Walk a Mile
Richard Levesque
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
“Walk a Mile” originally appeared in the May 2012 issue of Lissette’s Tales of the Imagination, Volume 1, Number 3.
Copyright 2012 Richard Levesque
All Rights Reserved
Cover art Copyright 2013 Mark Walsh
Used By Permission
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Walk a Mile
About the Author
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*****************
Mike Parker wouldn’t have been able to explain the feeling, but when he saw the pick-up limping into the station, he knew there was something wrong, something more than just a flat tire. It was after ten. He should have already locked up, but the copy of Life had engrossed him with its profile of a unit of Marines in the Pacific. He had been sitting at his Uncle George’s desk, peering at the photos and wondering about the unwritten stories in the lines on all the young men’s faces. For the thousandth time since graduation, he pondered enlisting, but as always the thought of how his uncle needed him here pulled him back. If he was drafted, so be it. Until then, he’d wait and wonder.
It was a warm night, summer, and he had kept the office door open for the hour and a half since the last customer had pulled up to the pumps. An easy breeze blew the scent of eucalyptus from the rows of trees that lined the road, and it had also carried the rhythmic thud of the flat for several seconds before he realized what it was and pulled his eyes from the magazine to look past the pumps.
The pick-up was Ben Clark’s, and it came in off the road a little faster than it should have on the flat, rolling out of the dark and into the bright circle from the floodlight mounted to the eaves of the station. The truck’s red paint had long ago oxidized, and its hubcaps were gone. It was probably only ten years old, but had seen a lot of wear hauling loads to and from the Clark farm not three miles down the road.
Reluctantly, Mike laid the magazine on the desk and got up, checking his back pocket to make sure he still had his oil rag before he stepped outside. The pick-up’s engine cut out with a shudder before Mike was halfway to the pumps. Its door squeaked open almost immediately, and Mike stopped short when he saw Ronnie Clark getting out of the cab.
He had been expecting her father, but in the instant he saw Ronnie, Mike remembered that the Clarks had lit out for Fresno yesterday; Ronnie’s grandmother had died, and while her family had gone for the funeral, someone had needed to tend the farm. A stupid, involuntary smile worked its way across Mike’s face, and the good-natured greeting he had readied for Ben Clark disappeared, sucked in with his breath. Nothing replaced it, just the same dumbfounded silence that Ronnie had inspired in him since he’d been old enough to notice the depth of her eyes and the curve of her hips. She left the truck’s door open and walked past the pumps, heading straight for him. She wore faded jeans rolled up at the ankles and a blue checked shirt, heavy shoes well-suited to haying and being around cattle all day. Her brown hair was disheveled and a bit flattened, as though she had been asleep until just recently.
She moved quickly, her jaw firmly set and her brown eyes steely. She looked at Mike as though she didn’t know him, as though they hadn’t spent the last twelve years together in school. Her gaze was unsettling, and Mike’s heart began pounding harder.
“Hey, Ronnie,” he finally said. He hadn’t seen her but once or twice in the two months since school had ended, and then only to pass her on the street or to catch a glance an aisle away at the market. When he’d heard about her grandmother, he had told himself he should go pay his respects, but he hadn’t done it, hadn’t known what he’d say if he managed to make it up their porch steps and to the screen door.
Her expression did not change after he greeted her, and he hesitated to say more. Must be in a bad way, Mike thought. Poor kid. “Sorry to hear about your grandmother,” he offered quietly, but Ronnie’s face remained stony.
She was five feet away from him now, and he made certain to look her in the eyes, unsettling though they were. He would have hated it if she caught his gaze drifting down. She stopped walking and continued staring. Not acknowledging his offer of sympathy, she just said, “You have tools here?”
Mike wrinkled his brow. It wasn’t just that her question was odd. Of course he had tools. It was a service station, for Pete’s sake. No, it was her voice, almost as expressionless as her eyes—cold, unfeeling. Again, as though she didn’t know him. “Well, sure,” he said, finally managing an uneasy smile. She began walking once more, making as if to pass him and head for the service bay. “But I’m not gonna have a tire for you, what with the rubber ration,” he went on. “Has your dad got a spare in the—”
She was right beside him. “There’s no tire. Tools,” she repeated, impatience and anger in her voice now.
“Sure,” Mike stammered. “But it won’t do any—”
She stopped again, turning to him with complete determination. And then she reached out with her right hand and put it to the back of his neck, her fingers in his hair. She pulled him forward and kissed him.
His first instinct was to pull away. It was too much. Ronnie Clark had never looked at him with anything close to desire and now, in her bereavement and distress . . . this. It would be taking advantage of her.
Even so, he did not pull away. He could not. She held him too tightly. He wanted to move his hands, to run them up her back. But, again, he could not.
Mike Parker had never been in love, but after the first few seconds of feeling Ronnie Clark’s lips on his, her open mouth against his own, he became convinced that this was the real thing. He had heard it said a hundred times in movies and stories—that when you fell in love, you just knew it, knew that this was the person for you, knew that there could never be another. Mike didn’t exactly know those things as he tasted Ronnie’s breath, but he did know that the sensations he now had could be nothing other than love.
