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Ch 26 – House Specialโ€Œ

Remarkably Bright Creatures

Cameron is no expert on campers, but heโ€™s fairly certain this one is a piece of shit.

The engine rattles and a loose belt whines as he chugs up I-5. Elliotโ€™s buddy had warned him it drove a little rough, and had even pointed out the replacement belt, still in its package, in the glove compartment. At least Cameron talked him into knocking the price down to twelve hundred bucks.

It might be a piece of shit, but owning a vehicle outright feels good. Even if Aunt Jeanneโ€™s not-a-loan paid for it.

Now, having spent six of his remaining eight hundredโ€“ish dollars on an overpriced latte, Cameron is tooling up the highway two hours north of Seattle, closing in on his target. The driverโ€™s seat is upholstered in musty, scratchy brown fabric, and itโ€™s making his back itch, somehow, through his shirt. The mattress in the back isnโ€™t much better, in terms of comfort and smell. Last night had passed with very little sleep in the farthest corner of some vaguely industrial parking lot south of Seattle. Heโ€™d still been tossing and turning when he heard tires on gravel and bolted up to watch through the camperโ€™s tiny window as cop car pulled in, its silhouette unmistakable in the predawn light. He scrambled into the driverโ€™s seat and hightailed it out of there.

Not a great first night in Washington. But today is a new day.

Twenty miles to Sowell Bay, according to the last road sign. Twenty miles to Simon Brinks. How long will eight hundred dollars last? A while, especially now that he doesnโ€™t have to pay for lodging. Until either he finds old Brinks or his duffel bag catches up with him. Eight hundred bucks is workable.

The camperโ€™s wipers are worthless at keeping the drizzle off the windshield, so he leans forward, squinting at the slick ribbon of highway. Then, brake lights bathe the dashboard red, and he brakes hard as a wall of gridlock materializes ahead. At least the brakes work. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he inches along, eyeing the mossy guardrail and the weedy shoulder. Everything is so green here. And the forest, the enormous evergreen trees crammed so tightly together, looking at them makes Cameron almost uncomfortable, as if heโ€™s claustrophobic on their behalf.

Ten miles to go, then five, then two. Off the highway, theย WELCOME TO SOWELL BAYย sign is faded and rusty. He drives straight to the address he found for the office of Simon Brinks, which turns out to be a nondescript space in a small commercial building off the highway. Brinks Development, Incorporated, the sign says. Cameron gets a bad feeling when thereโ€™s not another single vehicle in the parking lot. Sure enough, the door is locked.

Well, itโ€™s still early in the day. Maybe Brinks and his staff arenโ€™t morning people. Cameron isnโ€™t a morning person, either. Clearly, itโ€™s an inherited trait.

Now what? Maybe check out the aquarium? Maybe someone there knows something about when the Brinks Development offices open.

Streaks of mildew run down its domed metal roof, speckled with scab-like clumps of moss and bird shit. Seagulls circle overhead as he walks across the parking lot, which is also weirdly empty. When he pulls on the door and finds it locked, Cameron understands why.

โ€œOpen at noon,โ€ he mutters, reading the sign. Of course. What is it with this place? Feels like itโ€™s half-asleep, or maybe half-dead. He looks out at the deserted boardwalk. If Cameron didnโ€™t know better, heโ€™d think there was a sewage pit nearby because, ugh, the smell. But itโ€™s just seaweed baking on the rocks. Sulfur, like rotten eggs. One after another, tiny waves lap at the break wall.

Noon is an hour away. An annoying length of time. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but he could grab coffee. There was that deli up on the main road.

Twice, he almost stalls the camper on the drive up the hill. He lets out a relieved breath, easing off the clutch when he finally gets to the top.

THE DELI ISย attached to a small grocery store, which appears to be deserted. Stepping inside is like a time warp. After a few moments, thereโ€™s a rustle from somewhere in the narrow aisles. Cameron half expects some black-and-white TV character to pop out.

