Holiday In - Flash Fiction/Haibun by Jerome Berglund

 

 

Holiday In

Flash Fiction/Haibun

by Jerome Berglund

 

 

He sits outside the motel in an old rust bucket; of course it’s raining. Through his windshield the flashing neon signage blurs and warps, always blinking. The man dimly recognizes he cannot recall his name, even his own face to be perfectly honest. The rearview is just above him, but he durst not dare look at it, right now, at this precise moment. Maybe later.

 

ask me anything

…please don’t

focus group

 

The engine is still running, but neither does he recall parking here, was he leaving? Doubtful, the fuel gauge shows the rig to be on empty. Unless he can locate a petrol station almost immediately it will run out of gasoline. The light glares, juicy apple red. The colour of knowledge, ironically he realizes, life imbuing, doctor repellent. He needs a clinician this instant though, in point of fact, the man at least responsibly recognizes. Still he shuts the vehicle off, and sits there bathed in the darkness, beneath pounding sheets of precipitation, sporadically illuminated by the gritty, slum light show. When he closes his eyes the man can imagine he is passing through a car wash, but every time he opens them again he is back amongst the grim scenery of the city. A few doors down, what appear to be manager and pimp are engaged in a heated altercation through his doorjamb, perhaps pursuant to their third party peering dourly through the shadows behind the latter, with swollen eyes and battered face. As our man watches the door slams, old lady throwing up her arms in exasperation and hobbling back towards her desk, perhaps where a hot toddy or something not dissimilar awaits to alleviate her discomfort, assuage the overwhelming powerlessness which is perceptibly ailing her, surely a default status, endemic to her predominant station in life. She must deal with these myriad legitimate woes on her own, unfortunately, for this man has his own troubles to contend with presently. He realized at some point during reconnoitering that there is blood smeared all about his hands, and despite valiant efforts for the life of him cannot discern any injury to his person.

 

retriever mauling

…even buddhists

can be gobshites

 

A police cruiser meanwhile creeps through the lot, hopefully merely providing a presence, but the man cannot yet be sure. He remains very still as it passes his vehicle, stares calmly into the blinding spotlight from behind the wheel, breathes a sigh of relief when it continues on its way out of the lot. As he turns back around to face front his gaze almost lands on the mirror again and a streak of electrifying terror sets the hair of his arms, across the back his of neck at full attention, fills his heart with sheer unadulterated panic.  Gasping he directs his vision away, cast his eyes down on the steering wheel and his gory, drying mitts. Thinking better he fumbles open the glove box in search of a tissue or napkin and discovers, besides the revolver, a motel key. But it is so much the worse for wear, faded and battered, that the numbers had all but worn off its key-ring. So he will have no choice upon finally exiting the vehicle but to begin systematically working his way across a good two dozen units, hurriedly trying various locks at random, praying it may gain him entry into one of their lodgings. That outcome is not necessarily a given, he understands. Nor did he possess an umbrella, or so much as a newspaper to shelter himself with the protection of. And that downpour, the associated gales accompanying it, seem to be increasing their intensity by the second. As if to demonstrate that truth a nearby butt urn blows over sending up a plume of ash. He does not care to wait here all night, feels somehow the sitting duck, wide open and vulnerable to who knows what at this particular moment, each elapsing predictably bringing an unnamed reckoning closer and closer to his doorstep. It is indeed now or never, he realizes frantically. The man takes a deep, haggard breath, screws up his courage, heaves open a door and makes a mad dash b-line over to the first door on the row. As he begins trying keyholes this gent finds himself unable to get his mind off a certain face, features of an unfamiliar visage which he’d inadvertently glimpsed as he thrust himself out into the drenching deluge. Boy was it ugly…

 

accidental

flipped camera

abrupt revulsion

 

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. He has published haibun in Cafe Haiku, Contemporary Haibun Online, Drifting Sands, the Other Bunny, Prune Juice, Under the Basho, and the Wise Owl. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.

TWITTER: https://twitter.com/BerglundJerome 

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