Car thieves and kidnappers don’t get in my pants in any way, shape, or form. Use your own damn coin!”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “Fine! No radio then!”
    Ten miles later he relented.
    “Ok. Get the quarter. I get heads.”
    She flipped it, he won. Not only that, he had beginners luck finding a jazz station on the first try. It was playing Dave Brubeck’s immortal song “Take Five.”
    She humpfed.
    “Did you know May 5^th is referred to as Dave Brubeck Day because of the unusual 5/4 time signature of this song? Unfortunately, Star Wars fans celebrating ‘May the 4^th be with you,’ so close to it have taken some of the shine off the 5^th.”
    “How does a common car thief know so much about jazz? I didn’t think crooks were into that level of sophistication about anything.”
    “I guess that makes me an uncommon crook,” he said. “When I was growing up my dad played sax in several local jazz combos. And before you ask, my mother was a concert pianist.”
    “You’re grown up? I guess that’s why you still go joy riding in other people’s vehicles.”
    “I’m 34, almost grown up, and mostly not a bad guy. Right now I’m a little down on my luck, have had to apply some extreme measures in an attempt to claw my way back to the top. It all depends on what life throws at you, you know. You seem to be doing pretty well, driving something like this.”
    “Sorry to disappoint, I won it in a contest.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit. A Catholic charity sweepstakes my ex-boyfriend worked on, $25 ticket, grand prize a brand new Dodge Caravan SXT. He thought I should sell it and spilt the money. I said, ‘No.’ When he insisted I told him the only splitting would be me. Thus, traveling alone.”
    “Wow! See, if I had your luck I wouldn’t have been stealing one. In fact, I’d call it karma. Good karma. You won a vehicle, I needed a vehicle.”
    “And I’d call it fucked up. I happened to be unlucky enough to be taking a nap when my van was stolen and I got kidnapped.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t call me a kidnapper. You’re not bound or gagged. I don’t even own any duct tape. You’re free to get out anytime you want, with everything but your phone, and you’ll get that back when you get your van back. I haven’t hurt you one bit. Actually, I’m more like a chauffeur than a kidnapper or car thief. Speaking of which, I thought you wanted to sleep.”
    “I do but I can’t trust you.”
    “I can understand your concern but you really can trust me. I wish you nothing but the best in your life. I really do. I wish you would take advantage of it and get some rest.”
    “Not that I have a lot of experience, but you are an unusual kidnapper. I’ll say that.”
    “Because I’m not a kidnapperÉusually. And I wasn’t trying to be one today. You must admit, we have a common interest, both of us heading west. Shucks, we even have a symbiotic relationship. I need transportation and you need a chauffeur so you can sleep.”
    “Why don’t you talk like a crook?”
    “I don’t know what crooks talk like, but strange that you would know more about crooks’ jargon and elocution than I do.”
    “All I know is you don’t talk like I think crooks would talk.”
    “I guess it’s education. Bachelor of Arts degree from Ithaca College. Trouble is, it doesn’t make you any money so at times I have to turn to sublegal methods to make ends meet and pay my student loans, as my education and earning potential are badly out of sync.”
    She began to laugh but quickly stifled it. With the exception of pointing out a cumulus cloud in the sky in front of them that Alexis thought looked like a fish, and Jeff ooing and aahing over an old candy apple red Corvette going the opposite direction, they rode silently until his hour on the radio was up and she changed the station.
    With pop playing he told her when he liked a song. He was partial to Taylor Swift and Harry Styles but had no idea who Styles was.
    Alexis tried to nap sporadically but it didn’t work. She’d close her eyes for two or three minutes, then awake with a start every time.
    During those moments of sleep he had a chance to look her over better, even imagined her in candlelight lying nude on a bed, her legs spread, knees raised, breasts standing proudly on her slim chest, the inviting look of wanton anticipation on her face. He wished the circumstances were different. She was bright, sharp, witty, and beautiful. Not much to complain about.
    When she awoke from her second two to three minute nap he said, “Alexis, I’m not going to do anything to you, I’m not a violent person. Besides, I would never hurt a beautiful woman.”
    “Shut up! I don’t take compliments from dickhead underworld types.”
    “Well, think what you want. Me being here isn’t hurting a thing. In that respect it’s no different than if I had hopped a freight train. You being too tired to drive safely makes it even better. Left to your own devices you might’ve been dead by now from falling asleep at the wheel.”
    “Left to my own devices I would be well rested after having had an adequate nap!”
    “Guess you got me there. By the way, I’m going to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Where are you going?”
    “Fuck!”
