Free Going Nowhere Faster by Sean Beaudoin Page B

off-key bars of “Eleanor Rigby.” “
All the lonely la-la . . . where-do they la-la from? . . .”
    “Mom?”
    “. . . Father McKenzie . . . writing a sermon . . .”
    “Mom!”
    “. . . do they all belong? . . .”
    Chopper began to howl, joining in on the chorus. I groaned, squeezing my head between my hands as hard as I could.
    It was not nearly hard enough.
    FIVE PLACES I WOULD RATHER HAVE BEEN:
    1. Torture volunteer in Turkish prison training film
    2. Raw snail-gargling in France
    3. On “The Dentists of Southeast Asia” month-long tour
    4. Buried in a crate under forty feet of radioactive mud
    5. Getting treaded by the Fry-O-Lator’s front tire
    Finally, like a miracle, or at least the end of a string of a thousand consecutive nonmiracles, the car bucked to a stop in front of Ellen’s house. Greenish, she mumbled a quick “Nice to meet you” and then leapt out of the car, practically in a full sprint up the driveway.
    “She seems nice,” my mother said, as the Fry-O-Lator turned and lurched toward home.
    I kicked the seat, hard. “Stop!”
    “For God’s sake, why?”
    “I’m walking.”
    “You’re
what
?”
    “STOP THE CAR!”
    “Stan, honey,” my mother said, pulling over, “what’s wrong?”
    “WHAT’S WRONG?” I yelled, jumping out. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
    “Stop yelling,” she said, “you’re scaring Olivia.”
    “
I’M
SCARING OLIVIA?” I screamed. “
I
AM?”
    Olivia did start crying. She held out her arms. It was all I could do not to pick her up and take her with me. My mother rolled up the streaked window, her eyes hurt and confused. It made it even worse. Then the Fry Mobile peeled, as much as the Fry Mobile was capable of peeling, away.
    It took me an hour to walk into town. I went straight to the nearest pay phone, which was also the only pay phone, and dug out a quarter.
    “Hello?”
    Ellen’s mother picked up. She sounded like she’d been storing the same two ice cubes in her mouth, with great success, since 1982.
    “Hi, um . . . this is Stan. Can I speak to Ellen, please?”
    “Hold on a moment, Stan.”
    I could hear whispering in the background. It got louder, and then something slammed.
    “I’m sorry, Stan, but Eleanor is not at home.”
    “Oh,” I said, and then kicked the pavement. My toe hurt. “Could I, um, leave a message?”
    “That’s probably not a good idea, Stan.”
    “Right,” I said. “Then could I . . .”
    Mrs. Rigby hung up.
    I found another quarter.
    “Miles?”
    “Stan-dog!”
    “Save it,” I said. “Just come and get me.”
    “Umm . . . okay,” he said.
    “And bring some beer.”

Treatment for the feature-length film titled
    GOING NOWHERE FASTER ©
    Written by Stan “T-Bone” Smith
    How about this for something you’ve never seen before: Vampires on the moon! See, there’s a beautiful female vampire named Suzanna, who has recently been turned by her thousand-year-old master. Let’s name the master something Victorian-sounding, Colin or Tristan. The master is seen in a vague but eerie montage, a glamorous Brit, a quick allusion to the passion of his bite, his ruby lips, his bloodless gums. But let’s say, before we leave him, that our heroine has once seen Tristan in his resting state, where he’s really a big lizard.
    Suzanna, we will learn, from various blood-hunger flashbacks, misses her equally beautiful daughter, from whom she has been cruelly torn away. It is only the memory of her daughter that allows Suzanna to resist, yes resist, the urge to feed on humans. It’s unbelievably painful, this denial, worse than heroin withdrawal, and we may spend a page or two with her in a cheap motel, sweating on a bed, roiling in agony.
    It turns out the moon, though domed and airless, is a lot like any number of bad neighborhoods in Dallas. Suzanna, stopping at a seamy bar, sits next to a man, bearded, tough, world-weary. His name is Tom and he’s a vampire hunter. After a few drinks he and Suzanna go out the back into