freewrite.

"I can't feel my fuckin toes, man.."




I return to reality at once, puzzled by this sudden droning from the creature next to me. But my daydream still weaves a translucent veil over my eyes... I can still see the trigger.




"I said I can't feel my fuckin TOES, man... how long are we gonna stay out here?", Chewy mumbled through a mouth devoid of teeth.


"As long as it takes, you dumb shit, you know that."


Its just me and him out here on the side of the road, thumbs out. Frozen solid like flags on poles. Half-mast, our spirits are getting dampened by each passing car that kicks frozen sleet at our sneakers.


There is a dark spot on my blue jeans, indubiably some of Kathy's blood that the washing machine didn't get after the third cycle. It's ok though, I have a backstory... dumb waitress at Denny's spilled a whole plate of baked beans in my lap. Definitely didn't put a 12-gauge shotgun to my mom's face, officer... I swear. Scouts honor.




Chewy is dancing now. To keep warm. I wish I had that fucking trigger in my finger now. At least his dead body would give off enough steam to keep me warm for a few seconds, minutes if I'm lucky. The impending smile from this realization warms me like a can of Tomato soup and spreads throughout my body like an infectuous, welcoming calm.


Chewy is somewhere between the ages of 19 and 53. A network of wrinkles gathers in a few estuaries on his face, carved by years of meth and life's lessons that are better not learned. I found him eating out of a trash can in Truckee, feet black from frostbite and teeth rotted and discolored; telling tales of malnourishment and neglect. I bought him a meal at Denny's where the fictional waitress spilled nonexistant beans on me and he's been attached to me ever since. Kind of nice having a dog around, save for the fact that most dogs thankfully dont complain.


"Chewy, I know its fuckin cold stop your jumpin around and shit, nobodys gonna pick us up if they think we're a buncha escaped loonies"
"

Sorry, boss", he said with some guilt.


"Here we go, Chewy... we're in business..."


An '81 F-150 slows to a cautious halt next to us on the shoulder. A balding fat man with a stupid hat emerges from the forest green truck, "Hey strangers!! need a lift? nobody should be cold on Christmas!!"


Me and Chewy grab our army packs off the ground. I spit the triangular swatch of bone out of my mouth, confident that I had gotten the last savory morsels. I smile a hearty travellers smile at the man and get in the cab. Chewy too. We start driving East. I start a saying in my head and can't finish it. What is it? What did they say about the West? Or was it the East?


Dale, the nice passerby who picked us up on the side of the road is droning on and on about home and life insurance sales rates in the area, and I am not paying attention. Chewy knows the drill. He knows how this game is played. Suddenly, I wonder to myself how many times throughout Chewy's long, sad life he's found himself in such instances. I deduce that this certainly isn't his first rodeo.


Feliz Navidad annoys my ears in mono through a severely outdated transistor radio. What a terrible last song. Swiftly, I take an elbow to Dale's throat and tell him to pull over. He does. Chewy gets out, smiling a sinister smile as he exits. My thumbs go to work on his throat. Strangled. Dead. Then his eyes become next. I hang them from his mirror like dice. Amusing. I kiss his dead lips that are already waning warmth, check his wallet and take the 23$ and picture of his children that are in the billfold. Nobody should be alone on Christmas, Dale...


Me and Chewy now find ourselves on the side of the road again. Thumbs outstretched and eyes begging. A '98 Galant pulls up next.


"Think you could give us a lift, man? Mine and Chewy's car is shot..", as I point to the old truck and hop in the back seat of the Mitsubishi.






Go West, young man...