The Barely Blur
Will Bear,
William Baird,
Bill Behr,
Willard Baier, Liam Bahr,
Billy Bayer,
Wilder Barr,
Bear Williams,
Willie Bare Jr.,
Wilton Bairn,
Blair Willingham,
Barry Billingsly,
Bjorn Williamsen,
УильямАю,
Three Times
The first time it happens it’s October, and I’m driving through Utah with this young Filipino guy named Liandro. We’re passing a joint back and forth, handing off over the head of Flip the dog who is asleep on the seat in between us, but we’re not really talking. Liandro is miffed because his ankles are shackled.
I picked him up at the Chef Cheng Diner in Elko, Nevada, and I told him then that it was just best practices, nothing personal. I had him sit down in the passenger seat of the pickup and take off his shoes and socks; then I bent down and applied the cuffs.
“Dude,” he said, flexing his toes. “This is so unnecessary.”
“I know it is,” I said.
* * *
Ah, well. I reckon he should be glad he’s got his hands free, but he’s not grateful in the slightest. He holds the nubbin of joint between his thumb and forefinger with delicate aloofness and takes a long slow draw. Puckers and exhales a little trail of smoke and stares out the window as if I’m not even there.
I hope he’s enjoying the view. We’re driving through the Bonneville Salt Flats, and he might as well be looking at a blank screen. I hold out my hand and he passes the joint back without glancing at me. Tiny, glinting raindrops are sidling along the parts of the windshield that the wipers don’t reach, and up ahead I see a piece of sleet turn into a snowflake. It’s falling and then suddenly it becomes a weightless piece of fluff. Now it’s flying, like it just grew wings.
“Looks like it’s going to start snowing,” I say. “Must be from that typhoon they’re having up to Seattle.”
“Hm,” Liandro says, and he is about as interested as any of us are in hearing a fifty-year-old white man chat about the weather.
* * *
At that moment, one of the burner phones I keep in a plastic sand bucket next to the gearshift lights up. It’s set to vibrate, and it starts jiggling and flashing and bumping against the others.
I reach down and fish around for it. I pick it up and flip it open. “Hello,” I say.
“Hello!” says a chipper young female voice. “Can I speak to Will Bear?”
I roll down the window and toss the phone out. In the side mirror, I see it hit the surface of the interstate and bust apart, shards of plastic and metal bouncing like marbles. Liandro looks over his shoulder wistfully. “Dude,” he says. “Why did you do that?”
“Nobody’s supposed to call me on that phone,” I tell him. He blows on the lit end of the joint, but it has gone out. “Such a waste,” he says. “You could’ve given it to me. I don’t got a phone.”
* * *
The second time it happens, I get a little prickle of concern. I have nine phones in that bucket, and they’re all supposed to be anonymous. I guess I’m looking at some sort of breach? But it could be a robocall. Nothing is safe from those. I dip my hand in the bucket and root around for the little vibrating rattlesnake egg and I snatch it up.
“Hello?” I say, and dang if it isn’t the same young female voice.
“Hi,” she says, talking fast. “Mr. Baird, you don’t know me, but don’t hang up! I have important information for you!”
Which is super alarming. I toss the phone out the window again, and Liandro looks at me sidelong.
“Problems, boss?” he says.
* * *
The third time it happens we’re pulled over by the side of the road. Visibility has gone to hell, the sleet-flakes are blowing in a horizontal stream like video static, and then a phone at the top of the bucket starts trembling and jostling. Liandro doesn’t look. He’s mesmerized by the storm outside, by the freshly rolled joint he’s sipping at. For a while, I think I’m just going to wait it out. The phones aren’t set up for voicemail, so I can just leave it ringing and ringing and ringing. Three minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Let the dang thing hum for an hour, I don’t care.
