Denis Johnson - The Resuscitation of a Hanged Man

He came there in the off-season. So much was off. All bets were off. The last deal was off. His timing was off, or he wouldnt have come here at this moment, and also every second arc lamp along the peninsular highway was switched off. Hed been through several states along the turnpikes, through weary tollgates and stained mechanical restaurants, and by now he felt as if hed crossed a hostile foreign land to reach this fog with nobody in it, only yellow lights blinking and yellow signs wandering past the cars windows silently. There was a single fair-sized town on the peninsula, a place with more than one shopping center in it and boarded-up seafood stands strung along the roadside, and the traveller, whose name was Leonard English, thought hed stop there for a drink, just one drink, before going on. But he was drawn into a very interesting conversation with a man whose face got to look more and more like a dead pigs face in the dim red light. What they were talking about really wasnt all that memorable it was more the mans face but the drinks got slippery and Englishs money was all wet by the time he got out of there, and as he made a U-turn through an intersection the world seemed to buckle beneath him and the cars hood flew up before the window. English held the wheel and jammed the brake, waiting for the rest of this earthquake, or this bombing or Gods wrath, to destroy the town. A shriek, like the tearing of metal train wheels along metal rails, died away. Somebody was opening the door for him but he was opening the door for himself, and now he was getting out of the car. There wasnt any cataclysm. It was just a town at night, quiet and useless, with buildings that looked like big toys or false fronts lit by arc lamps and backed by a tremendous bleakness. Somehow his Volkswagen had climbed up onto a traffic island. The whole thing would have been embarrassing, but he couldnt seem to form any clear picture of what had happened. Blood ran down his forehead and blinded half his sight. The air reeked: the tank was ripped and twenty dollars worth of gasoline covered the asphalt. In his imagination it burst into flames. A cabdriver stopped and came to stand beside him and said, You made a wrong turn. English did not dispute this.

To reach his destination at the end of the Cape, English engaged the cabdrivers services, services he couldnt afford any more than he was going to be able to afford this accident.

He gonna chadge you exry, the cabdriver said.

Chadge? English guessed the driver was talking about the old man whod towed his car away, but what was he trying to say? Right, English said.

You from Bwostin? the cabbie asked him.

This was just what the policeman had asked him amid the wreckage, saying Boston like Bwostin. Mr. Leonard English, the officer had said. Looking right at Englishs Midwestern drivers license, he had inquired after his origins: You from Bwostin? I just got here from Lawrence, Kansas, English told the officer. Kansas? the officer said. Lawrence, Kansas?and English said yes. A little later the officer said, Youre drunk. But Im gonna let you off.

Drunk? Im not drunk, English said.

Yes you are, you most definitely are, the officer said, or you wount be arguing with me. With a certain vague tenderness, he was applying a Band-Aid to Englishs forehead.

English said, Im a little tipsy. I dont understand what youre saying.

Thats better, the officer said.

English was glad when the policeman left him in the cabdrivers custody, because he felt cut off from the world here, and to be scrutinized by a powerful figure in a place he hadnt even seen in the daylight yet left him shaken. Properly speaking, this wasnt even a peninsula. Hed had to cross a large bridge to get here. It was an island. A place apart.

And now, as they rattled toward this phony peninsulas other end, English was sitting up front with the cabdriver. English was dizzy, and on top of that there seemed to be an exhaust leak, but the driver kept saying, Youre A-OK now, brother. No, Im not, English said. They werent in a taxicab. It was almost six in the morning and the driver was going in his station wagon to his home a couple of towns down the road, taking English dozens of miles out of his way for twenty dollars. I like to drive, the cabbie said. He puffed on a joint wrapped in yellow paper.

English turned it down. Grass makes me feel kind of paranoid.

I dont get paranoid, the driver said. But he was a paranoid personality if English had ever seen one. This beyond here, this is absolutely black, the driver said, pointing with the glowing end of his reefer ahead, to where the four-lane highway turned two-way. No more lights, no more houseshe drew a chestful of smokenuthin, nuthin, nuthin. We wont see no traffic. Not car one. Immediately the red taillights of another car shone ahead. I think I know this guy. He stomped the gas. I think this is Danny Mosspronounced Dyany Mwasis that a Toyota? Cheez, looka how fast this guys running. They were doing eighty. Were gonna catch you, Danny. Were gaining on this sucker. But they were falling behind. Aint that a Toyota? he said. The red taillights ahead went right, and the cabdrivers gaze followed their course as he and his passenger sailed past the turn theyd taken. Yeah, thats a Toyota! Yeah, thats him! Yeah, thats Danny Moss!

Actually, they hadnt come to any place of absolute blackness. In a little while the sun was up, burning without heat above the road, and before they reached Provincetown they sped through three or four more little villages, in one of which they stopped and had breakfast. It turned out that Phil, the driver, subscribed to the branch of historical thought characterized by a belief in extraterrestrial interference, previous highly advanced civilizations, and future global cataclysms, both human-made and geological. English now learned something about these things. All the elemental phosphorus is gonna be like zero, completely gone. Well be strangling each other in the streets for a little phosphorus, Phil said, elemental phosphorus. The roads are gonna run with blood. Nobody even knows about it. Nobodys even surprised. Five thousand years ago on the earth they had a big cataclysm and a huge, what is it, whatyoucallit, megadeath. Partly because of running out of some of these elements you need in your body, like phosphorus. He got into a philosophical talk with their waitress and told her, I think our world could really be some form of Hell, you know what Im saying? The waitress saw his point. Theres so much suffering here on earth, she said. Phil knew all the waitresses, and it was after nine when they got back on the road.

English fell asleep. When he woke up, the route had gone strange. White dunes made walls on either side of them. European music came out of the radio. They drove through a drift of sand.

In a few minutes his head was clear again, and he was looking at the sandy outskirts of the last town in America. The sun was shining above it now. A tower made of stone rose up in the distance. The seaside curved north, to their left, and the wooden buildings were laid out solid, bright and still as a painting, against the beach.

They followed the road into town and lost sight of the harbor as they came down the main street of shops. Now there were pedestrians moving alongside them in the chilly sunshine. The traffic crawled. This crowd is nothing compared to summer, Phil told him. Half the shops appeared closed, and English had a sense of people walking around here where they didnt belong, in an area that might have been abandoned after a panic. Three ungainly women were they men, in bright skirts? danced a parody of a chorus line by a taverns door, arms around one anothers shoulders. Passing along the walks and ambling down the middle of the street were people in Bermuda shorts and children eating ice-cream cones as if it werent under 60 Fahrenheit today. On the lawn of the town hall, surrounded by grey pigeons and scattering crusts of bread out of a white paper bag, stood a woman who was very clearly not a woman but a man: as if a woman wore football shoulder pads and other bulky protection beneath her very modestly tailored dress. Another man in a dress was mailing a letter at the blue mailbox just six feet away. And a cross-dresser on roller skates loomed above two others sitting on a bench, patting his brittle wig lightly with one hand, the other hand on his hip, while laughter that couldnt be heard passed among them. A very tall woman, who might have been a man, talked with a bunch of grade-school children out in front of a bakery. English cleared his throat. He had a chance to look at everyone until he was sick of their faces, because the car wasnt getting anywhere.