November Town

November had come to the upper Midwest. That meant the long evenings, neighbors hanging out outdoors, barbecues in the back yard, and casual conversations with people walking their dogs on warm evenings after work- all that was long over. Now, darkness came fast, and the nights were cold and long. The air smelled not of the fragrant smoke of barbecues, but rather, of the smoke of burning wood fireplaces. Everywhere, neighbors and dogs alike, were hunkering down indoors, or furtively scurrying around in the slanted, late afternoon sun, trying to finish up their errands before the sun went down and the early November darkness set in.

Christian Bowmont was wrapping up a few such errands of his own. It had been a very November-ish kind of day for him as well. Earlier, he had begun the slow painstaking process of raking the copious leaves in his yard, a task that he always hated. It seemed like endless drudgery, and it always made him sore the next day. And this year promised to be a bumper crop of fallen leaves- maybe even breaking his record of twenty eight bags from last year. Leaves from that huge maple and that dang poplar in the front, and from those piss-elms on the fence line that his neighbor had planted for some unknown reason. Or maybe they had planted themselves; with piss-elms, that was just as likely. Those trees were little better than overgrown weeds themselves and Christian wished he could have a quarter for every piss-elm sapling he had pulled from his own yard. It would probably pay for his lawnmower that he had just had to replace earlier that summer, he thought.

So, just to get himself out of the house, he had headed down Losey Road to the southern end of town, clear down by Ward Avenue- a part of town he seldom had any real reason to visit. But the auto parts store down there had these specialty rims he had wanted for his prize possession, an old 68 Mercury Cougar he had restored and decked out himself. They were asking a pretty reasonable price for them, and Christian felt like it may be worth it to make the trip clear down there. Heck, why not explore anyway, expand his horizons. He lived clear up on the north side, right below Granddad Butte up by the colleges, and this is where he worked and where most of his daily life took place.

Always handy with tools, he had landed a machinist job at the Greek Yogurt plant a few years ago, where he was proud to tell people he worked as a Yogurt Cup Painter (which meant, he maintained and calibrated the machine that painted the labels and ingredients on the plastic yogurt canisters.) He had always been mechanically inclined ever since he was little. So when he wasn't wasting his life making sure the dang cup painter machine wasn't jamming, he was spending his free time working on his dream car. Anyway, his life was on the north side of town. That was where he lived and worked and generally socialized. But he felt his social life was rapidly dwindling. Fewer people were ever around to hang out with these days. As he was just telling Tom, his fellow beer drinking buddy the other day, one of the few he still saw on a regular basis anyway, "These days, everyone's got their family and shit." Christian, not married or even dating regularly, found it harder and harder to find people who still liked to go out and have fun.

So why not head out to a part of town he had never been to before. Not much else was going on this time of year anyway. It was freaking November. Too late in the year for hunting trips or biking the trails above town in Hixson Park, too late for barbecues, volleyball in the park, live music shows, or for any of that fun stuff. But yet, too early for Christmas, holiday cheer, snowboarding, or the simple joys that came with snow and winter. In November, everything just kind of died, and left you waiting around for the good times to return again. (If they ever did, he thought.)

It just felt like a dying time, he thought to himself, as he waited by a stoplight. Perhaps it was no coincidence that November first- which was just three days ago- was called The Day of the Dead in some traditions. After Halloween, the social activities usually dwindled to a crawl along with the outdoor activities. He reminisced about the Halloween parties he and his friends used to go to, or sometimes host, but his dwindling social circle didn't allow for those to happen that often anymore, and it had been a couple years since the last "Halloween Rager" he attended. He thought wistfully that maybe he was too old for that kind of wild craziness anyway.

As he drove on, most of the houses he passed had already removed their Halloween decorations, although he still saw a few discarded carved pumpkins sitting forlornly by the garbage cans, already starting to sag, cave in, and crust over with mildew. Eventually, after an uneventful drive down to the south end of town, he rolled up to the auto parts store. It wasn't that hard to find. It was way out on the Mormon Coulee Road, sandwiched between a Burger King, and a restaurant in an old two story brick building called "Hungry Peddler" ("Stop in! Great Food!") He parked the Mercury in front. Outside, it was still late afternoon, but the shadows had gotten long enough to cover everything by now, and the sun would be going down soon. The place was still open though, luckily. Christian exited the Cougar and sauntered in.

