Dead Weight #3
“The family,” Robin presses.
I immediately snap back into focus. “Oh yeah,” I reply, nodding along. “To tell them what happened. I’ll take care of it.”
“Just out of respect,” Robin insists.
“I’ll call them on the drive,” I assure him, finding my confidence again. I furrow my brow and just kind of nod a bit, my best approximation of deep concern. “Thank you so much. Wow.”
There’s a long pause.
“Welp, I should get going,” I chirp.
I climb back into the cab, putting my truck in drive and then waving to the kid as I pull away. My eyes linger on Robin as he gets smaller and smaller in the driver’s side mirror. Eventually, he disappears, and soon enough I’m turning out onto the vacant highway.
This view is pretty nice during daylight hours, a beautiful golden vista of California sand stretching off in every direction as glorious craggy mountains skate over the horizon.
Now, however, an oppressive darkness shrouds everything.
When I stare through the windshield, all I can see is an endless blanket of night, a black ocean through which a handful of other distant headlights carve their winding path.
I reach into the center console and pull out my phone, tapping the most recent contact. It rings once through the truck’s speakers, connecting wirelessly before a familiar voice picks up.
“Hey,” my friend Noah starts. “I just—”
I interrupt before he gets the chance to continue this thought. “Can I tell her good night?”
“Marlo? She’s five years old. She’s been asleep for like … two hours.”
I hesitate, briefly fighting the urge to make Noah wake my daughter for a do-over. Instead, I let out a long sigh of acceptance. “How was she?”
“Great. We did some puzzles. She went in the pool.”
“She fucking loves it in there.” I laugh.
“How’s work?” Noah asks.
To his credit, Noah wants to know out of genuine care, not because he’s hunting for clues.
He’s shockingly good at letting these mysterious adventures exist in their own private bubble, secure in his lack of knowledge.
At this point, I can only assume he thinks I’m a part-time stripper, as little else would require my late-night babysitting needs and a code of silence.
Black-market corpse dealer is probably low on his list.
“Decent enough, but I’m just getting started,” I reply, keeping the update vague.
I certainly don’t tell him I’m off to make a delivery in bumfuck Nevada to a gun club who get their kicks from target practice with real bodies.
“Fingers crossed I’ll be home by sunrise,” I continue. “Can you take her to school if I’m not back by then?”
“Poppy, I have work,” Noah scoffs, his annoyance finally seeping through.
I say nothing. I have no right to complain, and my friend has already gone above and beyond in ways that few mortal men have ever dreamed, let alone mortal straight men. The fact that I put him through so much bullshit with these nocturnal excursions is not lost on me.
Noah breathes deep and lets it out, his disappointment somehow transmitting through the receiver. It pierces my heart all the way from Palm Springs.
“Alright, fine,” he finally relents. “I’ll call into work an hour late if I have to. Not for you, though. For the fish.”
“Who?”
“Your daughter.”
Relief washes over me, followed by a chaser of guilt. “Thank you, Noah.”
“Now I’m gonna go have the most expensive thing I can find in your fridge for my evening snack,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
We hang up and my focus returns to the road. There are still plenty of miles to go, but at least the first steps are over with. Body collection is harder to finesse than delivery, but the drop-off is much more dangerous.
I turn up the stereo, which offers an endless broadcast of music from my phone, downloaded for when my service inevitably disappears in the middle of nowhere.
“Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac is just ending, a mainstay on my “70s Favorites” playlist.
The next song begins with a faint cascade of gentle piano notes, a tune I immediately recognize.
I reach out and crank it up even louder, letting the sound wrap me in its glorious, nostalgic embrace.
It feels as though I’ve connected to an auditory morphine drip, contentment washing through my veins as a potent, psychic balm.
The song is “A Star Like Me” by Eddie Michaels, rock-and-roll legend, piano balladeer, and America’s iconic answer to Elton John.
Some people might give that title to Billy Joel, but they’d be incorrect.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Mr. Long Island, and some of his hits certainly give Elton a run for his money—but the flashy, fun, and downright flirty queerness of Eddie Michaels is the real thread that tethers the two icons together.
Eddie also happens to be the greatest musician of all time.
The piano intro finally swells to its thrilling conclusion, dropping out suddenly and then roaring back with a thundering drum fill and the crash of a full band. This launches into the song’s first chorus.
I roll the windows down, howling into the warm night air as I sing along.