The Wayfarers of Ocular Road Part one

The Wayfarers of Ocular Road

By Mantis

Part One

The miles began to unfurl at a good clip when he finally escaped the grip of Philadelphia's inner-city and hit the PA turnpike. Now he could really open up the small-but-peppy engine of his 2010 Corolla and put some distance between himself and that only recently distinguished place of anguish – his home in Bella Vista.

It was early morning, and while daybreak had only just barely slipped off the shackles of darkest night, there was enough light on the eastern horizon for him to see the texture of the sky; a patchwork of closely knit, fast moving clouds rushing across the purplish black backdrop, churning amongst themselves and looking mischievous. He sensed today would be one of those moody days, the kind that has an affinity for occurring during autumn's harvest season. He thought it apropos that such a day should accompany him on his trek westward. It defined his sorrow.

Having been on an emotional rollercoaster over the last few days - the darkest days of his life - and still somewhat groggy at this early hour, he was ripe for mental reflection and reverie. He became transfixed by the rambunctious nature of the sky with its patchwork of clouds set in tones of blue-gray steel, and it oddly effected to remind him of the metal pail he'd recently used to hold tar sealant for re-touching his driveway, its surface a patchwork of metal flakes similar-looking to the clouds above.

The thought of the pail instantly linked his memory to that day of home improvement only a month ago. He remembered how, while filling cracks in the driveway, he'd steal glimpses of his wife, Anna, as she scurried around the yard doing her own things, like him, to make their home as well kept, manicured and envied by the neighbors as they could; to make it a palace, a temple, an homage to home life, to settling down in the family tradition – that ideal they'd come to embrace in their maturity after their rather tumultuous, free-wheeling college years.

As was usual these days, all thoughts eventually drifted to Anna.

"My darling Anna," he said aloud, feeling the now familiar flood of emotion begin rising inside his chest. "Dear, sweet Anna." The words trailed off to but a whisper.

He began to weep. "How... Why..." he blubbered, tripping over the words in incredulity, unable to develop the sentence into a coherent thought by the sheer weight of sadness which overwhelmed him.

"Why were you taken from me like that?" finally the thought emerged, weak and meaningless, a simpleton's question, one unworthy to be posed to that of God himself, and still expect an answer. He pounded the top of the steering wheel with the heel of his right hand, nearly breaking both. "Fuck, fuck.... FUCK!" was all the more he cared to utter just then.

Her illness had been no slow, drawn out affair – no progression of gradually failing health wearing her down and weakening her over time, giving them time to understand it, to accept it, to consort with her doctors and strategize a plan of action, muster a regiment of medications, and defeat it. It was no chivalrous thing in its blitzkrieg against her, to at least proffer some modicum of decency by giving her the chance to hope, to pray. No! It was wham-bam-thank-you-ma'm, here today, gone tomorrow. It was a brain aneurysm – a fucking brain aneurysm, of all things! And it was a Ninja assassin, swift, capable, merciless.

To Pittsburgh now he traveled, his home town, to see his parents and gain the comfort and succor only they could provide. He was no mama's boy, not a man tethered to them in dependency, not one to lean on them periodically for alms to get him through the hardships of life. He was rather a fine, upstanding man, thirty four years old, a meteorologist by trade, mature and responsible, a stalwart of integrity, a guiding light of reason, prudence and pragmatic good advice to family and friends. And, to be sure, James Krouplitz was every bit Man enough to admit that seeking the solace of loving parents never went out of style, never somehow became uncool just because a man reached maturity.

Mature as he was, dear God, how he needed to feel the warm embrace of his mother's hug, needed to rest his teary-eyed head upon her bosom and let the pain leech out upon her, where only she possessed the kind of nurturing magic to absorb it like a sponge, to soak it up and make it all better. Or to feel the caring pat-on-the-back of reassurance from his father, see the twinkle of love and admiration in the glint of his eyes as he, as always, employed his good-natured humor, ever embodied with golden nuggets of wisdom that, together, could always put the world's ills into proper perspective.

***

The morning progressed, its moodiness ripening like a harvest apple with a core full of seeds of nuance, causing him to view in his mind's eye countless reels of footage awash with nostalgic memories while he drove. The miles melted away effortlessly, passed by and lost behind him without conscious recollection of their recent traverse.

