Free Motel. Pool. by Kim Fielding Page B

I can go.”
    Tag glanced at him from the corner of his eye and shrugged. “We might as well find out.”
    “Might as well,” Jack said and leaned back in his seat.

Eight

     
    “W HAT ’ S WITH all the historical markers?” Tag asked. “Are we supposed to be impressed at more Joshua trees and yucca?”
    Jack had been silently gazing out the window for miles, but now he glanced at Tag. “They’re old mining towns.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I’ve heard people mention them.”
    “When you were eavesdropping.”
    Jack made a rude noise and shifted in his seat. “Yeah, when I was eavesdropping. Isn’t like there’s much else to do when you’re a ghost. Listen in, watch TV when they do… sometimes I watched them fuck, but that was just… frustrating.”
    “Ghosts have libidos?”
    “I do.”
    Jeez. Freud would be delighted with this hallucination. Tag decided to push it a little farther. “Can’t you beat off?”
    “No,” Jack replied sadly. Then he brightened. “Except I probably could, now that I can be solid.” He looked down at his lap thoughtfully.
    “No!” The car swerved with the vehemence of Tag’s response. “No masturbating while I’m driving!”
    “Spoilsport,” said Jack with a snicker.
    Tag was going to reply, but he caught sight of yet another marker. He pulled off the road abruptly enough to make the guy in back of him honk angrily, then hopped out of the car, leaving the door open and motor running. CHLORIDE , said the sign. Four miles east is former mining town of Chloride. He reached out and touched the stone and metal; they felt real enough. So did the sharp grasses poking at his denim-clad legs. Tiny black ants marched across the marker’s base, dust in the air tickled his throat, and cars roared by on the highway. Everything about his sensory input felt genuine.
    He plopped back down in the driver’s seat and slammed the door but didn’t shift out of park. “I could have guessed this on my own. We’re in the middle of the Mojave. What else would the signs be about?”
    “Indians. Cowboys. Bandits. Settlers. The Colorado River. Railroads.”
    Why did Tag’s subconscious have to be so goddamn smug? “You’re not real,” Tag said firmly.
    “Sure I am. And how do I know you’re real, now that I think of it? Maybe after all these years alone, my mind’s starting to go and I’m imagining you, like I did before.” Jack blinked as if he’d said more than he intended to.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Nothing.”
    Trying to prove your own existence to your delusion was a new level of insanity, one that Tag was not willing to explore. He pushed aside the specter of his mother’s schizophrenia, put the car into gear, and merged back onto the highway.
    His passenger seemed restless. Jack tapped fingers on the armrest and refolded Tag’s maps. He made faces at the fast food bags scattered near his feet. “Your car is a mess.”
    “I’ve been driving for a while.”
    “How long?”
    “I don’t know. A week, I guess.” He’d started out with a few days of aimless circling before heading south to the old Route 66.
    “You’re not on vacation.”
    “Not exactly.”
    After the silence stretched for a few miles, Jack sighed. “I haven’t talked to anyone in almost sixty years. You could at least try to make conversation.”
    “But I feel stupid, talking to someone who’s not really there.”
    “I am here, though. In spirit, anyway.” Jack chuckled softly. “Will you at least tell me where we’re going?”
    “Vegas.”
    “Las Vegas? Really? Sam said we’d go there sometime, but we never did.”
    Tag cut his eyes sideways for a moment. “Who’s Sam?”
    “Nobody,” Jack replied quickly. “How come you’re going there? Are you moving there?”
    “For a little while.”
    A sign announced they were leaving Arizona and entering Nevada. Tag drove slowly over a tall bridge, then took the next exit. He saw Jack looking at him quizzically, and he shrugged.