textfiles/stories/valen

VALENTINE
  by George Willard
        
        
        
  "Son of a bitch!"

  The once-heavy backpack banged against my knees as I slipped in 
the roadside mud.

  "Damn," I thought, too tired to vocalize my frustration, "hope it's 
still okay."  I could have opened the flap and checked, but I needed 
both hands to regain my feet and scrape off the worst of the yellow 
Missouri clay. I was getting close to home. I'd take it on faith that 
the Gods wouldn't shit on me _again_.

  There was no particularly good reason for faith, and the recent past 
surely contained no Deific-crap-free pattern . . . but there it was. "
Hope springs eternal."

  Life seemed to be on an ever-upward spiral just weeks ago when I left 
for a weekend convention in Southern California. I kissed Val goodbye 
and wiped the corners of her eyes with a fingertip.

  "Don't worry, My Funny Valentine! I'll be back in a few days and I'll 
bring you something special from the Coast."

  She tucked her head into the hollow of my neck, I hugged her, then 
climbed into my cold pickup, shivering in the icy predawn January fog. The 
heater would barely get warm by the time I arrived at the little airport.

  The airline should have been my first omen of coming doom. When I 
arrived in St. Louis, I was told my flight had been canceled. I had to 
wait three hours for another, screwing up my ground-transport arrangements 
out on the Coast. Sure enough, Larry and Chris had long since left, it 
never having occurred to them to check with the TWA counter to see what 
flight I was actually on. What can you expect of writers, though -- 
practicality? Certainly not in many cases I've seen. 

  After griping with the airline service desk over their delays, they 
finally agreed to give me a shuttle-bus coupon to the hotel where the 
Jacksonville West Writers' Punathon was scheduled. I knew it had to be 
the right place when I spotted eight overweight women dressed in nun's 
habits dancing in a conga line, singing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" to 
a calypso beat. The hotel staff seemed to be frozen in shock.

  Stage two of the "shit on Mark" process began at the front desk. "We're 
sorry, Mr. Matthews, but we show your reservation as canceled."

  "CANCELED?! That was a prepaid reservation!"

  "Sorry, sir."

  "Sorry don't cut it. Just get back into your computer and UN-cancel me!"

  "We'd love to, sir, but we're full up, sold out for the weekend. You 
  could go next door and they'll honor our convention rates."

  "Swell. YOU have my money, y'know."

  "No, we don't. We mailed a refund back to Missouri yesterday."

  Damn! MasterCard and Visa were in their usual state of nearly-maxxed-out, 
and I knew that touching American Express would bring a flying hit-squad 
down on me. I carefully calculated, and decided I could still get a room 
and survive the weekend if I was frugal with my cash.

  I smiled at the desk clerk. "Thank you for your assistance. Now I 
understand why people out here take Ak-47s to schoolyards. They're 
afraid the kids will grow up into Californians."

  The Gods seemed to have found a different toidy-target for most of 
the weekend. Puns flew fast and thick through the hotel, prompting a 
run on barf bags. Karen Rhodes, Guest-of-Dishonor, had 'em puking in 
the aisles at the banquet. A local TV news crew came to do a report 
and left in a state of nausea. Strangers recognized me: "Hossie? The 
prime horse-pun _artiste_?"  I could usually dodge the sucker-punches 
aimed at me although one kid with a ball-bat got closer than I liked. 
Known as the best when it comes to leading people into pun-traps, I won 
the Master Baiter award.

  Sorry. I almost forgot this is supposed to be a tale of pathos and 
romance.

                              *  *  *

 Anyway, things went well -- until time to leave. I even had enough money 
to buy Valentine the present I'd promised to bring her. The airport gift 
shop had a small heart-shaped box of oat-bran chocolates . . . only in 
California, huh? I knew Val would appreciate the goodies and the thought 
behind them.

  With almost an hour before boarding time I checked in the luggage 
and just kept my backpack with the candy and a few items of 
personal jewelry that I didn't wish to trust to TWA's tender 
mercies. I went outside where there were a few designated 
smoking areas and chatted with the skycaps. The first time a bus 
passed and made the structure rumble I jumped in alarm. "Was 
that an earthquake?"  Rodney, a middle-aged black 'cap smiled at 
the ignorant "Missouri mule."  

  "Naw, that's the way the building's designed:  to give a little 
instead of cracking up. Don't worry, sir, you're perfectly 
safe."

