Fogged Perception by William Maier

     Joe Crites snapped awake; his arms flailed for, then grasped the wheel and cranked.  There was a short, sharp, screech as rubber went from gravel shoulder to paved road.  The high beams cut a swath to the left and back to the right, steadying as Joe gained control.  His heart threatened to pound a hole through the center of his chest, then slowly calmed—disaster avoided.  Cursing softly, he lowered the window, letting the cool night air rush in.  He was alert now, very alert.  As if dealing with his exhaustion wasn’t enough, the fog was growing denser.  It was always something; fog, rain, potholes, and kamikaze deer all added to the charm of Highway 2.  Driving the road at night just made it extra fun.

     Thanks, Stevens, you cocksucker.  If that self-righteous prick didn’t have his nose buried up the plant manager’s ass, he would still be day shift foreman.  Okay, sure he had fudged his comp time slightly, but other than Jesus and Stevens Almighty, who didn’t?  Seventeen years he’d given to the company only to end up back where he started:  Night shift.  He was too old for this crap.  Pushing fifty, it was probably a bit late for a career change, best to just grin and bear it.  Beside the recent blemish, the last three years of his work record had been squeaky clean.  Three years.  It wasn’t a coincidence that his last drink had been three years ago.  Forget it, they would keep him on nights for a year as punishment, then bring him back to days.  He had seen it all before.

     Things had definitely been going like shit lately, and not just at work.  There had been some bad years with the booze before he got himself right.  He knew in his heart he had still not completely made amends to Sarah.  He kept telling himself he was working on it, and he was.  But this morning, he had nearly bitten Sarah’s head off before leaving for work; damned if he could even remember what the fight was about.  There was a vague recollection of money needed for uniforms, baseball uniforms for the boys, maybe.  It had seemed important at the time, but now felt so trivial.  “Trivial shit, considering the grand scheme of things, Bomber.”  His father had been fond of saying that.  Of course, that was before the non-trivial bone cancer came to pay a visit, leaving twelve year old Bomber fatherless.  It had been some time since he thought of his father.  These thoughts weren’t making him feel better.  He would need to smooth things out with Sara; she didn’t deserve to have such a prick for a husband.  It was still hard for him to figure out why she had stood by him during his dark times.  He loved her for doing that, but hadn’t told her.  Not yet, anyway.  Things were going to change; it was time to put her and the boys first. “Life is too short to bullshit around, Bomber.” His father had been right on with that prophecy.

     Despite the chill, he left the window cracked.  The fresh air had helped clear his head, and he didn’t want to risk nodding off again.  Especially with the fog—it was getting damn thick.  He checked his speed; at thirty-five miles per hour it would be a long ride home.  He had almost forgotten about his passenger; a glance over confirmed the man was still asleep.  The guy must be one hell of a sound sleeper.  Just as well, he could do without an awkward conversation with a stranger.  He wasn’t sure why he agreed to give the old man a lift.  This guy looked to be around seventy, impossibly skinny, a skeleton clad in blue flannel and dirty khakis.  He seemed to pose less threat than a toddler.  Maybe it was some kindred spirit thing, a poor bastard with worse luck than him.  Who the hell walks on Highway 2 at night anyway?  Whatever the case, he had told him to hop in.  He had mumbled his thanks, and name, before promptly turning to his side and falling asleep.  What was his name again?  Clyde, or was it Claude?  Pretty sure it was Clyde.  Do I really even care?

     Since the dash on the clock had not kept time for two years, he grabbed his cell to check the time.  It was dead as a doornail.  Of course, why wouldn’t it be?  I only fully charged it an hour ago.  With, or without a clock, he knew normally he’d almost be home by now, probably staring blankly into the fridge or television.  And where the hell was that yellow line?

     He eased off the gas a bit more.  Holy shit, this is ridiculous.  Gets much worse I’ll have to stick my foot out and feel for the road.  He remembered joking with Sarah, that after seventeen years he could drive to and from work blindfolded.  Ha ha, funny man.  He began watching for his mental marker: a signpost for county road T, signifying he was halfway home.  Even at this speed, he should have passed the sign by now.  It was entirely possible to miss the sign in this fog; however, there was a big curve a quarter mile past it.  It would be pretty hard to miss that.  Everything seemed a little off in this fog; the road seemed too straight, too smooth, and too vacant.  Where were the cars?  He shivered and put the window back up.

     “Did I miss anything?”

     Joe jumped at the deep timbre of the voice.  Oddly, he hadn’t remembered his passenger having that voice.  “Startled me, hope I didn’t shit myself, thought you were sleeping,” he forced a nervous laugh.  “Damn fog, hope you weren’t in a rush.”

     “Not a problem, got plenty of time,” the man replied.

     “Said your name was Clyde, right?”

     “Sure Joe, I like that just fine.”

     Okay, that’s kind of weird.  He shifted his gaze from the road.

     Clyde flashed him a smile, showcasing absurdly white teeth.  Lifting a hand, he pointed a long finger at the windshield.  “Best keep your eyes on the road, Bomber.”

     He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.  Did he just say that?  How?  Okay, relax, you misheard and now you’re creeping yourself out.  “Excuse me?  Sorry, didn’t catch that last part.  Don’t hear so good out of the right ear.  Desert Storm, long story.”  Desert Storm? You’re too brilliant, Joe.

     “The road, sometimes it’s easier to drive when you watch it.”  He may have winked; it was hard to tell, the faint glow of the dash lights seemed to cast a blurring affect.

     Joe frowned as he focused back on the road.  Looks closer to fifty than seventy, and was that a mustache?  Would have sworn he was clean shaven.  This was turning into a bizarre night, and Joe had never been a fan of the bizarre.  His desire to get home to Sarah had increased substantially the past few minutes.  He pushed on the gas pedal.

