Lasting Impressions. John Schlarbaum
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LASTING
IMPRESSIONS
JOHN SCHLARBAUM
Copyright 2015 By John Schlarbaum
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2536-8 (e-book)
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrievable system, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locates is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Schlarbaum, John, 1966-, author
Lasting impressions / John Schlarbaum.
ISBN 978-0-9738498-7-5 (pbk.)
I. Title.
PS8637.C448L37 2015 C813'.6 C2015-902929-5
Cover and insert photos by:
Dan Beaney of JD Creative Inc.
For Jason Cabanaw
(a.k.a. Rock Star)
Over the past decade, your unrivalled enthusiasm for Lasting Impressions is the main reason this book has finally been published.
CHAPTER ONE
It amazed Dale Hawks how his mind shut out all noise around him, no matter how close its proximity. He realized this as he tripped over a large rock, breaking his concentration. He stood bewildered for a moment, trying to re-establish where he was and where he'd been headed. Looking up from the gravel, he stared at the outstretched highway before him. He hadn't heard a car go by for hours, or so it seemed.
Cars had sped past, equally oblivious to him on the side of the road; the shoulder's dust and dirt swirling around Dale, encasing itself on his skin and clothes, but he paid no attention. He looked ragged and tired, although he was certain he'd only been hitchhiking a few hours. He believed the next vehicle that stopped would be his ticket to freedom; a new start. The last few weeks were like a dream from which he'd just awakened. The images were so real, but their meanings were now lost.
Somehow he knew that was for the better.
As the first warm rays of daylight began burning off the morning fog, the highway became busier as more suburbanites headed to work. Walking backwards, Dale held out his thumb hoping for a ride, though even he'd admit he probably didn't appear very trustworthy on this particular day. He hadn't shaved in three days. His once soulful eyes were sleepy and crimson red. His wavy brown hair was greasy and tangled. He concluded the sole person he could expect to stop was someone with the same general physical attributes.
Lost Boy Chic.
By 8:50 the traffic thinned as the sun climbed majestically into the cloudless blue sky. Dale checked his watch and continued up the road, trusting a motorist would take pity on him. However, as the minutes stretched to hours, Dale's patience frayed. With each step he felt his body temperature rise. It was a feeling he dreaded; one he'd had the last time he found himself alone looking for a lift. Where those three weeks had gone was anyone's guess. Dale didn't know. The one thing he was certain of was that if this sensation managed to overtake him, he would lose valuable time out of his life, a life that already had as many holes as it had memories. Exhausted, he decided to sit for a minute to collect his thoughts and calm his growing anger.
As he picked a spot in the ravine, he knew it was too late. The damage had already been done. The metamorphosis was already taking place. Sitting helplessly, the last thing Dale remembered was a snake advancing toward him in the tall grass.
Whether it was real or a hallucination, he wasn't sure.
***
Referred to as The Dirty Diner by truckers, The Five Star Roadhouse, was empty when Dale strolled in, and he headed straight to the bar. From the overhead speaker system a country twanger was lamenting about the woman and her dog who'd recently left. From the stage area and accompanying posters on the walls, Dale assumed there'd be a similar sounding singer performing later in the evening. The cold and gloomy atmosphere was anything but festive. The wagon wheel light fixtures were running at half their normal wattage and the floor was still soiled with splashes of beer and cigarette butts.
None of this mattered to Dale.
"Where can I find a washroom in this place?" he yelled toward the back room.
Within a few seconds a woman in her mid-thirties (she'd seen better days), walked out of the kitchen. "Are you shouting at anyone in particular, or just at me?" she asked, stone-faced.
"I need to use your facilities, lady. If you could help me, I can do my business and get out of this hole."
Sara could tell this creep was deadly serious and she wasn't about to tell him the washrooms were for customers only. Normally she'd have no reservations telling him where to go but her eyes locked with his. His pupils were unmoving, as if he was looking deep within her, not merely at her. As much as she wanted to turn and get on with her day, she couldn't stop returning his stare, strangely excited by the presence of this stranger.
Without shifting his gaze, Dale walked toward Sara, dropped his knapsack on the bar and noted the name embroidered on her employee shirt.
"Sara," he spoke softly, "that's a pretty name. I used to have a girlfriend named Sara. That was a long time ago. She's what you'd call ancient history. They found her body in the woods, stabbed fourteen times." He paused and smiled. "They tried to blame it on me."
Sara could feel his breath as he circled her. Her mind kept telling her to run. Or yell. Do something! This kid is crazy! Get out! For some reason, she couldn't. Her justification was that he didn't really sound dangerous, even though he was talking about his murdered girlfriend. With every word she was drawn in by this wild-eyed young man.
"Sara," he whispered in her ear.
"Yes," she sighed like a teenager. She remembered this mixture of emotions: hope, coupled with anxiety. She took a deep breath and whirled around to face Dale.
"Do you remember why I came in here?" he said seductively.
"Yeah, sure. Through those doors on your right."
Dale followed Sara's outstretched hand. Before leaving he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her lips. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Will you still be here?"
Sara felt weak and giddy. "I'll be here."
She watched him walk away. When he finally disappeared from view, she sat on a bar stool. Her heart was racing. She felt silly for acting like a virginal schoolgirl. Regardless, she was also thinking how it would feel to make love with . . . What is his name? She'd ask when he returned.
Sara dashed to the back room to locate her purse and pulled out a small mirror and makeup. She applied a little blush here and a little there. Next, she put on a liberal amount of red lipstick and furiously brushed her hair, trying to look her very best. Satisfied with the results, she hurried back to the bar area, anticipating the