  He pointed to the busses and I felt the rumble each time they 
passed a particular point. I settled my nerves and lit another 
cigarette in a foredoomed attempt to load my bloodstream with 
enough nicotine to last four hours in the air. I took my first 
drag when the biggest bus in history must have driven by.

  By now you know that the earthquake of '95 was "The Big One" 
everyone had talked about for years. At least, I hope it was. I 
can't see how there could be a bigger one without totally 
wrecking the planet. 

  After an eternity of noise and motion, the world went nearly 
silent. The air was clogged with dust, the sun making only a 
sickly-yellow glow in the haze.

  By some perverted miracle I found myself still holding my 
cigarette, still lit, only half burned away. The quake couldn't 
possibly have lasted such a short time.

  The terminal buildings were rubble, all the high-rises I 
remembered seeing only moments before were gone, the highway 
overpasses lay flat. As the dust began to settle, the glow of 
flames became visible all around the area. Jetliners, cars, gas 
mains, filling stations -- all seemed to ignite at once. My 
hearing returned and I realized the silence had been illusion. 
Fires roared, people screamed; the earth and the city groaned.

  I had no idea how far the damage stretched, or how big a quake it 
was. People on the East Coast knew a lot more about the quake a 
lot sooner than the people who were in it. Although it took a 
couple of hours, the news vultures were eventually flying over 
three utterly-devastated counties. "Greater Los Angeles" was 
wiped out. Lacking their aerial viewpoint or a means to receive 
their live telecasts I could only see what was in my immediate 
vicinity. 

  I looked down into Rodney's smiling . . . dead . . . face. A 
piece of concrete canopy had landed on him. I could see the 
reinforcing rod which had pierced his brain, likely killing him 
before it pushed him down. I couldn't see anyone else still 
erect. I couldn't even see human movement.

  I shit my pants.

  Fantasies are very human things. Idle moments are spent 
daydreaming of the perfect love, winning millions of dollars, 
revenge, or even Rescuing The Fair Maiden. I'd whiled away a few 
hours visualizing what I'd do if I was nearby a disaster:  how 
I'd dig through the rubble with bare hands and save an infant and 
his grandmother from Certain Death, how I'd brave the flames of a 
burning building to bring out a 7-year-old girl's kitten, or 
apply CPR to the President after all his guards had been wiped 
out in a poison-gas assassination attempt. In every case I would 
graciously accept the kudos of officials and public with obvious 
modesty and heroic mien.

  Somehow fantasies aren't real. Hmmm. . .

  Maybe it might be different if I was on the outside of a 
disaster, looking in. Maybe then I would summon hidden reserves 
of courage and selflessly risk life and limb to Do The Right 
Thing. Maybe. But in the '95 Quake, I was no hero. I hadn't 
grown up on shaky ground, didn't have any idea what to expect 
next. Give me a tornado, give me a flood; I know what to do. 
Car wrecks? No problem. But I was stranded in a city which had 
frightened me _before_ it fell down. Too much traffic, too many 
roads, TOO MANY PEOPLE! 

  People. People! They would be scared, too. They'd be hungry. 
They would rob me, kill me, eat my fat-marbled flesh. 

  I ran as best I could. It was really pretty easy now that the 
urban terror had been instantly converted to wilderness. Years 
of deep woods hunting experience, years of fence-jumping at night 
while dodging farmer's watchdogs and rural patrol cars--I made it 
to the edge of the city intact, although it took a few days. I 
hoped Val was all right. She'd be worried about me, but the 
neighbors knew where I was going and would look in on her, making 
sure she had all she needed, doing the things she couldn't do for 
herself. I hoped so, anyway.

  I ran until I encountered a National Guard aid post at the edge 
of the destruction. I later found out I could have gone a few 
hundred yards west to the beach and been picked up right away, 
but instinct made me head east towards home. The Gods were doing 
their number again.

  I still carried my backpack. Tobacco was long gone, but the 
Guardsmen gave me a hard time about the jewelry until I showed 
them my initials engraved in it. They said they'd started 
shooting looters on sight two days before.