Instead, itโ€™s an oldish guy with a reddish beard. A green Shop-Way apron strains around his middle, and his thick arms are loaded with packets of ramen heโ€™d apparently been shelving.

โ€œMorninโ€™,โ€ he says. โ€œHelp you find something?โ€ โ€œCoffee? I thought this was a restaurant?โ€

โ€œDeliโ€™s up front. Follow me.โ€ He drops the ramen packets in a heap on the floor.

โ€œI can wait,โ€ Cameron says, nodding at the pile. โ€œIโ€™m not really in a hurry.โ€

Red Beard turns back to him and says, โ€œNonsense. Iโ€™ll get Tanner in here.โ€ Then, without missing a beat, he bellows, โ€œTanner!โ€

From somewhere in the maze of cramped, narrow aisles, a sullen teen, also wearing a green Shop-Way apron, materializes. He scuffles along behind them toward the front.

โ€œHere yโ€™are,โ€ says Red Beard, flicking on the lights in the deli. Along with the tinge of bleach, thereโ€™s a used-food smell. Like pepper and onion. Hamburger Helper. It reminds him of his shitty old apartment, the one where he lived before moving in with Katie, where you could always tell what your neighbors were having for dinner from the hallway.

Tanner hands him a laminated sheaf.

โ€œThatโ€™s the menu, there,โ€ says Red Beard needlessly. โ€œThe lad will take your order once youโ€™ve had a chance to look it over.โ€

Cameron scans the menu. It looks like someoneโ€™s dog, or maybe someoneโ€™s toddler, chewed off one of the corners. โ€œIโ€™m good with black coffee,โ€ he says, even though his stomach is rumbling.

โ€œTanner, make him the special,โ€ Red Beard commands, and before Cameron can object, the kid gives a dopey nod and lopes off. Somewhere, in the unseen kitchen, a pan clanks, equipment whirs to life. Red Beard leans over and confides, โ€œPastrami melt.โ€

What is it with pastrami? He hopes this one wonโ€™t be made of yams. โ€œOkay,โ€ Cameron agrees, hesitant.

โ€œItโ€™ll be on the house. Tannerโ€™s a bit of a greenhorn. Been tryinโ€™ to get him hours in the kitchen, but we donโ€™t get many victims these days.โ€ Red Beard grins, sliding onto the vinyl bench across from him, running a hand over his freckled bulb of a head. โ€œCare for some company?โ€

Cameron shrugs.

โ€œI always go the extra mile for out-of-towners. A proper welcome.โ€ Red Beard winks.

โ€œHowโ€™d you know?โ€

โ€œI know everyone around here.โ€ Red Beard chuckles. โ€œWhere ya from?โ€

โ€œCalifornia.โ€

Red Beard lets out a low whistle. โ€œCalifornia. Donโ€™t tell me youโ€™re one of those deep-pocket real estate wankers.

You know, the flipper types.โ€

Cameron lets out a hollow laugh at the thought owning real estate. โ€œYeah, no. Just up here looking for . . . family.โ€

The guy tilts his bald head. โ€œAye? Thought maybe you looked familiar.โ€

Cameron perks up; why didnโ€™t he think of this angle right away? Red Beard is probably in his sixties, so older than his dad would be, but not by more than a decade or so. And heโ€™s the sort of annoying guy who knows anyone and everyone; he said so himself.

โ€œYeah,โ€ Cameron says. โ€œLooking for my dad, actually.โ€ โ€œWhatโ€™s his name?โ€

โ€œSimon Brinks. You know him?โ€

Red Beardโ€™s eyes widen at the name. โ€œNot personally, no.

Sorry.โ€

Thumping bass pulses from the kitchen, some song Cameron has heard a million times but couldnโ€™t name. Is this part of being in your thirties? Out of touch with the music kids like? Heโ€™d noticed the crowd seemed weirdly old at the last Moth Sausage show. Had they become classic rock?

