Blackbirds Read Free Page A

Miriam hawks up another lugey and spits it in his hair. For good measure, she grabs the Tarheel hat off Squats and pitches it onto the highway. "Assholes."
      Then: harsh white. Headlights. Big shadow grumbling.
      The hiss of hydraulic brakes.
      A bobtail – the truck-part of an eighteen-wheeler, this one without its trailer – pulls up onto the shoulder, gravel popping underneath its massive tires.
      Miriam shields her eyes, sees the driver's silhouette. Jesus, she thinks , it's a goddamn Frankenstein. Where are the torches and pitchforks when you need them?
      The Frankenstein is holding a crowbar.
      "Everything okay here?" Frankenstein asks. The voice booms, even over the rumble of the idling truck.
      "We're just having a little friendly tussle," Miriam yells over the truck's engine.
      She can't see his face, but she sees that Frankenstein pivots his cinder-block head, getting a good luck at Squats and Blondie. He shrugs. "You need a ride?"
      "Me, or the two moaning assholes?"
      "You."
      "What the hell," she mumbles, then heads over to the cab to get in.

 
     
INTERLUDE
    The Interview
     
    Miriam takes a drink from her water bottle. Nope, still not vodka , she thinks.
      Above her head, sparrows rustle their wings in the eaves of the warehouse – dark shapes, stirring.
      She lights another Marlboro. Bats the ashtray back and forth the way a cat might play with a mouse. Blows smoke rings. Drums her fingers so her nails – some chewed to the cuticle, some left long – click on the top of the card table.
      Finally, the door opens.
      The kid comes in, a notebook and pages tucked under his arm, a laptop bag hanging at his side, a digital recorder dangling from a cord around his neck. His hair is a mess.
      He pulls up a chair.
      "Sorry," he says.
      Miriam shrugs. "Whatever. Paul, right?"
      "Paul. Yeah." He offers to shake her hand. She stares at the hand like it has a dick and balls attached to it. He doesn't get it at first, but then it dawns on him. "Oh. Ah. Right."
      "Do you really want to know?" she asks.
      Paul pulls his hand back and gently shakes his head no. He sits down without saying another word. He gets out the notebook, a couple copies of his 'zine (headlines like ransom notes, printed on pages of fluorescent fuchsia, eye-punching lemon, nuclear lime), and delicately places the digital recorder in the center of the table.
      "Thanks for the interview," he says. The kid sounds nervous.
      "Sure thing." She sucks on the cigarette. After an exhale of smoke in his direction, she adds, "I don't mind talking about it. It's not a secret. It's just that nobody listens."
      "I'm listening."
      "I know. You bring me what I asked?"
      He pulls a crumpled brown bag, sets it down in front of her with a thunk.
      She snaps her fingers. "It isn't gonna unwrap itself, is it?"
      Paul hurries to pull the bottle of scotch – Johnny Walker red label – from the bag.
      "For me?" she asks, waving him off. "You shouldn't have."
      She unscrews the cap and takes a swig.
      "Our 'zine – it's called Rebel Base – gets, like, a hundred readers or something. And soon we're going to be on the internet."
      "Welcome to the future, right?" She fingers the moist rim of the scotch bottle. "I don't really care, by the way. I'm just happy to talk. I like to talk."
      "Okay."
      They sit there, staring at each other.
      "You're not a very good interviewer," she says.
      "I'm sorry. You're just not who I expected."
      "And who did you expect?"
      He pauses. Looks her over. At first, Miriam wonders if maybe he's hot for her, wants to jump her bones maybe. But that isn't it. On his face is the same look one might have while marveling at a two-headed lamb or a picture of the Virgin Mary burned into a slice of toast.
      "My Uncle Joe said you're the real deal," he explains.
      "Your Uncle Joe. I would ask how he's doing, but…"
      "It happened