Flashback Read online

  The two front bucket seats of his Merc had been replaced with a long soft fabric bench-seat that felt as comfortable as a trusted old armchair beneath him. His hands lightly brushed over the dash as he looked at the glistening chrome knobs and dials and the push-button gearshift to the left of the wheel. His fingers found the 1, 2, D, and R buttons. The steering wheel itself was white with a faint grey marbled pattern, within it sat a huge chrome horn ring that held an electric clock that said 7.45. Through the huge curved windshield, he saw the long shiny black hood stretching ahead of him; the unopposed sun sparkled off of the big chrome “bombsights” that adorned each fender. His fingers felt the texture of the sparkling brocade that ran through the bench seat. Ed realised he knew what the car was, it was a late “Fifties” DeSoto, a ‘58 or ‘59 maybe? His father had taught him to drive in a car just like this in the Sixties. He glanced to his right and the name FireSweep in gold brush script metal mounted to the glove box confirmed his suspicions. He assumed somebody must have found him in his car and dragged him out and sat him in this old cruiser, he looked around but couldn’t see anyone. He lifted the chrome door handle and slid out of the DeSoto. Clean fresh air hit his senses; he took a deep lungful, relishing the coolness and purity of the air around him, the pain in his head already dimming into a faint memory. As he stood, he looked around; his car wasn’t there, nobody in sight at all, just him and the old car. The door closed with a solid clunk as he walked towards the rear of the big black automobile, his hand almost stroking the fin as it ran from the door to its apex just after the trunk. He surveyed the whole area but couldn’t see a single soul, turning back to the car he did notice the triple-tower tail lights set in to the rear of the car’s fins and the huge wrap-around bumper. With its big aluminium sweep-spear down the whole length of the car, Ed knew that this was a 1959 DeSoto in shiny deep black paintwork, arguably one of the nicest looking automobiles to ever drive out of Detroit. With nowhere else to go he got back in the car and sat behind the wheel. ‘Goddamn, what a crazy dream’ he thought, ‘it even smells new!’

  “That was Gene Vincent with his Bluecaps and Be-Bop a Lula, stay tuned to hear a classic from eight years ago, yes we’re going back to the summer of 1954 to hear the fantastic Chords, but first, a word from our sponsors. How would you like to drive away in a brand new 1962 Ford? Well, you can, and for less than you think. Yes Siree! Just drive down to our friends on Curzon Avenue and tell ‘em that Moondog Marvin sent you down from W.E.R.E. You can see the all-new Ford………….”

  Ed looked at the radio, eyes wide, listening to the D.J. in wonderment. “A ‘62 Ford? Oh man, am I dead or just goin’ crazy?” he asked himself. He could never remember having a dream that felt so real, so vivid. With a shrug of his shoulders he decided to ‘go with the flow’ as his generation would have put it, turned the key in the ignition and stepped on the gas pedal. The big V8 engine under the hood roared into life then calmed and softly purred, waiting for its next instruction. All cars built by Chrysler Corporation used push-button transmissions in the Fifties and early Sixties and the DeSoto was no exception. As if on autopilot, Ed pushed the “D” button on the dash just left of the steering column, feeling the ‘drive’ kick in as the car champed at the bit to move. He bent down to his left and grabbed the big chrome “T” shaped handbrake, twisting to the left to let it out. Gripping the big steering wheel in his hands, he started to press gently on the gas. After a quick glance over his left shoulder he added more gas and with a mild rumble from the 361cubic inch motor, the big DeSoto moved effortlessly from the gravel and wild grass on to the concrete highway.