  I got a bowl of hot soup, a quick medical checkover, and a truck 
ride to a refugee camp in the Valley. I waited in line for six 
hours for the chance to send a message via ham radio to the 
neighbors, telling them I was alive and trying to return home, 
asking them to make sure Valentine was eating okay. I hoped it 
would get through. There were no phone cables, most microwave 
links had been broken, and the few satellite channels available 
through portable uplinks were reserved for official business and 
the news media. Publicity Hath Its Privileges.

  At the camp, I learned that it could take weeks before transport 
was available since all traffic west of the Rockies was under 
Federal control, limited to essentials due to fuel shortages 
caused by the quake. 

  I couldn't face the thought of such a delay. I listened to the 
rumors of plans to form the refugees into "voluntary rescue 
brigades" and couldn't face the thought of going back into that 
massive graveyard, either. Again I put my stealth skills to work 
and found a railroad switching yard. Most of the eastbound 
trains were empty cars, so I had little trouble sneaking a ride. 
The switchman who found me was nice enough about the whole thing 
and even shared his lunchbox with me, but that only lasted until 
Eastern Arizona where yard detectives gave me the bum's rush.

  Even Arizona was under modified martial law as far as food 
supplies and traffic were concerned. I managed to trade my 
diamond ring for a couple of pounds of black-market beef jerky 
and a ride in the back of a cattle truck. It wasn't so bad once 
I got used to the stink, and the warm bodies were welcome as the 
road climbed.

  I must have gotten close to one percent of the ring's value. I 
was satisfied with the deal.

  It would have been nice if my coat hadn't been checked in with my 
baggage -- but it would have been nicer if the quake had hit two 
hours later than it did, or never happened at all. I stole a 
coat I found hanging in a Texas barn.

  The beef jerky held out to Oklahoma City. My watch brought a 
better return at a pawn shop, enough to buy a bus ticket home. 

  I lost it.

  The Gods were still playing with me, I suppose.

  I counted the few dollars that remained, shrugged, bought a pound 
of bologna and a loaf of bread, a pack of cigarettes, and headed 
for the turnpike. Home was only four hours away.

  Like hell.

  Three days of sleeping under bridges, short rides, hiking, 
dodging Highway Patrol cars, and muttering at fate brought me to 
Joplin. I called a friend with my last quarter. He gave me a  
ride to the airport where I found my truck still parked, still 
intact. I had my wedding ring, my backpack, my clothes, a stolen 
coat, and that silly box of candy for Val. I was alive, and had 
a wealth of material to write about. My ordeal was over.

  Until the engine locked up, a blown piston two miles from home at 
three in the morning.

  I pounded my forehead against the steering wheel a few times, 
sighed, and began to walk. It was warm for the middle of 
February -- warm enough to thaw the ground and turn it into slime. 

  I walked on the blacktop. I almost made it when a drunk driver 
came swerving down the road, inspiring me to make closer 
acquaintance with the roadside ditch.

  Back on the road, I paused to recover my breath, then began 
laughing. The Gods' plans must not have included killing me, 
because another drunk driver -- or a sober one -- could have knocked 
me off as I staggered down the last mile, laughing crazily.

  One last hill up the private gravel road and into my driveway. 
Home at last! Scrape the mud from my battered tennis shoes, 
unlock the door, step over the cats demanding a treat, and walk 
back to the far end of the trailer.

  I opened the door and turned on the light. Val awoke with a 
start, blinked, then stood and walked away. She stopped, turned, 
and glared accusations.

  "Val! My Funny Valentine!"

  Silence.

  "It wasn't my fault. Honest!"

  Silence.

  "Look, I even remembered to bring you a present. Candy! Today's 
St. Valentine's day, and I brought Valentine some Valentine's 
candy in a Valentine's heart."

  Silence.

  I opened the box and held a piece out for her to see.

  Finally, she slowly approached. She sniffed the oat-bran 
chocolate then snuffled it from my fingers, munching 
appreciatively. At last she broke the silence with a low 
whicker.

  We shared the candy there on the back porch stoop, then she again 
rested her head in the hollow of my neck. I rubbed her ears and 
scratched her mane. 

  My Pretty Pony; My Funny Valentine.

Copyright 1994 George Willard
=========================     #  #  #     ============================
Rather like the description of the Marquis deSade in some dictionaries, 
George might be defined as "an American writer and pervert," but he'd 
rather be known as someone with a twisted, curmudgeonly sense of humor. 
42-going-on-ninety, he lives in rural Joplin, MO with two cats, three 
horses, and the occassional stray writer or other pets.
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