The place was empty of customers. Everyone had wrapped up their auto parts shopping that day, he guessed. "Can I help you?" a bored looking woman behind the counter said. She was maybe the same age as him but looked older; the type whose lifestyle of too many packs of cigarettes and too much junk food and beer had taken a huge toll.

"Yeah I was the guy who called about the rims, for the Mercury. You still have them?"

"Oh...yeah. I think I talked to you earlier." She replied. "Here, lemmee show you." She waddled over to a corner where they had been stacked. The rims were nice, five spoke chrome- they would look sharp on his ride.

"Sweet! I'll take em!" Christian replied.

He paid for them with a credit card, and as he did, she asked, "That be everything?"

"Oh yeah, before I forget, I need to pick up some of the winter antifreeze. For 20 below. Last winter, I ended up with just a tank full of blue ice, and I couldn't even clean my windshield, that fucking sucked." Christian shuddered at that frustrating memory.

"Yeah I know... Winter is coming." She replied.

"Man, everyone says that these days...I guess 'cause of that TV show or something."

Christian knew that there was some popular TV show about kings, dragons, and an approaching winter, but he never paid much attention to it. It was only on one of those high-register channels you couldn't even get with basic cable, so he couldn't watch it, and usually tuned out whenever people talked about it.

"I know, but, I mean, winter really is coming. It helps to be prepared I guess."

"Yeah, I guess so... Hey, thanks, man. These are gonna look cool!" Christian replied, as he paid for the rims and the antifreeze, and carried them to his car, taking three trips to load them into the trunk. She watched him, almost longingly, from behind the counter.

"Bye. Be careful." She said as he exited.

He should have been stoked, he had these new rims he was going to put on his ride. It was gonna be sweet, his car was gonna look sharp, all decked out and stuff, he thought. But for some reason, he was in a rather somber, melancholy mood, and he couldn't quite place why. Maybe it was the odd way the clerk had looked at him, almost warned him, as he left, or maybe it was just the rather lonely atmosphere that seemed to have descended as the afternoon wore on. It was about 5:30, the shadows were getting long and it was getting cold. Maybe that was it. Across the street, he spotted a shop he hadn't noticed when he walked in to the auto parts store: The sign said, "Hot Dog Sandwich Records and Comic Shoppe." The place looked intriguing. Hey, may as well check it out while I'm out here, not like I have anything particularly more interesting to do right at the moment, Christian thought. Maybe they'll have some cool CD's or vinyl for cheap.

He hoofed it across Mormon Coulee Road, which seemed unusually light on traffic for some reason, and walked in. The place was small, but looked like the kind of spot where you could find a pretty good deal on something if you were willing to take the time to browse. Rows of comic books in boxes lined the shelves and tables on the left, and on the right, bins of CD's and actual records- vinyl records- were for sale in boxes. There was other memorabilia: A framed Aaron Rodgers jersey, and a signed Brett Farve poster hung on the wall in addition to an assortment of random comic action hero paraphernalia. An almost obligatory life-size Wolverine cardboard cutout leaned against one wall, and one of Wonder Woman stood on the opposite wall by the record bins. An assortment of pipes and plastic and glass tubular "smokin' utensils" (wink wink) were in the glass cases by the register next to an assortment of random collectable artifacts, and there was a selection of various vintage Milwaukee Brewers cards in plastic cases. (Like him, the owner was probably one of those guys who claimed to collect baseball cards, but actually threw away all the non-Brewers cards he ended up with.) Suspended from the ceiling by cables was a plastic four foot long replica of the DeWalt No.17 Ford race car, presumably the one Matt Kenseth used to race back in the day.

"Hey there," Christian said as he walked in. "Mind if I look around?"

Without looking up from his phone, which he seemed to be intensely focused on, the shopkeeper grunted a monosyllabic reply.

Never much of a comics fan, Christian began browsing the records. It was pretty cool this place had vinyl; he was one of the few guys he knew that still owned a turntable. But, it was his experience that at a lot of places like this, people would just offload their old record collections and the store would take them in bulk, hoping that somehow, somewhere, there might just be a market for old Chipmunks Christmas, Donnie and Marie Osmond, or Barry Manilow albums. (They made good targets, if nothing else, he thought to himself.) While thumbing through a disappointing assortment of thrift store junk-sale-grade records with titles such as "Tino- Por Primera Vez," "Millie Jackson- ESP," "Eddie Money's Greatest Hits" and "Devastatin' Dave- Zip Zap Rap," he finally came across something that caught his attention.