  In this very lifelike dream, the mellow tunes of a doo-wop group came crisply from the radio’s speakers as the singers pleaded with a girl to make their dreams come true. Ed tapped his palms on the big wheel in time to the music, enjoying the smooth ride and scenery as it glided past his window. Motoring past luscious green fields of crops he soon came upon the two enormous concrete grain elevators that he had seen as he entered the town limits. They were as tall as townhouses, one on either side of the road, looking like castle towers and giving the place the look of an ancient Germanic town entrance, but these round structures looked fairly new, with their shining steel ladders and unblemished concrete bases. Single story industrial units surrounded the towers but as he drove on these gave way to houses then shops. As he came into the middle of town Ludlow seemed to be a small but prosperous looking place with a centre that stretched for about ten blocks before it went back to more residential and agricultural use. He marvelled at how the human mind worked. He had never had cause to come through here on his travels as the interstate completely by-passed the place, and he couldn’t remember ever even seeing a photo of Ludlow in the fifties, and he had certainly never come here from his native New York when he was younger. But hell, here he was, in his dream, cruising past Joe’s Diner, a large neon sign with an arrow pointing to the aluminium door. Across the street was an old green pick-up truck from the ‘40s, parked outside the 5 and dime store. A bunch of teenagers were standing outside a malt shop on the corner. The boys, dressed in jeans and white T-shirts, lounged against a couple of hot-rods, ribbing the tall, gangly young coloured guy opening up the store and chatting to some girls in tight pencil skirts and ponytails. The coloured guy was big but seemed to stoop low under the weight of the teenagers mocking remarks. Ed spoke out loud, “This is incredible!”

  He glanced briefly into the rear view mirror that was screwed to the dash just to the right of the instrument cluster and was disappointed to see a man in his mid-fifties, short, cropped grey-brown hair and a wrinkled forehead over the top of the modern classic Aviator sunglasses he still wore. ‘At least the dream could have made me younger!’ he mused. He could also just see in the mirror the tops of the huge rear fins that started just behind the doors and reached their dizzying apex just after the trunk with a triple stack of tail lights on either side, one of Virgil Exner’s best designs. Enjoying the experience, he rested further back into the comfy seat, wound the side windows down using the chrome winders and rested his left arm out of the opening and cruised further into the town. The car was a two-door pillarless coupe or two-door hardtop, with the windows down it gave an unhindered panoramic view of the scene. He glanced left as he passed the wide turning for the town square, briefly noting the neat cut grass and bare concrete plinth in the centre, the backdrop of the antebellum town hall with its white marbled columns and steps framing the peaceful scene. The road wasn’t very busy, just a few Army trucks but he slowed slightly so that a two-tone blue and cream 1955 Chevrolet could cross into the square. He passed a dentist, a florist, a grocer and hardware store, all closed or just opening for business, all of which had big canopies over their shop fronts, the stars and bars hanging down from poles placed at 45 degrees between the stores. Some of the street lamps had baskets of flowers hanging from them, fresh and colourful, glistening in the early morning sunshine from recent watering, pearls of water still dripping from underneath and causing lazy puddles on the sidewalk. The blacktop was fresh and smooth, contrasting with the recently painted yellow lines. This seemed like a place where the folks took pride in their town.

  He looked ahead and saw that the main intersection was coming up. The traffic light hanging limply overhead showed green, so he depressed the gas pedal a little more and drove onto the crossroads. Ed felt, more than heard the vehicle to his left. He glanced to his side to see the high front grille of a dusty red Dodge pick-up truck thundering swiftly towards him. He slammed on the brakes as the beat-up old pick-up rumbled on, running a red light, the driver seemingly oblivious to the black DeSoto, and for just a moment, he saw the face of a child in the passenger seat, a coloured girl, hands against the side window, pleading, screaming, tears rolling down her face. Then they were gone, but the image was etched into his brain like a Kodachrome photograph. This wasn’t just a petulant child throwing a tantrum, the little girl had obviously been terrified and he
had to help. The hard braking had stalled the car for some reason. He turned the key to restart it and the car leapt forward in gear, Ed braked again, way too hard, overreacting and with no seatbelt to restrain him he hit his forehead hard against the steering wheel.

  Ed jumped up, startled, banging the back of his head against the head-restraint of his car as he came awake. Yes, his car, his trusty five-year-old dusty blue Mercury. He was shaking uncontrollably and sweat poured from him, with the engine and air conditioning switched off, his car felt like an oven. He blinked away the sweat from his eyes then stared around; he was still parked by the highway on the outskirts of the town. The sun had definitely dropped down in the sky. His shaking hand blindly fumbled for the ignition key, found it and started the 3.0li V6 engine. A blast of ice-cold air came from the ‘air-con’ unit, hitting him in the face, freezing the sweat to the contours of his face. The radio came to life, free of static and REM was singing mournfully that “everybody hurts sometimes”.