    “Why did you say that? Oh”—he began laughing—“You’re going to Cheyenne, too? I’m going for a job teaching history at a community college. I don’t know why but I feel safe telling you that. Guess I’m beginning to trust you.”
    “Don’t get too comfortable.”
    “What’s waiting in Cheyenne for you?”
    “My cousin, Becky. We used to spend a couple weeks together out there every summer when we were kids.”
    “That’s cool. I never had anyone to visit like that. Maybe I would have done better if I’d had someone to be a good influence on me for a couple weeks every summer. Was Becky a good influence on you, or did you two get into all kinds of mischief?”
    “Mixed I guess. We went to church every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening, I smoked my first joint in Cheyenne at a younger age than I probably should have, toilet papered a couple houses one time and got in trouble for it.”
    “Pretty normal stuff, and you didn’t grow up to be a chauffeur, like some people we know.”
    She laughed again, this time not suppressing it.
    When they hit the outskirts of Chicago they stopped at a Bob Evans for dinner.
    “I’m up for a cranberry pecan chicken salad,” he told her after looking over the menu. “How about you?”
    “Salad sounds good, wildfire chicken for me.”
    When the salads came she complained about too little chicken on them, and the coffee didn’t taste fresh. He told her their salads seemed fine to him, and he liked the coffee.
    While eating he said, “So I’m game to going all the way to Cheyenne together. What do you think?”
    “Believe it or not, I’m considering it. I can’t quite decide whether you’re a rather nice guy who played too much Grand Theft Auto, an extremely competent con man, or something else I haven’t hit on yet.”
    “Alexis, you can go through my entire bag. There’s no gun, no knife, no ligature, no poison, or anything else that would suggest danger. In fact, you will see the Hogwarts pajamas I sleep in.”
    “Oh God! This is getting too weird.”
    “Why.”
    “I have Harry Potter pjs, too.”
    “Well, I’ll tell you right now, lady, if I end up under some kind of spell, I’m going to be good and pissed!”
    She laughed again. When they finished dinner they found a Motel 6, took a room with two beds.
    “If you’re moving to Cheyenne why do you only have a carryon bag?”
    “Shipped the rest. It’s going to arrive at my apartment come Thursday.”
    About an hour after they hit the sack in their respective beds, Alexis said softly, “I don’t hear any rhythmic breathing. Are you having a hard time getting to sleep?”
    “Yeah. Are you?”
    “I am. Why can’t you get to sleep?” she asked.
    “Because I don’t know when I wake up in the morning if you will be here or gone, or if I will be dead or arrested.”
    She got out of bed, pulled Jeff’s covers back and crawled in with him.
    “Let’s give each other some confidence,” she said.
    They slept until 10 o’clock and when they awoke neither appeared surprised to find the other still there.
    “Feel more confident now?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.
    “I do, but not totally, thinking I might need a booster shot tonight.”
    “Kind of in the back of my mind, too,” she sang in a pleasing mezzo-soprano voice.
    He showered first, had coffee waiting by the time she was done in the bathroom. They drank it, checked out, and hit McDonald’s for a quick breakfast.
    “Now that we’re more comfortable with each other do you want to take I-80? We could make it in two days instead of three.” she said.
    “Taking federal highways we’d have an extra night that could turn out to be somewhere between glorious and marvelous.”
    “Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “Nothing says we couldn’t stop 50 or 100 miles short of Cheyenne, stay in a motel again and drive in refreshed and relaxed Wednesday morning. Becky isn’t expecting me until sometime Wednesday afternoon.”
    “I-80 it is then,” he said.
    Most of the morning they chitchatted about their lives, getting to know each other better in what seemed, oddly, like a natural progression from hostility, to intimacy, to true friendship.
    “It just occurred to me I don’t know what kind of work you do. What do you do?” he asked.
    “You probably won’t believe me.”
    “Try me.”
    “I’m a waitress at a Bob Evans Restaurant”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I’m good at it and make good tips. It’s just until next May when I finish my masters.”
    “In what?”
    “Well, like you, I have a Bachelor of Arts degree, my major is oil painting, with supportive courses in anatomy, anthropology, and European art history. My masters is going to be in the painting styles and techniques of the European masters.”
    “Damn! You’re an art dynamo. What are you going to do with all that?”
    “Hopefully, work as an independent artist doing oils, acrylics, and watercolors. If necessary I’ll supplement my income by teaching art at community colleges. I’m pretty good, though, so I’m hoping I don’t have to.”
    After traversing Iowa they stopped just over the state line in Omaha, Nebraska, found a Motel 6 again and checked in. Following a quick dinner at an IHOP they returned to the motel, both anxious to retire.

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