Tom's eyes scanned the fields that stretched into forever, and the flat two-lane blacktop ahead. He shifted gears and roared along -- on his way to nowhere.
Tom Winston recalled the fist-fight earlier with his violent step-father; Tom had knocked him on his ass, and with due cause. The creep was beating his mom and had a gleam of lust in his eyes when he looked upon Tom's younger sister, MaryLee.
Life had been torn and confused since his mom had married Jake Simcoe, a man who'd walked into their midst and brought loathsome behavior. Jake drank heavily, gambled his mom's hard earned money, and was even beginning to squander the meager savings their dad had left in the form of a life insurance policy. His dad would have killed Jake -- but then, his dad was dead -- an accident, the victim of a drunk driver.
Tom pulled off the highway and stopped. The dust settled around him, and he squinted through his helmet shield, finally removing it to get a clear view of the bleak countryside. It was eerily quiet and unnerving to Tom; he listened, but no traffic sounds could be heard, no houses could be seen. Somehow, he'd gotten on a desolate stretch of highway; his emotional upset had rendered him dazed, and he couldn't remember exactly which road had led him here.
Tom studied the shadowy twilight, the long, long road behind him and ahead of him. Shivering slightly, he realized he had not taken a jacket; late fall was bringing chilly evenings, and a sudden wind whipped through his longish hair, reminding him of his thoughtless actions.
After the fight, he'd torn out of their small frame house in Memphis and paid no attention to his direction. Just to leave, to rid himself of the despicable step-father who was ruining all their lives!
Tom stood silently, wondering whether to continue or turn around. He stomped the ground and muttered to himself, worried about how he got here in the first place. He vaguely recalled crossing the Mississippi/Tennessee stateline, and then just hitting backroads without any pattern. The crooks, hills and sharp challenges of the winding, twisting highways had been a way of releasing his frustrations. When he'd noticed a flat endless stretch, that too had been challenging. He'd pushed the cycle to its limit, sometimes not caring if he crashed -- maybe he'd be better off dead?
Tom heard a grinding, growling sound, and then saw headlights far in the distance; it was a diesel truck plowing ahead with speed. Suddenly he swung his motorcycle to face the oncoming truck and began blinking the headlight furiously. Maybe the trucker could give him directions to a nearby interstate connection.
The truck came closer and closer and made no sign of stopping; if anything, it picked up speed. He got discouraged and quit blinking the light. Just as quickly the diesel, now barreling down on him, let up and geared down, slowing to a grinding halt.
Tom hopped on the running board and asked, "Say, mister, could you tell me how the heck to get to the interstate?"
There was a grunt of acknowledgment, but Tom could only see the glow of a cigarette tip and the shadow of a man's slumped frame. "Kid, what you doin' out here?"
"I musta took a wrong turn somewhere..."
"Reckon so, partner...less you got some kinda trouble with the bike?"
"Nah, it's fine. I just need directions."
The man leaned over, pushed the door open. "Climb in a second, let me show you this here map."
Tom felt a moment of unease, then slipped inside and was overwhelmed by the cigarette smoke and oppressive atmosphere of the cab. "Preciate your help, mister," he muttered.
The trucker made no move to open the map he held, but instead took a deep drag on his dwindling cigarette. "Kid, what you really doin' out here in this God-forsaken place?"
"I just got lost..."
"Been my experience, ain't nobody gets here by mistake."
Tom felt increasingly anxious; the trucker gave him the shakes. He stammered, "Um, well... uh, I just took a wrong turn somewhere..."
Dead silence. The trucker tossed his cigarette out the window and looked into the middle distance as though he sensed something unseen.
"Look, if you don't want to help me, that's okay, cause, uh, I..." Tom inched closer to the door, moving his hand toward the handle.
"Ain't no way I can. We both here for a reason, and all I can tell you, see, is where to get some help."
The trucker was shadowed but turned his face toward Tom; he shrugged his burly shoulders. "Little place up the road apiece, Jukebox Heaven. 'Bout six miles straight ahead. Man there by the name of Hector who'll help you, if'n you let him."
Tom strained to see the trucker's facial features but realized there was a peculiar blankness to the face. It could have been the dim light in the cab, but Tom felt this man didn't really have a face, just an image...something sensed rather than seen. He gulped and found his voice, "Sure, I'll stop in and get a map there."
The trucker chuckled and switched on the engine. Tom was startled by the power rumbling beneath him and said hastily, "Thanks for the advice."
"Advice, yeah, that's what you'll get at Hector's place."
Tom didn't wait around for more of the weird conversation; he shoved open the door, dropped to the ground. Turning to his motorcycle, he heard the truck rumbling away. Before he mounted the bike, the truck had vanished, nowhere in sight when he looked down the long flat highway ahead. Christ, how could it have moved that fast?