  He sat there, just staring out of the window. His shaking slowly subsided. Five minutes past, then ten, for a while time lost its meaning. He could remember every single detail, the rusty rocker panels on the late 40s pick-up, the hubcap missing from the back wheel, the terror in the girl’s eyes. It had all seemed so real, but a beat-up Toyota pick-up driving passed in the opposite direction brought Ed back to the present, the other driver staring at Ed, parked in the middle of nowhere. Ed shivered, turned off the radio and turned down the air-conditioning; he knocked the gear lever in the centre console into drive and tentatively moved his car out onto the now empty highway, savouring the quiet except for the reassuring road noise from his tires and low drone of the Mercury’s engine.

  He passed the two huge grain elevators again, but this time they looked more tarnished and dull, the surrounding buildings considerably more decrepit. As he drove further into Ludlow he became more agitated the more he looked around. His dream was still very clear, he looked to see if Joe’s diner was there, and yes, the building was there, identical, but instead of the aluminium-sided diner and neon sign he saw the familiar big yellow ‘M’ over the door of a fast food franchise. The 5 and dime was a drugstore now but the building had hardly changed. The malt shop was still on the corner, complete with teenagers leaning against their cars, only now the cars were early nineties pick-up trucks and SUV’s. But how could that be? He’d never set foot in this town before, how could it be so familiar? The whole place looked tired and forlorn, a sure sign that the interstate highway had done no favours to the people that lived here. Many of the smaller businesses were boarded up or had old ‘closing down sale’ signs in their dust-covered shop fronts. Some soldiered on; a hardware store, a pawn shop, a fishing tackle and gun shop all had open signs hanging from their doors. The baskets hanging from the street lamps were rusted and empty; the blacktop was faded and cracked with many a pothole breaking through and the sidewalk slabs were cracked. The only thing that was really different was a dump truck pouring fresh steaming asphalt for a road crew fixing up a patch of blacktop near the turning for the town square.

  He drew up to the big intersection in town. The traffic light overhead still showed green, but Ed came to a halt at the stop line. What did he expect to see anyhow, the old Dodge rolling up the road? He felt stupid but still could not manage even the hint of a smile. He used the back of his hand to wipe away a bead of sweat and flinched at the pain. He looked closely into the rear-view mirror and saw a slightly curved bruise coming up on his forehead just above his shades, which to Ed looked roughly the shape of an old steering wheel. He looked up and down the deserted street, spotting an old saloon up on the right; he signalled and turned that way, time for a drink.

  Two

  The words of Garth Brooks looking back on the memory of a shared dance with a loved one tumbled from the old Wurlitzer jukebox, the large lazy bubbles flowing from either side of the slowly turning light tubes, the bubbles picking up speed as they reached the chrome ornamentation of the domed music machine before finally disappearing. The melodramatic notes of the country singer drifted through the dim light, across the dark, beer-stained hardwood floor, pausing at the empty tables, and finally coming to rest in the ears of the man perched on a stool at the bar, the slow tune not helping to improve the guy’s mood.

  “Get you another beer?”

  Ed looked up from his long empty glass toward the bartender, bringing him back to the present. “Yeah, sure.” He pushes the empty vessel towards the bartender. A new glass is quickly filled from a tap and placed on the already soggy cardboard beer mat that is advertising a brew called Hoppin’ Frog. He takes hold of the replacement, idly drawing patterns in the condensation on the outside of the long glass and watches intently as the carbon bubbles mimic the juke box and make their way up from the bottom of the glass to join the froth at the top, some attach themselves to the side of the glass only to be knocked off by another bubble racing up behind.

  “Nasty bruise you got there, had an accident?”