Although, he soon determined that the open highway, bustling with the commotion of commercial trucking, and strewn with far too many happy-go-lucky travelers merrily embarked on cross-country adventures (didn't they realize his wife had just died? The NERVE of them! To be contented like that) just wouldn't do to suit him any longer.

At Bedford, Pa, he exited the turnpike, navigated the lights and the interchanges, and soon found himself west bound on US 30, a pleasantly hilly, winding country road. It would take him straight on to Pittsburgh, affording him a much more intimate and introspective commune with the beautiful state of Pennsylvania.

When he saw the black shape at the side of the road on the woodsy outskirts of Schellsburg, he spoke out into the car: "What the hell is that?" Actually, he knew it was comprised of humanity, as the shape of drawn up knees being hugged by their sitting owner (an obvious attempt at staying out the cold) and the large duffel bag lying beside were a dead giveaway – but yet, its bedraggled, filthy, worn appearance still elicited the question in his mind.

His foot let off the gas pedal so that he could slow to a speed more appropriate for rubber-necking. He didn't quite know why, but the shape out there on the side of the road, that weather-beaten lump of humanity, that drifter adorned head to toe in black accoutrements alone, captivated his attention. Before he even got close, he saw the familiar hitch-a-ride thumb shoot out in a practiced manner.

"Yeah, right..." he mumbled to himself, "...just what I need now, some quality play-time with Jeffery Dahmer." The thought made him both chuckle and cringe at the same time.

But as he got closer, his world suddenly fell in upon itself.

In a way that was all too familiar to him, his eyes began to blink rapidly when they locked into a steely gaze with that of the drifter's, and then began receiving, conversing with them, the way he'd been able to do with certain few others throughout his life when his gift came upon him.

His surprise was great because, while he'd come to accept the fact that he was an enigmatic odd-ball who possessed this most singular and inexplicable gift (skill? curse?) had nurtured it and developed it throughout the years, it was still a rare occurrence when it presented itself upon him. He'd known it best with Anna, slightly less so with his parents, once with a truly insane man (he still had nightmares about that episode, the only time his gifted seeing yielded a foray into darkness) and very sparingly as a kid with certain childhood friends.

Now, as he drew closer to that black shape sitting there, his eyes fluttering, scanning, watering – all intrinsic qualities of his gift – the Seeing awoke in him. Whatever the reason or catalyst that had brought it on now, he did not know – had never known why, or when, or with whom it would come. But it had awakened at that moment, and he suddenly found his gifted gaze returned intimately by the drifter's own stare – no Jeffery Dahmer he discovered, but a young woman instead. Her eyes did not blink, did not scan and register like his did, for she did not share his gift. Nobody did. Of that, he was certain.

In those brief moments while he approached, he pow-wowed in a strange ocular parlance with her eyes, and they spoke volumes to him. He registered so much understanding about her, felt such an affinity with her that his heart was set a flutter upon the sudden influx of knowledge about her – knowledge that should never have been culled, never have been revealed without a reliance upon some normal form of written or spoken word. But receive it he did, through his eyes.

He knew she hadn't the slightest awareness of the mysterious conversation her own eyes had been obliged to join in with him. Upon the omnipotence of his gift, they'd become elevated to sentient beings in their own right, unbeknownst to her, overseers to the great library which housed the annals of her life. They became separate entities from her, liberated, lured into his service so that they may begin to impart that which his gifted sight was wont to see. He knew she would never be conscious of the way they spoke to him, all they'd revealed to him, or what yet remained to be divulged.

Only her eyes knew, like Anna's, like that wretched madman's... only their eyes knew how to attune to his gift.

He'd never expected this. Not on this trip. Not at this juncture in his life, at this, his hour of sorrow and mourning.

James pulled over just beyond her, put the Corolla in park, and reached over to roll down the passenger-side window. Then he awaited her.

She sauntered over to the car, a fairly young woman, carefree, fearless, yet he saw immediately she did so in physical anguish, her gait more a limp favoring her left leg than a stride, her back hunched over as if the effort to stand upright would be much too painful. This he saw in the passenger-side mirror as she approached. He did not need special gifts to grasp the wretched state of her physical condition.

