The Hour's Getting Late

I dropped my blood-stained shirt into the garbage bag. I couldn't see any blood on my jeans, but, what the hell, better safe than sorry. I took them off and dropped them into the bag as well.

I'd gone over the clean-up process dozens of times in my head, and the details ran through my mind like a mantra as I actually went through with it: wrap Sam's body in a sheet; clean the living room floor; bag my clothes and the knife; clean myself up in the bathroom; clean the bathroom; bag all the cleaning supplies I used; put Sam and the garbage bags into the trunk of my car; drive out of town and bury Sam and the knife under one of those abandoned shacks out there; burn everything else; drive back into town and wash my car. Even the most unpleasant tasks are simple enough when you break them down into steps, each one leading clearly to the next.

Once I'd gotten myself cleaned up, I went into Sam's living room to put on some music. I figured that having music to listen to would make the bathroom clean-up go by faster. Latex gloves on my hands, I flipped through Sam's CD collection. Decent musical taste. I finally settled on a "remastered edition" (whatever that means) of the Jimi Hendrix Experience's Electric Ladyland. I skipped to "All Along the Watchtower" and turned the volume up as high as I dared to.

"Hendrix did this song better than anyone," I said to no one in particular, unless you counted Sam, lying on the floor, wrapped in a flower-print sheet. I wouldn't.

I got to work scrubbing the blood from the bathroom floor and sink, as Jimi sang:

There are many here among us
who feel that life is but a joke ...

A few songs later, I had the bathroom clean, and the dirty gloves and rags bagged with my clothes. Wearing a clean pair of gloves (I used to watch a lot of CSI), I went into the kitchen and looked around in the fridge for a beer. There were three Coronas; I took one, and looked through the kitchen drawers until I found a bottle opener. Back in the living room, there was a pack of smokes and a lighter on the coffee table, next to the ashtray. I put the pack and the lighter into my pocket, and skipped back to "All Along the Watchtower" on Sam's stereo.

As the song began again, I sat down on the floor beside Sam and sang along with Jimi, "There must be some kinda way out of here, said the joker to the thief ..." I took a drink of the Corona, watching Sam's body out of the corner of my eye. I suppose a part of me was waiting for Sam to suddenly sit up and throw off the sheet, like something out of a zombie movie. But the sheet didn't move, and neither did Sam.

I looked at the clock on Sam's wall -- 11:53pm. I decided I'd better get going; I wanted to be finished by dawn, and it could take a while to find a good spot for Sam, and to dig a deep enough hole. I threw back the rest of the Corona, put the empty bottle into the bag with my clothes (gotta watch out for that DNA evidence), and turned off Sam's stereo.

I carried the bags out to my car in the driveway, casting glances up and down Sam's street. It was a quiet street in a quiet city, and I couldn't see anyone around. Deciding that this was as good a time as any, I opened the trunk of my car, went back into the house for Sam's sheet-covered body, and carried it from the front door to the trunk of the car. There I was, out in the open with that body in my arms for all to see. It only took a few moments, but it felt like hours. If things were going to go bad, I thought, they would go bad now; one of Sam's neighbors would walk out their front door and ask me what was in the sheet. But that didn't happen. With the body safely stowed away, I closed the trunk and took another look around -- still nobody in sight. So far, so good.

I went back into Sam's place to get the shovel I'd found in Sam's garage -- what Sam had needed a shovel for, I had no idea, but it would come in handy tonight. I locked the door to Sam's house and placed the shovel across the back seat, got into the car, and lit one of the cigarettes I'd taken from Sam's coffee table. For a moment I just sat there in the driver's seat with my eyes closed, smoking Sam's cigarette. Finally, I started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

I got on the highway and headed east, towards the city limits. I tuned the radio to a classic rock station; they were playing a familiar-sounding song, maybe something from the seventies, with a greasy, ominous guitar riff. I drove through the industrial park, watching those big, soulless buildings fly past as I smoked another of Sam's cigarettes. I'd driven this road dozens of times, maybe more than a hundred; the city was a quiet place, and as a teenager, I'd done a lot of road trips to the nearby cities north of town -- usually with the rock station on the radio and a cigarette in my mouth, just like tonight. This time, though, instead of turning north on the highway, I turned off onto a lesser-used road heading south. There were a couple of shitty little towns in that direction, but mostly it was just farmland and abandoned property. Which was exactly what I was looking for.

After passing plenty of deserted land and going over twenty minutes without seeing another car on the road, I spotted what looked like an old picnic shelter, a ways off the road, down a gravel path just barely wide enough for my car. I decided that this was as good a place as any. I drove over the gravel and parked the car behind the shelter, so that it wouldn't be easily visible from the road. As I was parking, I heard a familiar voice coming from the radio:

There must be some kinda way out of here ...

"Huh ... that's weird," I said to myself. It was a classic, though, and it was probably on the radio all the time.

I got out of the car, turned on my flashlight, and had a look around. The picnic shelter consisted of three walls and an overhanging roof, with the open side facing away from the road. Half of the floor was paved over with cement, but the other half was just dirt. There was a fire pit near the open end, and a worse-for-wear picnic table a few feet away from the pit. The place looked like it hadn't been used in a very long time. There was some garbage scattered around, a few used condoms and a tattered blanket, but it all looked more or less fossilized. This place was perfect.