  Ed touches the tenderness on his forehead but doesn’t answer. The bartender returns to polishing already clean glasses, one eye never leaving his only customer, at just after 5pm on a weekday he didn’t expect too much custom. The saloon looked as if it had been built around the bartender, who, in his late sixties, was still tall but too thin, with a gaunt, haunted face and a bald head patched with liver spots, he seemed to belong behind the dark wood panelling, along with the rest of the fixtures and fittings. His white apron seemed to envelop him and appeared many sizes too large. Without looking up, Ed asks “You ever hear of someone go missing around here, a little girl?”

  The bartender pauses for the briefest of movements before continuing to clean.

  “Not that I recall.”

  His disinterest is almost convincing but something in the old man’s voice makes Ed look up, he thinks he sees a conflict raging behind the barman’s eyes before he continues, “You mean recently or ever? You lost someone?”

  “I don’t know, a long time ago I guess, maybe the fifties or sixties?”

  The bartender looks intently at the bottom of the glass he is polishing, the only noise now coming from deep inside the music machine as it hunts down another track. The bartender seems to reach a conclusion, puts the glass on the shelf above his head, neatly folds his cloth then turns directly to Ed.

  “Well now, there was a girl, back in, oh ‘62, ‘63 maybe, from the negro side of town, cycled into the woods, and never came back”

  “Was she ever found?”

  “Nope, I don’t recollect she was. Bud, Bud Gibson, he was the sheriff back then, he took out some folks, had a look around, I think they found her bicycle?”

  “How long they look for?”

  “Oh, a day, maybe two I reckon, long time ago now, hard to remember”.

  Ed nodded, understanding perfectly. Who would want to make much of an effort for a negro, even a little girl, in the early sixties?

  “Did they ever find who did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “Took her, kidnapped her?”

  “No, you misunderstand me, she weren’t kidnapped or nothing like that, just got lost up in the hills is all, like I said, she just pedaled off and never came back, nothin’ sinister about that”

  The silence stretched out, even the Jukebox seemed to notice the mood and had no more tuneful advice to offer. Ed took a long sip of his drink while watching the bartender straighten a line of already soldier-like bottles, pick up his cloth then put it back down again.

  “The kid’s family kept looking of course” he offered in defence, “never stopped looking I suppose. What’s it to you anyhow?”

  This time it was Ed’s turn to feel uncomfortable, dropping his head to study the last disappearing bubbles in his drink. “Nothing, just something I read somewhere I guess”.

  “Well I tell ya something for nothin’, maybe it was a l
ong time ago now, but folks in this town got long memories. You’d do yourself a whole heap a good to not kick up old history like that if that’s what you’re thinkin’”. Ed looked at the old man and saw the ‘do you understand me?’ expression on his face. Ed abruptly pushed the stool away from the bar, loudly scrapping wood against wood, threw a few dollars on the counter, and with a final scornful glance at the bartender, headed for the door.

  Three

  As he drove away from the saloon the fuel light came on in the dash accompanied with an audible ping. Fuel or motel first? Get fuel, ask about the motel, a good plan. As Ed drove further away from the centre of town, he saw more business’ that had closed down but a few second-hand car sale lots, tire & muffler shops and more pawn shops as the area got poorer seemed to struggle on. He spied a neglected gas station that had a hand-painted “STILL OPEN” sign propped against some old soft drinks crates near the entrance. Ed heard a weary muffled ring somewhere out back as he rolled over the rubber strip and pulled up at the second of the two aged gas pumps. A sign stating ‘We Serve You!’ with the picture of a smiling happy-faced attendant hung above the pumps so Ed stayed put in his car. A mesh door to a dim office slapped lazily against its cracked painted frame, keeping time with the occasional breeze coming up the street, Ed’s mind pictured a ghost town in the old west, he was half expecting a tumbleweed to roll on past his car as he waited. Just as he had made his mind up that the place was abandoned and to drive on, a black man, resembling a sizable skyscraper, shuffled out from beneath a rusted Buick that he hadn’t noticed jacked up under a lean-too beside the office. Wiping his enormous hands on his faded dungarees, the big man took large, lumbering steps as he walked slowly over to the pumps.

  “Yassir? Help ya?”

  “Yeah, fill ‘er up would you; regular. Hey, would you know where the Mountain View Motel is from here?”