By Any Chance
Chapter 4 With Open Arms
By Nicholas Nocketback

The speedometer read 105, crimson luminescent needle held in suspension, governed. Fifth gear managed well and for being seven years old, the car felt as if it had just been broken in. The Volkswagen performed like a sports car; he’d never driven a sports car but this certainly felt like what he had imagined it to be like. Although after putting a few miles between himself and Jackson, he began to feel as if he should’ve given him more money for the car, ten thousand even. He had it, why not share it? Something like that would be sure to stir up questions, set off alarms. Perhaps he would’ve called the authorities, or worse tried to take the cash from him. It is sad to think that giving money in large amounts to people you don’t really know causes suspicion and mistrust. One would think it’d be the other way around, cheers and French kisses. Al Green’s I’m Still in Love with You was on its second rotation, “Look What You Done for Me” turned up loud enough to drown out the larger hauling trucks. Jackson Daniels had thrown in a few of his personal discs since Evan had nothing, and the drive from San Jose to Fresno would be a cumbersome affair after six hours on a plane. His options included a compilation of random Duke Ellington, Kenny Lattimore, and New Edition jams, something Evan truly would never listen to, The Impressions, and the good old reverend Al. Evan’s hands shook, not from the vibration of the steering wheel, but the fourth coffee he had recently ingested.
In Los Banos he could find no regular coffee, not a drop. The attendant, a thin Pakistani man, bushy mustache and wispy beard, directed him toward the coffee-type substitutes which were stationed behind the fountain drinks. Choices being limited to all things heavily sweetened, Evan opted for the apricot cream “cappuccino,” like winning two dollars with a lottery ticket, pathetic. He immediately felt as if he’d come to a state where coffee was as neon and counterfeit as the women and lifestyle. The faux blend came streaming through a dirty plastic spigot, a clogged fuel injector. Nonetheless, it was necessary. After the long flight and an hour plus drive, he was in need of cognitive assistance and if it was in the form of a fruity hot cocoa, then so be it. Misfortune had guided him here and he was destined to see this trip to fruition. From Los Banos the drive toward Fresno seemed wearisome, tedious; a long, straight drag surrounded by darkening skies, dry grass, indeterminate vegetation bearing produce, and not a single building in sight. This surely couldn’t have been the California he saw on television in Worcester. Where were the palms, topless cars with topless drivers, Hummers with spinning wheels, skateboard parks? This looked more like Kansas than California.
(*)
Exiting the 99, he decided to take Shaw, the state college route. Massachusetts had so many colleges, but Fresno had only one that Evan could ever remember hearing about. A few years ago someone had mentioned that a quarterback from Fresno State had been selected as a top draft pick. Other than that, Evan had never heard anyone utter the F word. The two things most notable were the smell and the heat. It was close to midnight, yet it still seemed hot out. The smell, something Evan felt bordered between lawn clippings and methane, stung his nostrils. He needed a smoke, Parliament Lights having dwindled somewhere near Chowchilla. There were finally some buildings, businesses, a movie theatre, which he was thankful for, yet all was closed, like a set. Someone had built this city as a back drop; no real living seemed to be going on. After passing Blackstone, Evan turned left on First Street, passing the generic patch of acreage that stained the country: Macy’s, Cheesecake Factory, BJ’s, Burger King, bank, another bank. Did they prefabricate these things and ship them out to each city that had absolutely nothing else to offer? On a residential street he pulled up to a house, cut off the engine, clicked his overhead light on, and unfolded his map of Fresno. In search of a busier street that would have hotels, Evan perused the map in earnest until distracted by a tiny orange glow outside his passenger window. Ah, a cigarette, just what the doctor ordered, he thought. Evan opened the door, stood up and talked over the roof of his car so as not to alarm her.
“Hey, listen, I am not from here and was wondering if you could tell me where I could find a hotel?”
Hearing nothing but a whimper in response, Evan thought she was laughing at him. But after brushing the hair from her face behind her left ear, he noticed she was crying, cheeks glistening, grief uncontrollably evident. He decided that perhaps he should inquire into the situation but thought better of it. Evan studied her for what seemed like hours, but was more likely seconds. She had dark, shoulder length hair, no true color could be determined through the hue of an orange overhead streetlamp, black rectangle glasses pulling at the neckline of her Warped Tour 2002 T shirt, jeans, and no shoes. Although they were separated by his car, he could smell her, shampoo or perfume, whatever it was that made women smell sweetened.
“I am sorry. Can, can I ask a favor?” her voice as petite as she, was barely audible, swallowing her vowels.
“Uh, yeah, what’s wrong? You okay?”
“No. Shit. I could use a lift, though. I don’t have money for a cab.”
“Well, you’re in luck. My rates are cheap, and there’s a half empty apricot coffee in it for you as well,” Evan said, using a toothy grin to keep them both at ease.