But then another of the burner phones starts to buzz, and then another, and then all eight of them—Bill Behr, Bear Williams, Barry Billingsly, Wilder Barr, Blair Willingham, Liam Bahr, even Willie Bare Jr.—the names and identities that make up the Barely Blur—all of them zuzzing and trembling and shuffling around in the bucket like cicadas on their backs, and I seize one furiously.
“Who is this?” I say.
Best Practices
Later, Liandro and me and the dog are in the camper.
It’s a custom-built motor home that I acquired a few years back, and I must say that it’s a solid vessel. I’ve named it, the way ships are named: the Guiding Star, I call her, and she’s tricked out with three bunks, lots of storage, plus a pretty decent kitchen area. Outside, the storm is howling, but inside the Guiding Star, we’re warm and snug.
Liandro is sitting at the little dining-table booth, itching at the cuffs around his ankles as I bring a couple of bowls of macaroni and cheese. I hand one to him and put the other on the floor for Flip.
“Nice,” Liandro says. “I get to eat the same food as a dog.”
“Everybody’s equal here,” I say, and head back to the stove to scoop up some mac and cheese for myself. “It’s a democracy.”
“That’s not what democracy means,” Liandro says, and I clean off the ladle with my finger. I’m not going to debate politics.
“Right on,” I say. I sit down across from him and dig in, but he just sits there holding his spoon, eyeing me critically.
“What’s with the braids, Pippi Longstocking?”
And I don’t say anything, I just give him a tolerant look. I have rocked long braids since a teenager, and I am immune to rude comments. I’m a biggish man—six foot two, broad shouldered, bearded, and pale skinned, and I can stride through the world with little fear of being menaced. If you want to mock my hairstyle choice, be my guest.
“You want to play a board game?” I say. “We got Monopoly, Stratego, Risk, Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, Battleship…”
“You have any cards?” he says.
“Yep,” I say.
“You know Egyptian Rat Screw?”
“Yep,” I say, and I may impress him by how quickly I can pull out a drawer and produce a pack of cards. “Listen, kiddo,” I say, “I can play any game that you can name!”
I’m a good shuffler, and I give him a little show; I riffle with a flourish, walking the cards between my fingers in a quick Sybil cut and then dribbling them between my hands in a long accordion like a waterfall. In another life, I was a magician, a card sharp.
“Hm,” says Liandro, and takes a glance around. I’ve done a lot of work on the interior, replaced the old paneling and cabinets with real antique wood, nice duvets on all the beds, muted, oatmeal-colored linens with a high thread count, some cute Día de los Muertos figurines for a touch of color and whimsy. Full bar, the bottles and glasses shining. It’s not like some dumps I’ve had to live in.
He points with his lips. “What’s in there?” he says, and his eyes rest on the long Browning safe at the far end, built in below my bunk.
“Nothing for you,” I say.
“Guns?” he says.
“You want to play for pennies?” I ask, and he gives me a hooded glare.
“How about,” he says, “let’s play for my freedom.”
“Sheesh,” I say, and pause in my shuffling. He’s an exasperating sort of person. “Young man, I’m not holding you prisoner. I’m just your driver. You can go anytime you want,” I say. “Open the door and walk out.”
“Right. My feet are shackled.”
“Those are my cuffs,” I say. “They’re expensive, quality material, and they will not go with you. If you want to leave, I’ll take them off and you can be on your merry way.”
“It’s a blizzard out there,” he says.
“So stay, then,” I say. “But I’m not taking the cuffs off. House rules. Look, I’ve had people attack me in the past. I’ve had to tase aggressors. I had to fend one nimnut off with a soup ladle!”
“Hm,” Liandro says unsympathetically.
“Best Practices,” I say. And I begin to deal, letting the cards fly smoothly from my fingertips.
But then one of the phones rings again. It’s the one in the drawer by the stove, with the spatulas and tongs and whisks, and Liandro and I both look over toward the cabinet that is emitting a muffled throbbing.
“This is an outrage,” I say.
This is an outrage: It would make a good tombstone epitaph.
Copyright © 2022 by Dan Chaon