"Hey, chumley, how's it hangin'?" she said, lurching up to the open passenger window. Her mannerism was gruff, forward, much too familiar for that of a stranger. But he was unfazed. Her Sentient Orbs had already revealed much about her, had told him that she no longer laid claim to any friendships, had long since pissed them all away. That now, all were strangers to her, and she'd learned, by necessity, how to merge into conversing with those strangers, how to put them at ease, disarm them, then manipulate and extort from them as the need arose. And as a lone wanderer, her needs were many.

Yet her voice was still soft, a remnant of her mostly placid upbringing, resplendent with a cheerful sort of infectious ebullience, and he knew she used that to good effect to charm all those who entered her sphere.

All that, and more, her eyes had revealed to him in those few brief moments of their acquaintance. His gift worked in mysterious ways. Time seemed to stand still outside the sphere of his ocular conversations; as if the world was obliged to wait in suspended animation until his gifted seeing had completed imprinting the records of those conversations in his head; his mind becoming like microfiche filled with vast archives, stored away for future reference before the world could bat an eye.

She folded her arms on the base of the window and rested her chin on them, peering in at him. Her face was a mess of nicks and cuts, bruises and scars, some old, some fresh. She looked like she'd just had the shit kicked out of her. The shiner on her left eye was nearly as black as her clothing.

Myriad layers of black garments hung heavily, dirtily, on her disheveled form. He could see she wore a black hoody, and beneath that two black t-shirts. She wore a sort of black, gauzy smock over the hoody, like a thin, frail overcoat, opened down the front, filthy and frayed at the edges. And over that, her last line of defense against the chill autumn air, the coming winter, she wore a black snorkel jacket with a fur-lined hood – though the fur around its perimeter was so weathered and caked with grime, it looked more like greasy old cardboard than fur. A pair of black stretch pants covered her legs, where a hole or two at the knees could be seen through the thin, lacy fabric of her smock. The pants where tucked into black Corcoran Jump boots, completing her ensemble of pitch. Oh, yeah, her hair was jet black too... as if you couldn't guess.

"You really should try adding some black to your wardrobe, darling," he teased, "It might be just the thing for you."

"Hey man, don't give up your day job for comedy," came her instantaneous retort, well versed as she was in the art of trivial banter. "But if you're silly enough to try, come find me, I'll teach you the ropes about living homeless." She tried to smile, but the nasty, bloody crack in her upper lip prevented that expression from coming to fruition. She winced instead.

He caught her gaze for a moment, his eyes scanning, reading. My God, so much pain... so much self loathing.

"Holy shit, woman... are you alright? You look like shit!"

"Oh, gee... thanks. Ain't you the charmer." She looked away a moment, shook her head and flicked her cigarette butt onto the pavement, though the look of amusement never left her face. "Listen, chumley, you gonna give me a ride, or what?"

He knew she was twenty four years old – that's what her eyes had told him – though the roughness and hardship of her lifestyle made her look considerably older. You've aged beyond your years, haven't you, my dear? His head cocked to the side. Damn, that's got to change!

The last part of that thought surprised him, the part that revealed he cared. But, except for that episode with the lunatic a few years ago, that's typically what his gift did for him. Indeed, the depth of emotions stirred by his gift was what had led him to eventually court and marry Anna.

Why the surprise, James? What's the matter, is it beneath you to bother caring about a battered, wayward drifter?

Hmmm...

"Hey, I'm not messing around," he said. "You look like you're seriously fucked up over there. You want me to take you to the hospital or something? Really, it's no problem."

"No, mister... thanks, but I don't need no damned hospital!" The sentence ended in a scoff, as if she were bored with that particular question. But she abruptly switched back to a look of subtle amusement again, as if her emotions soared to so many different places at once, she didn't quite know what she was feeling at any given moment.

"You shoulda seen me last week," she said. "You'd a probably thought I needed the morgue instead." She chuckled to herself, her ability to shrug off the brutality of her life worn like some badge of honor. Returning her chin to rest on her forearms, she attempted another smile, and winced again. He saw her fight through the pain this time, hold on to the smile for just a moment until another wince erased it. That made him feel somehow special, like she felt him worthy enough for that effort. Curiously, her eyes remained silent on the subject. A woman's gotta have SOME secrets, James, you shithead... even the eyes know that! During its stay, he was briefly treated to the rather disturbing sight of her unbrushed teeth. Yikes!

