Free Casey's Home by Jessica Minier Page A

rarely to other men, and when speech was necessary, to use as
many gratuitous expletives as possible. Ben wondered if this was another of
Billy’s “lessons” about life, or if the man just didn’t want to shout over the
engine noise and rushing air. In the meantime, Ben gazed longingly at side-roads
and waited to see what Billy would do.
    At one o’clock, Billy shifted
slightly and said, “Gotta take a piss. We’ll grab some grub at the local
whatever and head back out again.” Ben nodded, unsure what a “local whatever”
was, but unwilling to ask. He felt that if he questioned any of this too much,
the entire trip would evaporate, and he’d be home mowing the lawn, upper arms
sticky and covered in bits of grass, which was how he normally spent his
weekends.
    The “local whatever” turned out
to be a greasy Mexican restaurant run by people who, even to Ben’s relatively
untrained eye, appeared to be Chinese. He ordered a tostada, and wasn’t really
surprised to get a rock-hard tortilla covered in barely-melted cheese and still
slightly frozen mixed vegetables, which included lima beans. It wasn’t really
edible, so he picked at it and ate copious amounts of the free chips and salsa,
which were cold, but at least tasted like they had been purchased at the local
grocery store. He eyed Billy’s chicken tacos, which looked both somehow greasy
and undercooked, but which Billy claimed tasted “authentic,” and wondered if
they wouldn’t have been better off with the beef jerky. At least the Cokes were
icy cold and straight from the can, which for once was reassuring.
    The rest of the afternoon was
spent in miserable flatulence, easing his butt off the seat, fearing he would
somehow destroy the leather. Next to Ben, Billy’s face was puffy and green.
Somewhere across the border into Georgia, Billy pulled violently to the side of
the 2-lane highway, and staggered off into the underbrush. He returned a few
moments later, looking considerably perkier, wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand. “Throw me a Coke, kid, I gotta get the taste of puke outta my mouth.”
Ben tossed him a Coke from the cooler and watched as Billy downed the entire
thing in one, protracted swallow, his eyes clamped shut in concentration.
“Okay,” he called, “now the Fruit Stripe.” Ben threw an entire pack at him.
    When it was his turn to get sick,
Ben made it to a gas-station restroom and locked himself in, hands trembling.
His gut roiled and bucked like a monster lurking within. He emerged a good
while later, aware from a quick glance at the polished sheet of metal that
served as a mirror in the bathroom, that his face was white and lightly slicked
with sweat. He rejected the Fruit Stripe and nursed a Coke as they moved north
more slowly, taking the gentle curves of the back road Billy had selected with
one hand on the door handle and his eyes locked to a steady point on the
horizon.
    They stopped for dinner at
McDonalds, which at least felt more predictable, and both poked half-heartedly
at their cheeseburgers and nibbled at fries like dieting women, their bravado
laid-low by bad Mexican and the universal humility of vomit.
    The evening stars were bright in
a clear sky, and they ground forward with a comforting stability beneath the
dome of deep, resonant blue. Ben’s eyes drifted closed somewhere around
midnight, and the rich purr of the engine eased him into sleep. It wasn’t until
the engine began to make noises like someone firing a shotgun beneath the hood,
that he woke with a start to hear Billy cursing and shouting.
    “Goddamnit!” Billy hit the
steering wheel with his fist and pulled the car to a shuddering stop in the
grass at the side of the road. “I think we threw a fucking rod. How could we
throw a rod? This is a fucking new car, Goddamnit.” And then he emitted
something that sounded like a high-pitched shriek. Ben scrambled free of the
car into the grass and sat heavily a few feet from his smoking