American Gothic

American Gothic

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sheldonnalos/3846186992/

'Looks like it should hev those two miseries in frunnuv it,' he said.

I tried to look away from the chaw-stained teeth. The juice he spat landed an inch from my steel-capped toes.

'Miseries?' My back hit the door of the pickup as I stepped away.

'We ain't far frum Cedar Rapids, friend.' He punctuated this last with another jet of juice near my boot.

I already knew that much, and began regretting stopping to ask this man for directions.

A tall man, thin and stooping, he carried a three-tined pitchfork in a claw-like hand. He looked like a country parson dressed for helping a church-member. His cheap round glasses had tarnished metal frames and the lenses looked as thin as Cellophane.

'Couldya tell me how ta get to the nearest town?' I asked.

'Mebbe.' He said.

''Wanna smoke? Change from a chaw? Only, I ain't got a light is all.'

I pulled out a pack of Luckies, shook two out, offered him the first.

He flicked a horny nail on the red phosphorous of the longest match I ever saw. He saw me looking at it.

''S a Lucifer, my friend. Only kinda matches I got.'

We smoked a while. The smoke curling around his head put me in mind of something.

'You don't live in that house, do ya?'

No one could. It was all rotted clapboard and glass-less windows – and it looked as though my new friend should be careful with his matches around it.

'Naw.' He drawled it long and rasping. 'I'm frum the next town along.'

I ground out my cigarette, it had hissed when it landed it his tobacco juice.

'Which way?'

He held out a long and crooked finger, pointed along the road ahead.

'Thanks, Mister,' I said.

He put his hand on my arm , it felt hot through the plaid shirt.

'You go the other way, friend. Back the way you came.'

He gave me a glare as I shook the clawed hand from my arm.

'What's wrong with your town?' I leaned towards him. He didn't step back.

'You'll get there soon enough, friend. Everyone does.'

The truck started first time. By the side of the road a broken sign lay on its back, giving passing crows not quite enough information:

'Gehenna
Pop. .'