But I bet you're a real knock out underneath all that filth and bruising. He looked into her eyes again, and they assured him he'd sure enough got that right!

"I'm heading to Colorado. Don't suppose a cutie like you would want to take me there, huh?" She attempted a sexy lick of the lips to help persuade him. Unfortunately, it was a failure by any standard when her tongue, just so happening to be in the vicinity, suddenly felt compelled to massage the raw, open wound there, making her rather more pathetic than sexy. But it tickled him when her eyes told him she'd realized that, which made her slightly annoyed with herself.

With his gift offering him so much insight about her through the squawk of her eyes, he increasingly found her to be more adorable than decrepit, despite the utter mess she presented.

"I'm heading to Pittsburgh," he told her. "If you want, you can hop in and I'll take you that far at least... that is, if I can put up with your stench for that long. Man, you stink!" He pinched his nose, and the following sentence sounded like he'd taken a hit of helium. "When's the last time you bathed?" Through diplomatic channels with her eyes, he'd come to understand her appreciation for cantankerous humor, along with her high disregard for phoneys. He felt safe enough with the barb.

She thought a moment, not the least bit tweaked by his jab. "What's today... Tuesday?"

"Thursday, sweetheart."

"Oh yeah. Hmm... well, let's see. That would make it about two weeks ago now... if you can call a splash of ice cold water from a cattle trough 'bathing'." She took a deep breath and sighed expressively. "Humph! Soap... who needs it?"

"Namely, you."

She flashed a grin at him. Tilting her head and raising her chin, as if receiving heavenly radiance rightfully bestowed upon her magnificence from on high, she batted her eyes playfully at him, pretending, with dripping irony, to be a real cutesy wootsy. But that was all on her – her Sentient Orbs opting to hide away for the moment, embarrassed to be seen with her like this. He chuckled to himself, witness to their ruminations. A couple of real comedians...

"And it's only been a couple of months since I did the laundry," she continued, returning from her angelic interlude. "You know us gals like to keep on top of these things."

"Right," he chuckled. She made him laugh. It felt good. He'd almost forgotten how since Anna's passing. "Yeah, well just keep to your side of the car, and we'll leave the windows cracked. And stay alert, okay... because if I pass out from your... um, Eau de Roadkill, you're gonna have to take the wheel in a hurry." James smirked at her, exuding warmth just the same.

"What, the scent of a woman disgusts you, chumley? That's funny, you don't seem like a fairy."

"What do you..."

"I'll have you know my tricks love my b.o."

"Your tr...?"

"Most of 'em can't wait to get up in that snatch of mine... even between showers."

Her Sentient Orbs immediately apologized to him for that, though he knew they couldn't control her in any way. But they were quick to point out that she used the term 'tricks' loosely, more to tease than inform – although they were sorry to say there was a shred of truth involved.

"Is this the part where you try to hustle me? Try to earn a little beer money?"

She smirked back at him. "Believe me, jack, you'll know it when I do... 'cos you'll be broke so fast, the only thing left to wonder about is if I'll buy you breakfast with your own money or not." With the back of her hand, she flipped the greasy bangs of her raven hair over her shoulder like a sassy debutante. "But don't worry, guy, I won't let you starve. Gotta spend your cash on something, right?"

"You're too kind," he said, amused. "What with that sexy limp of yours, and that bloody pulp you got for a lip, I guess I won't stand a chance, will I? Maybe I should just face the inevitable and hand over all my money now." He grinned broadly at her. "But something tells me (your eyes, honey... they tell me things!) that just wouldn't be as satisfying to you."

"What, and miss out on all the fun?"

"Fun for you, or for me?"

"You sure you ain't a fruit? Shit, chumley, do I stink that bad?"

He only pinched his nose again. Message sent.

"And what makes you think I get a kick out of hustling, anyway?"

"Don't you?"

"No..."

Liar!

"...but a girl does gotta stay sharp if she wants to be a good hustler..." She winked at him. "...and the practice will do me good."