Wiping the moisture from her face with the back of her right hand, quarter of a cigarette smoldering, she inhaled a draught of air. “I hope you take library cards.”
Evan laughed with his mouth closed and gestured for a cigarette, bringing two fingers to his lips as if pretend smoking or telling the peace sign to be quiet. “You got an extra? I am dying.”
“I can handle that,” she said reaching in her back pocket for a hard pack of cigarettes with a blue label.
Unlocking the door, Evan relocated his knapsack to the back and brushed the invisible crumbs from the seat for his passenger. She slid inside and offered the pack to Evan. He pulled one from six or seven left and lit it with the butt of hers.
“Hi. Evan Chance.”
“Hey. Janelle. Where you from, Evan?”
“I lived in Massachusetts for a while and now I am here.”
“Well, I don’t know what brought you to Fresno but I am grateful you drove up when you did.”
Igniting the engine, Evan inhaled deeply, savoring the flavor of the dry, spicy tobacco. “I don’t mean to pry, but you don’t look like you’re having a five star day,” he said before exhaling.
“My boyfriend’s a complete fuck up and I stick around like a post-it note and take it. I swear to god, one more failed relationship and I am becoming a lesbian. All he does is smoke weed all day, plays video games, and gets drunk with his friends. Don’t misunderstand me, I like a few vodka shots and New Castle’s as much as the next girl, but I would never put that before someone I was in love with. It’s like he loves his friends more than me…”
“Which makes him gay. Don’t go that route or he’ll think you’re copying him.”
“You’re right. My god, I am sorry, I don’t mean to unload all this on you. A hotel, right? Go straight, left then two lights down, I’ll show you.”
Evan did as she said, flicking ash out of the cracked window. “It’s no problem, we all go through it. I am sure things will work out. I do have to ask you one more thing, though.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you have shoes on at some point during the day, or is it really that casual in California?”
Janelle snorted a laugh. An image of Jeanie flashed through his head. That’s her laugh. Janelle had the exact same laugh, he thought. “Almost, you can wear flip-flops to anything here: Mayors house, wedding, circumcision, it’s laid back. I left them in my boyfriend’s house. You were parked right in front of it.”
“Don’t you think he’ll be worried when he finds out you’re not there?”
“Nope, he’s probably passed out while his thirty year old friends who live with their parents eat all his food and play Xbox until five am.”
“Wow, sounds fun, let’s turn back,” Evan said, expecting a chuckle, but finding silence.
“Hey, I don’t know you, I’ve had a couple drinks, nothing major, but it might be easier if you stay at my place. It’s small but I have the world’s most comfortable futon in my living room.”
“I wouldn’t wanna put you out. Besides, how do you know I’m not a predator? One of those real sick ones that eats other peoples’ insides.”
“I am a pretty good judge of character, boyfriend excluded, but if you are,” here she paused for a brief second, biting her bottom lip, “try and make it painless, I’ve been through enough today.”
“Much appreciated, Janelle. I hope everyone in Fresno turns out to be as generous as you.”
She only giggled and lit another cigarette, fumbling with the CD player until coming across what she wanted, “Love and Happiness.”
*(!)*
Evan was awakened by an assault on his senses. Bjork crooned softly in his right ear, “Don’t get angry with yourself. Don’t get angry with yourself. I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, with a razor blade.” An alarm clock never silenced, he supposed. Sun slapped his bare back like a teammate. The blinds had been pulled up and he could see an orange glow through the inside of his eyelids. A subtle blend of mango and eggs filled the room. Someone was cooking in this house. The problem being he hadn’t a clue whose house it was. Opening just the left eye first, Evan noticed a beige shag carpet littered with empty Crystal Geyser water bottles, clothes, CD’s, and books. It had to belong to a female, this was a feminine mess. A phenomenon that Evan was familiar with. The other eye brought into focus a queen bed, occupied by Evan solely. A fluffy white comforter lay crumpled at the foot of it, like a cotton Great Dane in hibernation. A ceiling fan whirred above, causing the pinned up pictures tattooing the walls to flutter. To his left, Evan was eyed by James Dean, clad in dark trench coat, cigarette just a spot on his lip. Just inches away a mammoth movie poster stuck to the wall, leaning, tired. A man and woman staring into the camera, presumably, were surrounded by bright yellow lettering: Federico Fellini presents La Dolce Vita.
After finding his pants, a chore which took several minutes, he entered the bathroom down the hall to the right. Someone was definitely cooking in the kitchen, humming even. But Evan needed to get his head right before playing Matlock. The face in the mirror was in fact his, covered in beads of sweat, but assuredly his own. He fumbled with the faucet until he found the water temperature adequate to wash with. Three cool splashes seemed to do the trick; the name Janelle sprouted up like a weed. Shoeless and shirtless he walked into the kitchen to find a woman frying eggs in a skillet with burgundy USC shorts and a black Def Leppard tank top on, but it wasn’t Janelle.