WARNING! Weird Fiction Zone

On another side of town, at first light, snow began falling lightly, like lazy mayflies on dusky summer evenings. Above the bright orange ribbon where the lake meets the sky iron gray clouds form a leaden backdrop for the brownstone gothic cathedral. Had it been any darker Cindy would have stayed in bed. This time she got up, dressed and sat down in the bentwood rocker where she could see out the window. She was a tall, willowy young woman whose thin blond eyebrows gave her the look of someone ten years older. Her faraway expression suggested that kind of intense insecurity that produces focused inattention. On her right were stacks of books related to horseback riding and gardening. On her left, record albums with names like, Moondog, Melanie and Blodwyn Pig.

Ignoring the snores of her roommate, she stared out at the first streaks of snowy dawn, waiting patiently for the world to come into focus. The dorm window was her imaginary portal on what should be. How many times had she dreamed it could whisk her from this lonely place, this forlorn backwater, and deliver her to the comforts of home and friends. During the first weeks at school she would often skip her classes and gaze out the window, picturing the people and places from her childhood: the patch of snapdragons by the Raisin river, the Black Walnut stump where the morels grow, and the corridor of maples that ushered in her mother's appearance at the bus stop.

Cindy missed Southfield. It wasn't just the milder weather, the things to do, or her family and boyfriend; it was the feeling of connection with where she grew up, her place of origin, that psychic location that somehow defined her. "Mom, I'm coming home for the weekend. I'm leaving late Friday afternoon and driving straight through. I should be there at 1:00 AM." Between deep drags on her Pall Mall, Cindy's mother cautioned her daughter to be extra careful on the drive. "I've been listening to the weather reports on the radio. They're calling for heavy lake effect snow along the lake Superior and Michigan shorelines. US2's gonna be treacherous. The bridge might even be closed." "Don't worry mom, I know how to drive in the snow." There was an awkward pause, that silence that says nothing but anticipates the worst. "Besides," Cindy continued, "I just got new snow tires and put 100 pounds of rock salt in the back seat," as if these reassurances could ease her mother's fears.

Three hours later, while Cindy was turning off of south 117 onto east US2, the Bridge authority was weighing the possibility of closing the bridge. Cindy was hopelessly behind schedule.

Driving along the northern coast of Lake Michigan can be a pleasurable experience. It can be scenic even in late Fall, but not that day. The combination of wind and waves pounding the U.P. shore of lake Michigan had turned US2 to a sheet of black ice. The digital clock in Cindy Pluehaar's Bug read 12/16/71.

"It'll be horrible after Naubinway," Cindy thought. Even worse, she was out of smokes and the cassette didn't work. The stations she could pick up were either fading in and out, or too corny to listen to. "Following Hits for the Mrs.' we'll have the Mackinaw County on air auction coming your way. Neighbors, this is your chance to get rid of that used Kerosun or old refrigerator in the garage, and make money to boot!" Cindy frantically twisted the knob. It was either the auction or static. She snapped it off.
East of Brevort, just as she drove onto the Cut River Bridge, a hazy figure suddenly appeared in the road. "Who in their right mind would be out on a night like this, much less on a deserted stretch of two lane highway," she thought. She remembered the story of the Good Samaritan, and how virtue was its own reward; not consciously of course, but as internalized reminders that acts of kindness are measured by what you do when no one is around. Violent gusts gave the trees the appearance of freezing sirens, sadly terrified, as if trying to change what fate holds for all things living or otherwise. The Bug swerved as she slowed to stop. The man got in the car.

"Whew. It's cold out there. Thanks for picking me up," the stranger rasped. Suddenly Cindy was afraid. Almost simultaneously, she blurted out that she would only be going as far as the bridge. She lied. "That's far enough," he said with an ominous air of uncertainty. "My girlfriend works the information booth on the downstate side and I told her I would meet her at midnight." Struggling to disguise her terrifying helplessness, Cindy lit a cigarette and tried to assure herself that there was nothing to those hitchhiker stories she had heard while growing up. She made a miserable attempt to deny the reality of what was happening by imagining crackling campfires on summer nights at Burt Lake.

"Hmmm, a Saint Christopher medal, you must be Catholic," the man said. "That's good, if you're ever in an accident God will protect you. God's good like that. Isn't he? Hearing these words, the flesh at the back of Cindy's neck began to creep, that tingling sensation that only comes when the perceived danger is real. "Oh no," she thought. This can't be happening. It isn't real. "I can drop you off right at the booth," she said. "Be nice, cooperate," she thought to herself. "Our worst fears usually amount to nothing more than imagined threats," she thought. Again came the rasp, "We need to put our fate in the hands of God...I'm sorry, what was your name? Leslie, Leslie Franklin," Cindy said somewhat delicately. "And yours?" "Gary" the man said. "Gary what?" Cindy said. "Gary Phillips," he shot back coldly. "You know, John Lennon said that God is a concept by which we measure our pain. I like the Beatles. My favorite song is "A Day in a Life." I can read the news, but I've never been that lucky man who makes the grade. Do you ever pray, Leslie?

12/17/71: "It's funny how one learns to recognize human fear. It doesn't smell; but it's just as tangible. It's all about adrenaline, really very scientific. Her offering me a cigarette and trying to act cool, that was funny. Like she really cares what kind of music I like. I have two rules about that: I hate small talk, and it's all small talk. I like pain. It's all I can relate to--at least according to my therapist. Dr. Marcia says that we're each responsible for the pain we inflict upon ourselves. She says it is important that we care about others, but that ultimately this concern is secondary to personal responsibility. She says I'm mainly responsible to myself. It's the American way. If I care about myself everything else will fall into place. Then I'll be O.K., I'll be happy. Well, I need pain to be happy. For me pain is normal. When I'm cruel, my inner child is at peace. Like the time I put the cats in the dryer. Seeing them clawing to get out was thrilling, funny. And what's funny makes me happy. Isn't happiness our right? Shouldn't we all seek happiness? And aren't we all responsible for our own happiness. Happy is good. That doesn't change. The only thing that shifts is our priorities."