"Hey, how much for this Flotsam and Jetsam 'Doomsday for the Deceiver' album?" He asked. He knew this was the first ever recording with the former Metallica bass player, but hadn't ever actually seen this particular album in person, except for a couple shady bootleg versions on E-bay. There was no price tag on it.

"That will be...Five dollars please." Said the bored -looking shop proprietor. He may have been the male twin of the woman across the street, Christian thought- a heavyset 30 year old balding guy with wispy black hair, who probably moonlighted as a Dungeon Master for a group of much-younger kids when he wasn't working at the shop. As geeky as that sounded, Christian could almost see the appeal of being a role-playing nerd. If nothing else, it was a way to socialize with people if there wasn't anything else going on a Friday night. The record wasn't a "must have" by any means, but hey, for five bucks...

"So yeah, I haven't listened to this all the way through but, actually I've kinda been looking for it. This is awesome, that you had this. You like old thrash metal, right?"

"Yes, I suppose, in the right mood. But it is a little, shall we say, low-class for me. I do prefer stuff like Jethro Tull, The Grateful Dead, Steely Dan, Yes, and the Mahavishnu Orchestra." He replied, somewhat condescendingly. Christian had never heard of that last one, but if the Maha-rashneesh-Whatever were anything like the first four bands he mentioned, Christian assumed they were probably pretty boring.

"Right on; Jethro Tull are okay ..." (or at least, listenable at times, Christian thought; he actually did like a couple of their songs) "...they won, like, best new metal band in 1988 I think. But these guys- this was the first album Jason Newstead from Metallica ever played on- before he was in Metallica, I mean. It's pretty good."

"Well, if that's the case..." heavyset comic book record nerd guy said, examining the album cover in his hands "...I better charge more money for it. Twenty Dollars." he said.

Man, does this guy HAVE to live up to every single fucking comic book guy stereotype? Christian thought to himself. Fuck this guy.

"Urrr, I only have fifteen in cash on me." Christian finally replied, which was actually true, as it turned out; he realized after checking his wallet. "Maybe I'll come back tomorrow or something."

"OR maybe you won't..."

"What?"

"Maybe someone else will buy that record."

"Okay, sure bud, whatever." Christian had had enough browsing, or at least, enough of this guy's bullshit, and walked back out to the street. His car was still parked across the street at the auto shop. By now, the sun was setting, and the sky, across the river, was a vivid orange that faded to a dark blue over the hills to the east as it darkened. It would be dark soon. He saw that the auto parts shop was closed now. His car was the only one left sitting there in the lot, in fact. He walked over, unlocked the door and...

"Hey man, are you heading to French Island?" a voice said suddenly. Christian jumped. How the fuck did this guy sneak up on him like this? A few seconds ago, he could have sworn he had seen nobody around. In fact, the whole area seemed almost eerily deserted, in a way that was almost creepily unnatural.

"Huh, What?" Christian replied, startled.

"Can I get a ride up town? You're heading up towards French Island, right?"

"No, sorry, just up to Cass and 22^nd." Christian replied.

"Well, can I still get a ride? That will work."

The guy was skinny, dressed in tight, worn blue jeans and a red and green long sleeve flannel shirt, and sported close shaved hair and that four days-unshaven look. His teeth were messed up; rat-like, like a typical meth junkie. He just seemed to have this aura of "seedy and unkempt," and looked exactly like the kind of person Christian wanted nothing to do with.

"Well, yeah but, Cass and 22^nd is nowhere near French Island."

"Yeah, yeah, I know but, it's on the way. I can walk the rest of the way from there. Can I get a ride?" he repeated.

"Well, I dunno, that's still kind of far, maybe you can find another ride?" Christian replied, helpfully.

"No, seriously, that will work! It's cool. Just give me a ride. Can you?" he insisted.

"Well, look, I'm kind of in a hurry, I dunno..."