Stunned, he stood looking off at the empty, bleak road, wondering how the truck could have disappeared so suddenly? It was a good ten miles straight ahead, not a single curve or hill to obscure the diesel...
Tom was suddenly cold, almost trembling, and not from the cool night either. He cranked the cycle and roared away; maybe there was a small road ahead where the trucker had turned off the main highway? But as much as he wanted to reason away his fear, he knew something strange was going on here, his eyes adjusting to the quickly gathering darkness as he sailed along, switching on the headlight.
In the blackness of night Tom saw bright lights appear ahead-- almost as if they'd materialized out of thin air. An enormous electric sign proclaimed JUKEBOX HEAVEN. Surprisingly well-lit, several flashing neon signs offered cheap motel rates, good eats, and even a night's entertainment by the Jukebox Hero.
Tom swung in, parked, and got off his bike. He dusted himself off, glad he'd be out of the chill windy night soon.
Walking across the small paved area, he noticed the rundown cement-block building; it had surely seen better days. Also, he seemed to be the only customer on this blustery night. But then, he wondered, who in their right mind would be out here on this lonely road at night anyway?
As Tom approached the screen door, he heard a country song blasting from inside; it sounded hauntingly familiar, but he couldn't name which singer had this high-pitched nasal twang that moaned about a cheating heart...
"Well howdy son!" The old man behind a wooden counter greeted him as he strode inside. "Glad to have your company."
Tom saw the jukebox at once; it occupied an entire corner and blinked brilliantly as the country singer twanged away.
Tom's eyes quickly scanned the small room -- it was badly in need of work to update the furnishings. The place had the appearance of a late 30s or 40s cafe -- wraparound red plastic-seated booths lining the wall, linoleum floors, a circular wooden bar with red plastic-seated barstools, and even yellowed posters still tacked to the wall announcing Barnum & Bailey's Circus coming to town.
But that jukebox, an ancient Worlitzer! It was in super mint condition (not unknown in these days of refurbishing bygone relics) but somehow this jukebox seemed uncanny with vibrant energy: It was shiny, almost sparkling, and blasting as though it had been made yesterday.
Tom was drawn hypnotically to the jukebox and studied it critically: It had bubbling bulbs on either side, dramatic chrome work, and excellent artistic touches inside the dome. A perfect replica of a bygone era.
The old man cackled, "A beaut, huh? Every person comes in has to look at that thing. It's the latest to come along and folks just can't understand how it works."
Tom was shocked out of his admiring trance; he said, "The latest thing! This monster must be a good fifty years old, mister!"
The old man just grinned and asked, "So what'll it be? Thirsty or hungry, or both?"
Tom remembered why he was here in the first place. "A map! Uh, I mean do you have a map or could you tell me how to get to the interstate?"
Another cackle. "They's always askin' that same question, can't never understand that there's only one person can tell 'em."
Tom began to sense that eerie feeling he'd had with the trucker. "And who's that?"
"Why, the jukebox hero, of course."
"Jukebox hero..." Tom repeated absently, growing more uncomfortable by the second. "Look, I know you can tell me the way outa here!"
That piercing cackle again, then, "No way out, 'cept with him."
Tom backed nervously toward the door. "Guess I'll be goin' now."
His words were interrupted by the sound of a loud car engine, sliding tires on pavement, a shriek of protesting brakes when the motor died. Near the doorway now, he peered out the screen at the noisy arrival; a haggard-faced man, tall and lanky, disentangled himself from the back seat of a long black Cadillac. He cursed, "Damnit to hell if I ain't bone-tired."
Suddenly, Tom recognized the songs that were playing over and over on the jukebox as those of Hank Williams, the country music singer who'd died long ago. The voice still twanged from the jukebox, louder now and echoing inside the cafe.
Tom felt a stab of fear as he admitted this was no ordinary cafe. Way out here in nowhere...
The lanky man strode into the cafe, banging the screen door behind him. "Pops, you can be on your way now, I'm here."
Tom looked toward the wooden counter, but no one was there. He stuttered, "Hey... what's...goin' on?"
The wind slapped the screen door around, and it banged several times. Silence followed, the click, clicking of the records changing on the jukebox. A new song began, an old Ricky Nelson hit blasting out as they stared at one another.
The man said smoothly, "I'm Hank, pleased to meet you Tom."
Tom trembled; how did this man know his name?
"Now son, ain't no call to be afraid. I'm here to help you. I come a long ways to talk with you."
Tom's voice croaked, "Are you, uh, the jukebox hero?"
A soft chuckle. "Hell yeah, at least for tonight. It ain't always me, like your song playing there, ol' Ricky's one and so are Patsy Cline and..."