     He drove onward through the fog for several minutes, the road never dipping, climbing, or bending in the least.  He no longer trusted his senses—it was impossible.  He pinched himself, and was disappointed when he didn’t wake up next to Sarah.  It had been worth a shot.

     “Joe,” said a smooth tenor.

     He didn’t want to talk to Clyde anymore, but couldn’t think of an excuse not to.

     “Yeah Clyde,” he said, turning to face a stocky man of thirty-something.  The hairs stood on his neck again.

     “You dig the ponytail?  I thought it was a nice touch,” the improved Clyde asked.

     The road forgotten, Joe could only stare.  He watched as Clyde rippled, like heat dissipating off a hot surface, then smoothed.  A younger Clyde—Hispanic, with a goatee, and wearing a Dallas cowboy jersey—filled the seat.

     Joe stomped the brakes, skidding the car to a halt.  He squeezed his eyes shut.  Please wake up.  He threw up a desperate prayer and opened his eyes.

     “Surprise,” Clyde laughed.  “Still here.”

      I’m insane. I must be.  Quit drinking only to go bat-shit a few years later. 

     “You’re not insane, Joe.  Really.  I should apologize for all this,” he waved a hand down his form.  “It’s harder to do than it looks.  Can only hold it for so long, then I got to switch before my true form comes out.  And I just don’t think you’re up for that, Joe.”  Clyde rippled again.

     “Who are you?”  Joe heard himself ask.  He reminded himself that this was a dream; it simply had to be a dream.  Even so, he wasn’t sure he wanted Clyde the mind-reader to answer his question.

     “Who is probably not the question.  It’s pretty complicated--let’s just say I am here to help facilitate the next step.”  Clyde gestured toward Joe’s window.  “Look, Joe, the fog is rising.”

     Joe peered out the window; indeed the fog was rising.  The retreat of the fog brought familiarity.  Not only did he recognize this stretch of road, but also the car across the ditch, embedded in an oak along the encroaching tree line.  The red glow of the taillights was just bright enough to make out a bumper sticker—“Honk if you are an asshole!”  Sarah hated that bumper sticker.  He had promised to scrap it off a long time ago.  He had promised so many things.  Sarah…

     “Don’t beat yourself up over this, Joe.”  Clyde had somehow moved to the back, behind Joe.  His voice now had a hoarse resonance about it.  “You were tired, nodded off, happens all the time.  What doesn’t happen often—say, maybe one in five million—is someone as balanced as you, Joe.  Your souls make things difficult for both sides.”

     He didn’t acknowledge Clyde.  Instead, he sat with his thoughts exchanging thrusts and parries.  He had no idea how long the battle had raged before being interrupted by a voice.  This was not a Clyde voice, but a far off voice.  He couldn’t make out any words, yet it felt as if it was calling to him.  Calling to him from somewhere up the road—somewhere too far to see from here.  That far off voice had pulled his attention towards it, and then he felt a very heavy hand upon his shoulder, its long bony fingers squeezing slightly.

     “It beckons you, I know.  You could surrender to it and go to whatever is beyond.  But, there is another option, Joe.  As I said, you are unique.  This is why I can give you this opportunity.  This is why I am here.”

     It was hard to follow what Clyde was saying.  The other voice seemed familiar in some way, and he could almost make out the words.

     “Time is very short now, Joe.  You can go back to Sarah and the boys.  You can live out the rest of your natural life.  You’ve earned that right--one in millions, Joe.”  The bony fingers squeezed quite tightly now.

     The mention of Sarah brought his attention to Clyde’s words.  “What are you saying?  I’m dead, but you can send me back?”  Joe asked, suddenly hopeful.

     Clyde chuckled; the sound of it made Joe shiver.  “No, Joe.  You’re good as dead, but not dead yet.  You will be very shortly, so I would advise haste with your decision.”

     “How?”

     “You won’t remember any of this, Joe.  Ever seen those people on the tube, talking about walking into a bright light, or a field of beautiful flowers, and so on: those are now my people, Joe.  They took the deal; they went back to finish their lives.  You can too.”

     The far off voice was closer now; he thought he understood.  “My father’s calling me, Clyde.  It’s been so long I barely recognized his voice.”  Joe didn’t realize his hand had found the door handle.

     Clyde’s hand left Joe’s shoulder.  “Perhaps it is your father; after all, he is dead.  It all comes down to whether you want to be.  We’re out of time, Joe.”

     “You said, ‘they took the deal’.”

     “Everything has a price.  Is Sarah worth it?  Are the boys?”  Clyde’s voice, still behind, seemed much further behind him now.

     Joe opened the door and got out.  He looked down the road, from where he could hear his father’s voice, “Come on Bomber, you know what’s best.  If it looks like a turd, and smells like a turd, then it’s a goddamn turd!”  He turned to the old Taurus with the stupid bumper sticker, crunched against an oak tree.  He sighed—looking back up the road, towards the voice, his father’s voice—and made a decision.

#

     “…just floating outside my body, watching the paramedics work to revive me.  There was really no pain at all; in fact, there was an overwhelming sense of comfort.  Like no matter what, everything was going to be alright.  Almost like a guardian angel was with me the whole while.  It’s why I’m no longer afraid of death, or what comes after.  I know it will all be alright.”

     “I imagine that would be reassuring to know.  I’m just glad I didn’t lose you, Joe,”  Sarah told her husband.  “Someday you should go on one of those shows.  You know where people share their death experiences.”

     “Really?  You think so?” Joe asked.

     “No,” she answered, breaking out in laughter.

     Joe laughed too.