I took the shovel out of the backseat, and began digging in the exposed dirt under the shelter. I turned off my flashlight and worked in the dark, occasionally turning the light back on to check my progress. The weather was hot this time of year, even at night, and once I got started, the digging wasn't too tough. By the time I was done, though, my shirt was wet with sweat, and my arms were sore. I thought back to the two remaining Coronas in Sam's fridge, and wished I'd brought them with me -- a beer would have really hit the spot.

With the hole finished, I took a look back towards the road -- no headlights as far as the eye could see. I opened the trunk, and dragged Sam's sheet-covered body over to the hole. I looked into the hole for a moment, then dropped Sam into it. I retrieved the bagged knife from the trunk, and threw it into the hole after Sam. I then began shovelling dirt back into the hole, gradually covering the sheet, and Sam underneath it. I was happy to work with my flashlight off; there was something unnerving about watching Sam's form slowly vanish under all that dirt.

Once everything was buried, I took the garbage bags out of the trunk and dropped them into the barbecue pit. I lit a fire, then I lit another of Sam's cigarettes. I perched on top of the old picnic table, smoking and watching the bags burn with my blood-stained clothes inside. It was a shame; I really liked the shirt I'd been wearing today.

A few cigarettes later, the fire was dying away, and the bags and their contents were burned beyond recognition. I walked back to my car, looking up at the sky; the sky was just beginning to take on the first colors of dawn. The timing had worked out pretty well. I paused at the driver's side door, taking one more look at the sky. Out here in the middle of nowhere, dawn always looked so ... big.

I drove back along the gravel path and turned back onto the road, heading back into town. I lit another cigarette -- the pack I'd taken from Sam's place was almost finished by now. I drove along the deserted road, puffing on the cigarette and listening to the rock station. A string of commercials finally ended, and I heard a distinctive guitar riff, followed by a distinctive voice:

There must be some kinda way out of here ...

Hendrix again? The same song again? I tuned the radio to another station, and heard:

There's too much confusion ...

I immediately changed the station once again, and heard:

I can't get no relief ...

How many stations were playing this song? The hairs on my neck felt like they were standing up.

I glanced at my rearview mirror, and swore. I could see smoke billowing from somewhere behind me, back in the direction of the picnic shelter. I pulled over to the side of the road, and climbed out of my car. I stared at the cloud of smoke rising from the middle of nowhere; as near as I could tell, the smoke seemed to be coming from the exact spot where I had buried Sam. The embers from the fire pit must have somehow spread to the picnic shelter itself. But how was that even possible? I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I had no idea what to do now. I could go back and try to put out the fire, but if it was as big as it looked, I'd probably have no luck without a fire extinguisher. There was more light in the sky with every minute that passed; I needed to get away from here, fast.

I jumped back into my car and got back on the road, trying my best not to stare at the cloud of smoke in my rear-view. On the radio, Jimi continued to sing:

...who feel that life is but a joke...

Fighting an all-out panic attack, I turned the radio off altogether. But the music didn't stop.

But you and I we've been through that
And this is not our fate ...

Nearly beside myself, I punched the dashboard radio hard enough to cut my knuckles. Swearing and grimacing with pain, I heard Jimi somehow continue to sing:

...So let us not talk falsely now
The hour's getting late ...

And then I was lying in bed. I could still hear "All Along the Watchtower" -- the song was coming from the clock radio beside my bed. I grabbed the clock and took a closer look; the radio was set to turn itself on at 6:30am. Because I had to get up for work. Just like every day. I'd been sleeping. Sleeping and dreaming.

I collapsed back onto the pillow, feeling that special kind of relief that's only brought on by waking from a bad dream.

Lying beside me in the bed, Sam propped herself up on her elbows so that she could kiss me on the forehead. "Mornin'," she said, looking strangely happy, as she usually did in the mornings.

My voice wouldn't work for a moment, but I eventually got out a "Good morning."

She looked down at my face, squinting as she always did when she was concerned about something. "You alright?"

Putting on a smile, I said, "Didn't sleep so well. But I'm alright."

She rested her head on my shoulder and looked up at my face, still squinting a little. "I didn't kick you in my sleep again, did I?"

I smiled, for real this time. "No, it wasn't you."

She stopped squinting, and smiled herself. "Okay, good."

Sam was starting to drift back to sleep -- she started work later than I did, and didn't have to get up for another hour. I gently pulled my arm out from under her, got out of bed, and walked to the bathroom.

I splashed cold water on my face, and looked at myself in the mirror. The dream itself was already starting to fade from my mind, as dreams do -- even just a few minutes after waking, I had forgotten almost everything. But I was left with a strange, uneasy feeling in my stomach.

As I climbed into the shower, I realized that I had a song stuck in my head. With the warm water hitting me, I began to sing under my breath:

Outside in the cold distance, a wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching, and the wind began to howl ...


Copyright Peter Byrne 2010
With thanks to Ethan van Winkle

"All Along the Watchtower" lyrics by Bob Dylan, first published in 1967 by Columbia Records