For some reason, Christian was rather creeped out by this guy. He couldn't put a finger on why. It could have been the way he was so insistent with him- maybe he was cruising for sex, and if that was the case then Christian REALLY wanted no part of this dude. That was just not his scene.

"I'll pay for gas... you got to help me. Please? My ride left me, I have no car..."

"Well how about I give you a couple bucks for the bus, it should be still running, or here; here's five bucks for a cab or an Uber guy; that will get you pretty close up that way at least." Christian thought at least this way, he was being charitable, helping out a guy in need, but one thing he was sure of, he REALLY didn't want this guy climbing in his car with him. In fact, the more he stood here talking to him, the more creeped out he was becoming. This guy was probably either a homo or some sketched out, strung out tweeker- he figured there were probably tons of such people in the run-down neighborhoods on this side of town, but either way, he wanted no part of it and hopefully, by springing for a ride for this guy, he would be doing more than just paying for his next hit of bathtub crank.

But to his dismay, the man said "No look, its cold out here, brother. Just let me in your car!"

"No dude, look, I already said; I mean, I offered to pay for a cab..."

Then suddenly, the man grabbed the car door and pulled it open.

"HEY! Fuck OFF!" Christian said, now alarmed. Was this guy trying to jack him? He grabbed his arm, and twisted it away from the door.

"Come on..."

"Get the fuck OUT of here! Fucking tweaker. No! I told you, No! I'm not giving you a fucking ride!" Christian yelled, angrily.

Christian was suddenly terrified, but he couldn't quite tell why. When he had grabbed the man's arm, he felt not only his strong, terribly thin bony arm, but something else. Like scales, or... sheesh was he imagining it?

He thought to himself, "I mean, I know I could take this guy down, but... what if he's like, armed?"

But yet, for some reason, while his conscious mind told him that was the real reason for his trepidation, his subconscious was screaming something at him, that somehow, this predicament was far dangerous than some crazy armed meth head.

The man drew his arm back, and stepped back from the car, and in a loud voice he said, "Then, so be it. But just remember, our pack grows stronger."

"What the fuck do you mean? You..." Then he looked at him, really saw him for the first time, and gasped. Christian suddenly realized why this guy seemed so, just utterly wrong.

It was his eyes. Two pitch black, empty sockets set in his pallid face, in place of white pupils. It was like staring into the abyss, or more like, the abyss was staring back at him.

Christian jumped back, away from the car, and murmured some excuse, like, "Okay, um, I forgot something across the street, hold on a sec, lemme go get it... "

...And took off running. Not back across the street, but anywhere, just away from here. He would retrieve the car later, he thought, in a panic. Hopefully this guy would not be following him or still loitering around by then. Christian just felt, in that moment, blind terror, like I got to just get the fuck AWAY from this guy NOW. He ran, blindly, down an alley, turned right, then down the next residential street over, and then kept on running. After a couple blocks, he stopped and tried to get his bearings. The sun was rapidly setting and it was rapidly starting to get dark. It was that period of twilight where there is a rapidly fading hazy orange light in the November sunset, but it is still a ways to go before pitch black.

Christian caught his breath. He turned around, but to his relief nobody-or nothing, had followed him. He tried to play back the weird encounter in his mind, and couldn't imagine why he had freaked out like that; that wasn't really like him. Sheesh, maybe it was the light, maybe the guy's eyes were normal and they just looked off because it was getting dark, and maybe he was just freaked out because the guy was so damn PUSHY and as a rule, he didn't like tweakers anyway. Or maybe the guy was blind, or had something wrong with his eyes, and he should have cut him some slack. He tried to tell himself that, to rationalize it. But the way those empty sockets seemed to radiate cold, empty blackness, where the darkness stared at him as though pure, malevolent darkness itself was intelligent- that all seemed too real to just be overactive imagination. His head was still spinning, reeling, from the odd encounter.

He thought he may as well circle back around to pick up his car, so he could get the heck out of here. Maybe taking a walk like this will clear his head, he thought, as he started down the street.

He was not really familiar with this neighborhood at all. It was not a place he ever had a reason to go. As he passed the houses, he realized why. Once, it had been a typical blue collar neighborhood in a typical working class, blue collar town in the upper Midwest. People who lived here probably worked at places like the yogurt plant, the college, the hospital, or at the HVAC supply company which was this town's largest employer.