"Buddy Holly!" Tom declared, surprised he even remembered the 50s rock and roll singer, since his musical taste ran more toward Grunge and Rap...
The man grinned. "Yeah, you got the idea now. Lots of us went down before our time, but we got a big mission back here to take care of."
Tom couldn't stop his hands from shaking; in fact, his whole body was weak and shaken. He stumbled toward one of the booths and fell into a seat. "I'm...scared."
"Don't be," Hank drawled in his slow southern accent, soothing and pleasant sounding. "I ain't here to hurt or harm you. You got trouble son, and you need help. That help is me."
Tom raked a hand through his tangled hair. "Yeah, my step-dad, a real pain in the you- know-what!"
Hank walked toward the boy, placing his bony hand on his. "Let's talk it over, son. I may be able to tell you how to work it all out."
Click, clicking of the jukebox; Jim Reeves' deep voice sang in a haunting melody of distant drums calling...
Tom sighed, relieved at last to have someone listen. "Okay, if you're sure you want to get involved in this mess."
The hours passed swiftly; Tom talked non-stop, and Hank listened attentively. It was easy to unburden to Hank; he nodded and sighed, he seemed to genuinely care.
Around five in the morning, with the jukebox still spinning songs of those taken by accidental death, Hank told Tom the solution to his problem.
"Son, I'm gonna give you a couple hundred dollars. It's for a plane ticket to Las Vegas, and you gotta see your step-dad is on this plane."
"But how will I do that?"
"I'm gonna give you several extra hundred too; you tell him you've save this money, and you're giving it to him for gambling. You want him to go to Las Vegas and never come back." Hank was chain-smoking, and lit another cigarette as he smiled calmly at Tom's confusion.
"But he will come back, no doubt!" Tom wailed, perplexed.
"Nah, he won't." Hank grinned knowingly, a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. "Listen..."
Tom looked toward the corner as the jukebox began click, clicking and dropped another record onto the slate; a sultry sax flowed and a deep voice crooned out the lyrics to Ain't Misbehaving -- an old jazzy tune redone by...
Tom gasped. "Hank Williams, Jr., your ....son."
Hank's grin turned into a proud smile. "Bosephus done fine, even with all the bullshit in this business."
Tom stared at the man lost in his own sad reflections of the past, his haggard face now sorrowful, filled with regret.
A rich melody surrounded them, the jazz rendition superb; then Tom exclaimed, "Wait! Hank Jr.'s not dead!"
"Not yet, he ain't. But if you don't get your step-dad on Flight 211, Delta, to Las Vegas on Saturday at noon, he will be. Cause son, sure as hell that plane is gonna crash, and we'll lose another talent. Let me explain: Bosephus will be forced to land at the Memphis Airport due to engine problems on his private plane, but he has to get to Vegas. There's gonna be one seat available on Flight 211...and no way to save the other folks aboard that doomed plane, can't be done." His voice broke off, his eyes caught Tom's, and there was no more need for words.
Tom stared in complete and utter amazement, speechless. Wind banged the screen. Tom turned to look at the jukebox, listening to the words pouring forth, the way the bubbles looked gurgling in the colorful bulbs, the way the thing seemed to have a life of its own.
He turned back to see that Hank was gone, and he was alone. The money lay on the table tempting him.
Tom sat in the booth for almost an hour, holding the cash, before he could bring himself to leave. Was this a deal with the devil? Or, more likely, a deal to trade off one soul for another? Was it right? Surely if there'd been a way to prevent the air disaster, Hank would have told him -- but Tom instinctively knew some events were ill-fated, destined before taking place.
Right or wrong, Tom came to the conclusion he'd been given a window of opportunity to change the one thing Hank had suggested: His step-dad was a cruel, violent man, capable of future destruction. Hank Jr. was a performer who brought joy to others -- a giver, and his step-dad a taker. Maybe universal justice was being played out?
The jukebox went silent. Only the glow remained as Tom strode outdoors. Daylight was coming; fingers of gold stroked the dawn sky and painted the flatland in an aura of promise. He climbed onto his bike, revved it up and soared away down the road.
The flat highway soon gave way to curves; he saw a sign for the interstate. The wind was crisp, but he relished it now, thinking: Yes! Delta Flight 211 to Las Vegas Saturday at noon. For once the tide had turned and luck was with him.
And all because of the Jukebox Hero, he thought with gratitude.
Stopping to pause at the interstate ramp, he fingered the cash in his pocket to make sure he hadn't dreamed it all, knowing that for a brief time the place where twilight meets darkness, the real and unreal, had merged and rescued him.
Originally written, 1987; revised/updated 1996
© 1998 by Prose Menagerie; all rights reserved
