Lined Paper Lamppost CHRIS MAULDIN
The cold rain pattered against the metal hull of the car as it sat steaming in the ditch. Isaac, half-soaked and half-lost on this backwoods highway, squatted in the mud by the front left wheel well, whacking his shoe against the wheel as he did. He was steaming too. Get out of town, that’s the ticket. Rent a car, head upstate, take in an Apple Festival for crying out loud. Now this. He could hear the rain, the pit-pats of tiny, stifled chimes, as Annie used to say. Perfect. Every tiny splash a wistful whisper, and he didn’t know a tire iron from a tire jack and not a soul around for miles. Isaac looked down at his mud-splattered shirt which became splattered even more with each subsequent whack at the wheel-twisted-beyond-reason and groaned like a man gritting his teeth to keep from screaming. It was the groan of a man to whom bad things had happened and who wished, quite simply, for this day to be done. Isaac wiped his palms on his shirt, over and over, wanting nothing more than to clean the mud that was dotting it, but with each swipe downward, the dots turned to blotches and the blotches to smears and before he realized what it was he was doing, the mess was messier than before. “Having trouble there?” a voice called out from the road behind him. Isaac stiffened. Ice cubes ran single file down his spine. When he heard footsteps coming closer, he waved his hand just above his shoulder and spoke. “I’m good,” he said. He braced himself against the fender and turned as he stood, slipping his muddied shoe back on. “Or maybe not,” he said, shrugging toward the wreck. “Looks bad, doesn’t it?” The man before him was older, seventy, or just shy of it by Isaac’s guess. He stood about a head taller than Isaac, with the posture of a military man and the frame of a twig. He reminded Isaac of his grandfather who passed away when he was four. A ghastly old man with sunken eyes and drooping skin that hung from his bones like wet cloth. This old guy, fortunately, was not so far gone. He wore a shirt that said Clemens’ Auto Repair on the left breast and behind him, a large truck with a towing mechanism on the back sat with the same words printed on the door. “Casper T. Clemens,” he said. “Isaac.” He extended his hand. Mr. Clemens, smiling through his mustache, held up his palms and shook his head. They were worn and dirty, with grease thrown in for good measure. “Don’t want to get your hands dirtier than they already are. What say we get that baby out of there?” Baby? “Right. Actually, it won’t–” “Start?” Mr. Clemens hopped down into the ditch, popping the hood for a better look. He leaned in and began to tinker around. “I slid off the road back–” Isaac held the last word out as he waved his finger at a spot about fifty feet behind him where water was rushing over