But her eyes had said enough. Like spys in his service, they betrayed her.

"Practice my ass, you liar!" Holy hell, James... where did that come from?

He'd lashed out because he was suddenly taken aback and irked by the sheer depths she'd allowed her life to sink to, not to mention her penchant for lying at the drop of a hat, the details of which her eyes had been tirelessly rattling off and making him aware of. Flush with insight, he couldn't seem to resist pressing the issue even further: "No, you just get off on the power-trip too much... just like all grifters do. And that's all you got left, isn't it... tits and ass."

Did I just go too far?

That froze her for a moment. She looked at him quizzically, her tongue working to massage the cut on her lip, her amused expression instantly soured with a sullen frown. "You were doing so well there for a moment. Now why would you go and say that?"

Yep... he'd gone too far. "I ah... um... would you believe I read minds?" He tried to back peddle with humor, but he knew it was weak (wasn't it the truth though?)

"And why do you keep blinking like that?"

He shrugged, and only wiped the moisture from his over-worked eyes.

"Yeah, well fuck that shit," she said testily.

He'd struck a nerve. Knowing someone's secrets can do that. He then furthered her ire when he tried to rectify the awkwardness with a most sickeningly sweet smile. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

His humor was weak, and the smile was nothing short of nauseating, but the apology seemed to work wonders.

"Now listen, chumley," she warned cantankerously, the awkwardness all but forgotten, her fickle mood quick to discard the mask of indignant, scorned woman, and revert to her more comfortable, practiced persona of guile. "Don't tempt me, because I won't just hustle you out of your money, I'll take this sweet ride of yours too, and leave you to your loafers... which, by the way, are pretty gay. Damn, bro, who picked out your wardrobe for you?"

Hey, leave Anna out of this!

"Okay, okay..." He put his hands up in surrender. "I give. But if you're gonna ride with me, or try to hustle me, perhaps a little more time at the cattle trough might be a good idea, no?"

"I'm warning you, chumley, don't make me come over there..." she wagged her finger at his face, "...'cos you'll be eating out of the palm of my hands when I get through with you." She laughed, and he found he liked that sound very much. Then she licked her lips again – this time to practiced perfection. And it worked!

A wave of desire suddenly tickled his loins. He conferred with her Orbs on the matter, highly concerned. To their merit, they did try their best to console him, but a snicker or two could be heard when they reminded him of her current unbathed condition. Jerks!

He didn't know who had bigger balls, her or them. He had to admit though, even despite her grime, she did possess a certain something.

Careful, James, careful! You'll never forgive yourself in the morning…

"Hmmm..." he spoke to an imaginary bystander, taking on a faux literary air, "...she's going take all my money, feed me a farewell meal, take my car and leave me high and dry to wander the roads forever after in my docksiders..."

"Yup... you got it, chumster."

"...and then expect me to carry on the rest of my life devoid of her intoxicating scent to boot. Oh, the humanity."

She cracked up, and her laughter came out hearty and bold. Her Sentient Orbs suddenly thanked him profusely for that, told him that's just the thing she'd needed this morning. He asked them why, and they alluded to her cuts and bruises. He nodded in understanding, but she didn't notice.

"You'll survive, chumley. I'll leave you my panties as a souvenir."

He laughed again. "Oh great. How can I ever repay you?"

"I'll think of something by the time we get to Colorado."

"You mean Pittsburgh?"

"Whatever."

"Oh... so you've decided I should be your chauffeur now... instead of just hustling me out of my car altogether?"

"Yes... seems fitting for a gal of my caliber, don't you think? Plus, from the looks of you, I don't think you'd make it out on the road."

"Well, please, I beg you, just don't take your boots off in the car. For real, your clothes are bad enough... I don't think I can survive your feet." He reached across, grabbed the passenger door handle, and opened it, pushing her gently backward with it. His eyes held the sparkle of excitement. "And if..."

"Let me tell you something, chumley, the smell of my feet can hypnotize a man at thirty paces." She snickered haughtily.

"You're just bein..."

"Hey, this is a sweet ride." She was already inside the car. She ran her hands over the dash paneling, then on the plush upholstery of the passenger seat. It wasn't long before she began testing the recliner back and forth and messing with his temperature settings. "I can get used to this."

