Fanfiction: Art Form
“Everybody is Somebody in New Mexico!”
Faith considers the sign, looks at the bird that struts beneath the bright red letters, cannot imagine why anyone would want that ugly ass thing associated with their state. Gets a mental picture of the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign, adds a quick sketch of Count Dracula in full gameface to the vision and grins.
She shifts her backpack and sighs. It’s been a long fucking walk, too long on the road, and she suppresses the irritation before it can get big enough to bite her, make her want to ditch the backpack, the responsibility. The mantle of Slayer is heavier now without B to share it. She never wanted this gig on her own, not even in her wildest fits of anger and jealousy.
Licks her lips, tastes the waxy flavor of melted chaptstick and that’s another change of necessity. Harlot Red gloss might look damn fine on her mouth but it’s a fucking bitch in the sunlight, attracts the rays and raises blisters. But beneath the huge sunglasses, she still wears smudged kohl and three coats of mascara, still has those bedroom eyes to flash when she’s short on cash and working the night boy to give her a discount on a room.
Faith spies a cloud of dust in the distance, listens intently and hears the shuddering sound of a diesel engine as it crests the hill and winks into her line of sight. She drops the backpack to her feet, untucks her tanktop and knots it with quick precision at the small of her back, pulls the thin cotton tight to her body, molds it to her breasts. Hip shot stance as the truck gets closer, sunglasses pushed up on her head and pouty smile on her lips. Thumb out, she stares through the windshield at the dark shape and wills them to see her, stop, pick her up out of this heat and get her a little further down the line.
Her heart lifts, curious little thump when the truck’s brakes squeal and hiss and the huge machine grumbles to a stop a few feet away from her. Faith grabs her backpack, runs to the door, pulls it open and hauls herself up onto step. Gets a good look at the driver.
He’s old. Grandfather-old — white hair, wrinkles, eyes bright blue as they peer at her from under a greasy John Deere cap. He nods at her, beckons her in and asks where she’s headed.
“As far southeast as you’re going,” she answers, leans down to settle her backpack between her feet and unsnaps the strap that holds her knife tight against her boot. He nods again at her, says he’ll take her as far as Las Cruces. Hands her a cold bottle of water from the cooler beside him and asks her does she mind a little music.
Faith shrugs, takes the water and checks to see that the seal is unbroken. Drinks gratefully when she sees it is, one long gulp and then smaller sips as the chill seeps through her body. Waits for the old guy to put on some lame ass country tunes, or even worse some of that backwoods revival Bible thumper bullshit, choirs and gospel and praise the Lord. Her eyebrows raise a little when she hears the music start.
The old guy chuckles next to her. “Mississippi John Hurt. Can’t travel nowhere without him. You like the blues, girl?”
Another shrug, but this one is less indifferent. Faith listens to the voice, the guitar, could close her eyes and be back in New Orleans. On the street, in another kind of heat, one that’s heavy and moist, hearing these sounds pour out into the night from a hundred little clubs. Background music to a flutter-quick flash of alley-slays where the ashes would coat her skin and stick there in the sweat. Shudder of memory whips through her and she shakes her head to make it leave.
“Yeah, the blues are great.” Faith’s eyes wander around the cab of the truck. There’s a thick bundle of maps stuck in both visors, the dashboard is covered in coffee cup lids and skinny brown stirrers. A little baseball figure with a bobbing oversized head wears a red and white uniform with a stylized ‘P’. //Phillies, Philadelphia Phillies// Her mind dredges that up as she sips her water again. There’s a hand made plaque there under the radio, hanging on a piece of dirty yellow yarn. She watches it sway and concentrates on reading the words.
One of the strongest motives that lead men to art and science is escape from everyday life with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one’s own ever-shifting desires.- Albert Einstein
“My daughter made that for me,” says the old guy when he notices her staring. “Told me that truckin’ was an art form and that it made sense for me. Not so sure about the art, but I like havin’ a piece of her along.”
“It’s nice,” Faith answers him, brow crinkled in concentration. //ever-shifting desires// That sounds…right. Makes sense to her. Never finished school, not the most polished chick to ever leave the city of Boston, but she’s not stupid. Her mind is sharp and fast, and sometimes she’ll get caught up in a phrase, a photograph. It strikes a chord in her and makes her throat tight, makes her ache for the beauty and rightness of it. Like this phrase resonates in her.
She finishes the water and finds her eyelids heavy. Her body demands sleep and she’s fighting it. She’s not getting the pervert vibes from grandpa at all, there’s no adrenaline edge to keep her spiked and alert, and she catches herself dropping off three or four times, jerking her head up and looking around wildly. She only puts up a token protest when the old man tells her to go ahead and sleep, that he’ll wake her when they stop to eat, then she curls up against the door, the boot with the blade in it under her hand, face against the warm window.
Faith sleeps, dreams of swimming in a brown river, music of the past falling on her like rain.
The end
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