He could feel her passing into him. It was no longer just her mouth connected to him, but her essence. Though their bodies had moved no closer together, he suddenly felt as though they were bonded, as though he was leaving his body, moving forward into her. He could no longer feel his feet, or even his legs. If Ronnie hadn’t held him by the neck, he surely would have stumbled. She had him, though, and he closed his eyes, giving himself over to her irresistible pull.
And then she broke away. He could not feel her hand on his neck, but had also not felt her lift it from his skin. Feeling returned to his feet and legs in an instant, but it left him no more stable than he’d been a moment before.
Needing to hold his hands out for balance, Mike opened his eyes.
And watched himself walk away.
He no longer faced the old pick-up truck beside the pumps, but looked toward the service station instead. And there was Mike Parker walking away, the oil rag hanging from his back pocket.
“Wait!” he began, but he heard Ronnie Clark’s voice coming out of his mouth. A second later, his ears started buzzing. Then he corkscrewed to the ground, unconscious.
*****
He woke to the sound of an engine. He’d heard it a thousand times, his Uncle George’s tow truck. It rumbled past him and faded into the night before he could open his eyes.
Ben Clark’s pick-up was still at the pump some twenty feet away. Moths still bumped against each other in the floodlight’s glow. And he was still in Ronnie Clark’s body.
He knew it as he sat up. Everything felt lighter, as though the momentum it took to sit up would be enough to launch him into the air. With trembling fingers, he reached up to his face. Soft skin, no stubble. Both hands went into his hair, faintly sticky from hairspray. Tears of fear welled up in his eyes. “What the hell?” he whispered, the voice soft. No Adam’s apple bobbed. Breathing hard, he put his hand between his legs. Nothing. Gone. Then he realized what he was touching and whipped the hand away as though he had just put it in a fire.
“Oh, Jesus!” he moaned in Ronnie’s voice. “Jesus Christ! What’s happening to me?”
Tears streamed down his cheeks now. He forced himself up, first onto his knees and then his feet. The buzzing in his ears came back, and he quickly dropped back to his knees and vomited.
When he could finally just breathe for half a minute without retching, he brought the sleeve of Ronnie’s blouse up and wiped his mouth. Again he tried standing and felt steadier this time, still disoriented at the lightness of Ronnie’s body. The legs were shorter, the hips wider. And the breasts. He looked down. They jutted out from his chest. He had never not been able to see straight down his body—his chest, belly, feet. But now . . . He touched one of them, poking at it the way a boy might touch a sleeping dog to see if it might be dead. There was nothing erotic about it. “Jesus,” he whispered again, still unnerved at the sound of Ronnie’s voice.
He glanced around. Save for crickets and grasshoppers, the night was quiet. A few miles to the south lay Route 66, and there a service station attendant would rarely have a moment alone. He wished he were there now, around somebody who could help him, who could tell him this was just a dream or a hallucination. Anything.
Looking back toward the service station, he saw that the office light was still on. The service bay lights had been turned on as well. Ronnie must have gone in there, looking for her all-fired important tools, he told himself. The thought made him angry. She had his body. My goddamn body! he raged internally, and he began moving as quickly as he could toward the office. The breasts bounced as he walked, and he slowed his gait to keep them still. How women could get used to such a thing, he couldn’t guess.
His copy of Life was still on the desk where he’d left it. Through the door to the service bay he saw open drawers and scattered tools. Chester West’s ’38 Ford was in the middle of it all, the hood up and its radiator removed. Mike remembered his uncle putting away his welding equipment after patching the radiator that afternoon. Now it was out again. Ronnie seemed to have rummaged through the service bay until she’d found the welding tools, and then she had carefully laid them out on a workbench. Then she must have found the keys and taken off in the tow truck.
“Jesus,” Mike whispered again and ran his hand through Ronnie’s hair. Again he wiped away tears of frustration and turned back into the office. Seconds later, he had the phone in his hand. A quick turn of the “O” and he’d have the operator and then the sheriff.
Breathing hard, he hesitated, his finger on the dial. He imagined trying to explain to Sheriff Wilkes what had happened. He imagined Wilkes’ incredulity and shook his head. He would be in custody before long, and sent to the State Hospital in Camarillo before tomorrow night. Instead of telling the truth, he could just pretend to be Ronnie, could tell the sheriff that Mike Parker had attacked him and driven off in the pick-up, but where would that get him?
With a sigh, he set the receiver back on its cradle.
“All right, then,” he said, still frightened of Ronnie’s voice. He glanced at Ronnie’s shoes and then turned out the lights in the office and service bay. Whatever was happening, Mike knew some part of it had started at the Clark farm, and though Ronnie’s work shoes did not look suitable for the three-mile walk ahead of him, he told himself they must be fine enough for Ronnie’s feet. She likely worked in the damned things day after day on the farm. He could take Ben’s pick-up, but the tire was shredded, and he knew he wouldn’t get far on the rim. Not giving it another thought, he turned away from the service station and headed down the road.