"Yeah," he said, watching her staking a claim to his personal space. "Just keep your mitts off the radio dial... God only knows what kind of trash you like to listen to." Apparently, he enjoyed the banter as well. "Otherwise, make yourself comfortable ____?"

"Call me Alicia."

"Okay, Alicia. I'm James."

He looked out through the windshield where US 30 etched a route westward through the steep hills, many with their peaks adorned with batteries of huge, white windmills to catch the mountain breezes for power generation; and out beyond the little hamlet of Schellsburg, vast woodland forests stretched as far as the eye could see. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands gripping it firmly, straightening and flexing his arms a moment while he thought.

In addition to everything else strange and mysterious about this peculiar day's encounter, he couldn't deny that her sexuality had begun to have an effect on him. He discovered he was not as surprised by that as he figured he probably should be, considering her awful appearance, the stench of the road she carried on her, and her wretched physical condition. But beneath it all, it was plain to see she was hot.

But she was also a prostitute. Scrubbed down, washed of all the road grime, her wounds cleaned and tended to, it was easy enough for him to imagine making love to her – but the prostitution, that was something that would be more difficult to come to terms with – if he ever felt a need to come to terms with anything about her.

But her Sentient Orbs had told him many things. The prostitution was solely for survival; something she employed only at her most desperate moments. Sure, she got off on the power-trip of the hustle, but that was about confirming to herself that she still possessed at least something that made her more than just an invisible, ghostly wraith wandering the countryside, alone and discarded by life. Her youth and physical beauty, though hidden beneath the dirt and bruises, proved to her that she still held on to one trump card, one bastion of power which she could wield upon the world, to beat it back and teach it a lesson, and this was where her satisfaction of the hustle stemmed from, the monetary gains from sucking cock for a quick buck merely a means to an end.

Although, here, now, with him, he knew it was all talk. Her Orbs had already made him aware that she intrinsically understood from the beginning that no desperation would be at hand as long as she was with him. Food and shelter he would provide. That base was covered, and she damned well knew it.

All talk...

More importantly, his conversation with her eyes made him see that there was somebody special, substantial, underneath all that road grime, all the physical abuse and the callused hardness from years of surviving on the road alone.

Upon the unleashing of his gift and talking to her Orbs, he was compelled to see her as someone important in his life, way more than just a lost, brutalized waif battered by bad luck and poor life choices which he'd just happened to run across. Those who's eyes spoke to him could never be anything but important to him.

He sensed she was a lost soul on the verge of finding herself, one who perhaps needed his help in that endeavor (A guide? A lover? Is that why his gift came upon him?). A woman who needed a catharsis, a molting of the carapace of road scum which had built up and accumulated on her back after so many years spent in vagrancy; the plunge therein a result of her selfish divisiveness years ago and the subsequent self loathing and apathy that pushed her over the edge. Her Orbs revealed to him that she acknowledged her shameful deeds, but chose rather to recoil from life instead of facing up to them.

The fact was, the expansive mental laziness she exhibited in ever considering the consequences of her actions – her unwillingness to face or take responsibility for the pain and suffering she'd caused to those closest to her, was the root of her evils, the thing she'd need to come to terms with if she were to find any kind of solace in her wretched life. And James could see it was all very saddening to her Sentient Orbs.

He suddenly felt moved to impart a bit of that James Krouplitz wisdom. "You know, I once..."

"And if you're thinking you're gonna get a piece of this shit for free..." she cupped her breasts hidden beneath the multiple layers of her garments, then let her hands slide seductively down her snorkel. "...think again, 'cos it'll cost you, chumley."

Yeah, she's all talk, this one.

But he had to face it: she delighted him and intrigued him, despite all her faults. She was one of the few souls who'd managed to lure out his Gift of Seeing, and that made her special.

"Name's James... remember? Anyway, okay... I'll try to remember that. Now c'mon, lets go."

"Wait a second, Jamesy... let me get my stuff."

And off they went, westward into the moody hills.

The Wayfarers Of Ocular Road Part Two  (18+) A man's special gift becomes activated by a stranger on the road. #2034444 by Mantis