Well, they werenโ€™t anything anymore.

Red Beard frowns at the sound. โ€œIโ€™ll tell him to turn that nonsense down.โ€ He starts to rise.

Cameron holds up a hand, a wave of empathy for poor Tanner washing over him. โ€œItโ€™s okay. I donโ€™t mind.โ€

โ€œYou kids and this racket you call music!โ€ Red Beard shakes his head.

โ€œWell, I donโ€™t think itโ€™s so bad, and as the lead guitarist of Moth Sausage, I know music.โ€ He regrets the words as soon as theyโ€™re out of his mouth. What an idiotic thing to bring up.

โ€œMoth Sausage? The actual Moth Sausage?โ€

โ€œYouโ€™ve . . . heard of us?โ€ Cameron gapes. Their last single barely had a hundred downloads, and theyโ€™d assumed these were all Dellโ€™s regulars, but maybe Red

Beard was one of them. Brad will shit himself when he hears that someone listens to Moth Sausage a thousand miles away. Heโ€™ll probably even beg Cameron to get the band back together.

Red Beard nods gravely. โ€œIโ€™m a huge fan.โ€

โ€œWow,โ€ says Cameron, truly out of words for once.

โ€œAww, donโ€™t make that face. Now I feel terrible.โ€ Red Beardโ€™s cheeks flush to match his beard. โ€œI was just yankinโ€™ your chain.โ€

โ€œAh,โ€ Cameron says, cheeks flaming.

โ€œSo you werenโ€™t joking. What kind of bloody name is Moth Sausage?โ€

An asinine one.

Tanner appears booth-side. โ€œHouse special.โ€ With a disinterested sigh, he sets down an oval platter piled high with fries. Somewhere under there, presumably, is a sandwich. It smells unbelievably delicious.

โ€œAnd?โ€ Red Beard glares up at Tanner. โ€œAnd . . . enjoy?โ€

โ€œWhat about the coffee!โ€

Cameron holds his hands up. โ€œHey, itโ€™s okay.โ€

โ€œIt is not okay.โ€ Red Beardโ€™s nostrils flare. โ€œOur customer ordered a black coffee, did he not? Get on it!โ€ Then he turns to Cameron. โ€œSorry.โ€

Tanner sulks off toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare a cup of coffee. Cameron hopes the kid doesnโ€™t spit in it.

โ€œWell, coffee will be on the house, too. Iโ€™ll leave you to enjoy your lunch.โ€ Red Beard slides out of the booth. โ€œBest of luck tracking down your old man.โ€

CAMERON SQUINTS INย the grayish light as he leaves the store. How can it be both overcast and blinding white? He fumbles in his pocket for his Ray-Bans, which might be why he doesnโ€™t notice something wrong with the camper until heโ€™s halfway across the Shop-Way parking lot.

Itโ€™s leaning to one side.

โ€œNo. No, no, no,โ€ Cameron groans, hurrying around the back of the camper to find exactly what he feared: the rear passenger tire completely flat. โ€œShit!โ€ he shouts, and gives the hubcap a hard kick, which jams his big toe.

Wincing, he sits on the curb. His remaining money wonโ€™t last long after paying for a tow truck and a new tire. He checks his phone again to see if JoyJet has called with an update about his luggage. Thereโ€™s nothing but a text from Elizabeth:ย Howโ€™s it going up there, Camel-tron?

โ€œHorrible. Beyond horrible,โ€ he mumbles the answer to himself. Then, humiliated, he sees Red Beard standing in front of the store, staring across the parking lot with his hand aloft on his forehead like a visor, his reddish beard fluffing in the breeze.

โ€œLooks like you could use a hand, eh?โ€ Red Beard comes strolling across the lot. He stops in front of Cameron and offers a literal hand. โ€œBy the way, nameโ€™s Ethan.โ€

โ€œThanks, man.โ€ Cameron shakes and follows him back toward the store.

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