DEAN SLEPT FITFULLY, running naked through miles and miles of a forest made entirely of tights and women’s foundation garments. He woke early and showered while singing “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go”––an old homemade remedy for clearing away bad dreams. According to his father, any song by Wham would do the trick.
After they checked out of the Silver Spur, he took Emerson across the street to a Denny’s and found seats by the window.
“How would you like your breakfast?” asked the waitress. “Mennonite, English, or Hutterite?”
“Miss, we’re not Amish so don’t even start,” said Dean. “These ‘80’s snow boots didn’t give you a clue?”
“I’m sorry. I thought maybe you had cold feet. I mean, Amish are people, right? They can have cold feet. Or can they? Don’t ask me, I’m a sociology major.”
Dean rested his forehead on the cold Formica of the table.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” said the waitress. “Would you like a paper?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Emerson.
Dean murmured the words to “Last Christmas,” his forehead still on the table, while Emerson turned the pages of the Herald-Dispatch.
“Can I read aloud?” asked Emerson. “To practice my English.”
“No problem, dearest.”
Emerson cleared her throat. “ ‘Interstate 64 construction in Barboursville to begin on Thursday and will restrict the highway to one lane ...’ ”
Dean ordered coffee, eggs, and bacon for two as Emerson read quietly for several minutes.
“ ‘A Melee-vational Mixup,’ ” read Emerson. “ ‘Charleston Civic Center was the scene of heavy rioting yesterday, when several groups clashed at the National Motivational Speaker’s Conference sponsored by famous life coach Robert Timmins. According to Charleston Police Chief––’ ”
“Wait a second,” said Dean. “Let me see that!”
Emerson pouted. “Okay, but you have to read it to me.”
Dean scanned the article.
According to Chief Bob Duncan, the fighting began even before the doors of the conference officially opened. As fans of Dr. Timmins assembled outside the civic center, they exchanged words with a group of men and women who were part of Yogi Sanjeev Gupta’s Holyisme Movement. The Timmins group allegedly became incensed when taunted by the Holyismiacs to “unleash the bank accounts within.” Hundreds of Timminites overturned display tables, threw punches at passers-by, and set aflame the very flammable robes of the Holyismiacs. By mid-morning, police and firefighters had the scene almost under control until Ken Shimabara, the property magnate and speaker, stepped into the fracas by telling everyone they were stupid and poor because they hadn’t bought an apartment building when they were six. The ensuing three-way riot between the Timminites, Holyismiacs, and Shimabarans lasted until mid-day, when someone remembered that General Hospital was on, and it was a new one. Dr. Robert Timmins has made a statement apologizing for the mess. Speakers scheduled for Wednesday, the first day of the conference, will be moved to Thursday. Thursday’s schedule will be moved to Friday and the speakers for Friday will be rescheduled for “who cares, they’re just a bunch of Shimabarans anyway and I need a shower,” according to the press secretary for Dr. Timmins.
Dean sprinted over to the waitress and waved the newspaper in her face. “Is this today’s?”
“Of course! Where do you think you’re at, IHOP?”
Dean ran back to Emerson and interrupted a fork-load of eggs halfway to her mouth.
“We’ve got two hours to get to Charleston. My speech is today!”
“Really?”
“It’s all in the paper. They rescheduled my speaking time for ten this morning.”
“That’s great!” Emerson jumped up and hugged him. “We must find the train immediately.”
Dean shook his head. “This isn’t Berlin, sweetheart. There aren’t any passenger trains in West Virginia, at least not any fast ones.”
“Airport? There must be airport.”
“You want to get into a plane after jumping out the last one? US Airways doesn’t hand out parachutes.”
“I would suggest bicycle,” said Emerson. “But not even the fastest will make it there in two hours.”
“Some of my relatives live across the river. If I borrow a car, we can drive to Charleston with time to spare. Let’s go back to the motel and call them.”
Outside the office of the Silver Spur sat an obsidian Chrysler 300 with the engine still running. On the rear of the massive black car was a West Virginia license plate that read “FURIOSO.”
Dean ignored the car and walked to the carved wooden doors of the entrance. Shouts of a familiar male voice vibrated the heavy wood and Dean froze, one hand on the golden pull-handle.
“Perhaps we should go somewhere else,” he said.
Emerson pouted. “You said there is no time! Not even for me to finish eggs and fried pig.”
“Right,” said Dean. “No time.”
He stared at the black Chrysler, wheels spread wide on the sun-faded pavement. Even at idle the engine breathed and clicked like a slobbering hyena, transforming the car into a peculiarly hairy Italian wrestler who had chased a naked young Dean through the woods during a peculiarly hairy birthday party.
“I think we’re about to steal a car,” he said.