The moon was half full, and countless stars were out. The same summer breeze he had noticed before Ronnie pulled into the station blew now, making the eucalyptus branches sway as he walked along the road. The trees had been planted in neat rows to block the wind from the farms and orange groves on either side of the road, and now they formed a corridor for him to walk down.
Less than twenty minutes later, he thought he saw movement ahead of him. He stopped walking and peered into the dark, trying to discern whether the shift in the shadows was really something moving or just the waving of tree branches. Seconds later, the distant shape took form; a man was walking toward him. Before he could decide whether to call out or not, he saw the man stop. And then the blood drained out of Mike’s face as he saw the man make a move he had seen others make a hundred times on hunting trips. The man held a rifle, and rather than pointing it at some distant target, he had raised it to his shoulder to aim it straight at Mike.
“Don’t you move, you son of a bitch!” he heard the man say, and immediately Mike froze.
“All right,” Mike said, loud enough to be heard across the distance between them. Ronnie’s voice still shocked him as it came out of his mouth. More surprising, though, was his realization about what the man had said. That another man should call Mike Parker a son of a bitch was bad enough. At any other time, he would have risen to the challenge of fighting words. But as soon as he heard Ronnie’s voice again, he knew that there was something very strange about what the man had said. No man in his right mind would call Ronnie Clark a son of a bitch; she was all woman, no son of anything. Confused and more than a little alarmed, he said, “Who are you?”
“You know goddamn well who I am!” the man shouted, and for a moment Mike feared he would pull the trigger, so enraged did he suddenly seem. He advanced on Mike, the rifle barrel never wavering, and added, “What did you do to me?”
“To you?” Mike asked. His mind raced. With every crazy thing that had happened tonight, here was one more. “I’ve never met you before, mister.” He could not yet make out the man’s features plainly, but he could see well enough to know that the man was not a local.
“Bullshit!” the man shouted back.
Mike put Ronnie’s hands up before him, palms out and toward the man with the gun. “Whoa, there, pal. Come on. Just . . . put the gun down and tell me what you think I did.”
He was maybe twenty feet away now. Still the gun did not drop, but the man did speak. “What I think you did? It’s what I know you did!” Through gritted teeth, the man spat out, “You took my body!”
Once again, Mike heard a buzzing in his ears, and he almost stumbled. Later, he was glad that he had not, for he realized that a sudden movement would have gotten him shot. “Your body?” he managed to ask, Ronnie’s voice coming out weakly now. “Your body?” He was incredulous. “But . . . my body—”
He could find no more words. If he had been hit in the head with a five-pound hammer, it likely would not have staggered him any more than what this man with the gun was making him think.
The point he was unable to make must have been communicated regardless, though, as the rifle slowly lowered. “Your body?” the man echoed quietly, fearfully. “What about your body?”
And then Mike knew. “Ronnie?” he asked.
The man dropped the gun to the ground.
Mike edged Ronnie’s body toward him. “Is it you?”
After a moment, the man nodded. “But who . . . who are you?” he said, his voice barely audible.
“Mike Parker.”
/> “Oh, God,” the man said. He had begun to cry. Through the tears, he sobbed, “I saw you drive by in the tow truck. I tried to flag you down, but you ignored me. I should have known it wasn’t really you. You wouldn’t have just left me out here.” More tears came, then, “How? Why?”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know. You came into the service station. I mean . . .” He looked down and indicated Ronnie’s body. “You . . . this came in. And you . . . your body. Kissed me.”
“And then you switched.”
Mike nodded. “The same thing happened to you? With . . . him?” He pointed.
The man—or Ronnie Clark somehow within the man—nodded back.
“But how? Who is he?”
Ronnie shook her head. “I don’t know how. His driver’s license says Milton Stubbs.”
Without thinking about it, Mike reached out for Ronnie’s hands. At first she hesitated to touch him, to touch the body that had been hers until a short time ago. But then she squeezed his hands and continued.
“I fell asleep on the porch swing, and I woke up with him standing over me. Scared the life out of me. He put his hand over my mouth . . .” She sobbed.
Bastard! Mike thought.
“He put his knee on my stomach, and then he just said he needed tools. Just like that. I tried to push him off, but he just held me and kept asking for tools. And then he kissed me.” She broke down then, crying with this man’s eyes and moaning with his voice.
Without thinking about it, Mike put his arms around her, feeling Ronnie’s breasts push against the man’s body in which she was trapped. Ronnie put her arms around him as well, and they held each other, the breeze still blowing the branches above them. When they stepped back, he said, “And when he stopped kissing you, you’d switched bodies with him.”
Ronnie nodded tearfully, looking ashamed.
“The same thing happened to me,” he said and went on to recount the incidents at the gas station. “Did you pass out, too?” he asked.
She nodded and wiped tears away from the man’s face. “When I came to, I heard him in the barn. It took me a while . . . a long while before I could go out there. This body . . . I thought I was going crazy.”