Escape from Coolville. Sherman Sutherland

when I told her she needed to pack up all her stuff and move across the country that night, but she did it because I sounded so serious and so worried about her and, when she saw her ex on the news the next day, talking about the big gas explosion that blew up their apartment, she knew I was the most awesome telephone psychic ever and she’s been trying to call me back ever since and when it was always somebody else who answered, she started to think that I wasn’t real, that I was an angel or something, especially after she did some research on Tarot cards and found out that all the supposed experts said that the Star card represents hope and inspiration, not danger like I said, but now she’s really talking to me and I’m really real and now she can really thank me, for real.

      Normally I’d be all about a call like this—Look! in that tiny cubicle!

      It’s a bird!

      It’s a plane!

      It’s Superpsychic!

      Unintentionally saving people’s lives one phone call at a time.

      But right now I’m too paranoid to enjoy it, wondering if the QA’s listening, all prepared to give me another verifica­tion PIN.

      I totally liked this job earlier today, too. I mean, it wasn’t like I was all thinking, Golly gee, I can’t wait to spend the next eight hours in this two-foot box, telling peo­ple what to do with their lives, but I rushed to work to make sure I clocked in on time. That’s got to mean some­thing.

      What sucks is, if I would’ve logged into my phone just thirty seconds later, I would’ve been deeper down in the queue and somebody else would’ve gotten that call from An­gry Bible Guy and I would’ve gotten a caller who would’ve given me their name and age and date of birth.

      I totally had my chance to get here later, too.

      When I stopped by the Cool Spot to get my CornNuts, this gorgeous girl—dark hair up in a librarian bun thing, tight black business-y dress that went down to her knees, designer-type sunglasses—parked right beside me and walked in right behind me. I could hear her walking be­hind me and I wanted to turn around and get a better look at her but I didn’t. Then, when I got to the door, I opened it and turned around and looked right at her as I turned around—but I didn’t let her go first—and she looked at me through those big-ass sunglasses.

      By the time I got up to the checkout line with my Corn­Nuts and my Sobe Green Tea—which they moved all the way down to the other end of the cooler—the girl was right in front of me. And she had a bag of CornNuts, too.

      I totally could’ve, I don’t know, talked to her or some­thing. At least said, “Hey. CornNuts. Yeah,” or something.

      But no-o-o-o-o.

      I was all worried about clocking in by three o’clock. All so I can keep getting that awesome quarter-an-hour per­fect attendance bonus.

      I’m such an idiot.

      Samantha’s still talking. She’s starting to worry about her ex. She wishes he could talk to me. He used to be so into his job, especially the data analysis part, but now, when she calls him, he sounds weirder and weirder all the time, talking about righting wrongs and putting the uni­verse in balance.

      “Like Batman?” I ask.

      “Huh?”

      “Nothing.”

      Mike leans around the cubicle partition and whispers in my ear, “I know what you’re thinking: from this angle, those vertical blinds look just like prison bars.”

      They sort of do, when you think about it.

      June 6

      CHEW

      MAIL POUCH

      TOBACCO

      TREAT YOURSELF TO THE BEST

      * * *

      Welcome To

      WEST VIRGINIA

      Wild and Wonderful

      * * *

      Virginia

      Welcomes You

      * * *

      I don’t even know how I ended up here, wherever here is. Under a buzzing orange light in the last parking space at some rest area on I-77. In Virginia, I think. Maybe North Carolina.

      The last thing I remember, I was driving to work and I was listening to Radiohead—“Idioteque”—and I was in a hurry and worried about being late, and I still wasn’t sure what I was going to tell Smeagol—was I going back to train­ing, or not—and the weather was really really beauti­ful for the first time in a long time (actually, everybody’s been saying for a month how nice it is, but this was the first time I noticed).

      The sky was perfectly sky blue and not that hazy blah color that it usually is, and the temperature was just perfect and it was just humid enough without being too humid, and it smelled like everybody between Athens and Coolville had just mowed their lawns and it seemed like everywhere there were these purple blooming bushes and white bloom­ing trees and yellow blooming dandelions and birds were flittering from tree to tree and people were waving and I was really really high.

      But I was still planning to go to work. Seriously.

      I had my business casual blue shirt already tucked into my business casual khakis, which matched my busi­ness casual tan socks. I’d even had my business casual brown shoes tied and my business casual reversible belt flipped over to the brown side.

      I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble if I’d never planned to go to work. But Maury had the fat kids on today, which made me totally hungry for a grilled cheese sandwich and, before I even got the cheese goo tongue-rubbed out of my teeth, it was like, Holy crap, I’m late!

      When I unlocked my car door, I noticed that the key didn’t stick like it has every day for the last however-many months and the door didn’t squeak when I opened it.

      Then there was this wall, like, of warm vanilla air that washed across my face when I leaned in. And the car didn’t make that normal squonking noise when I sat down.

      And the door shut easy and the window rolled all the way down without sticking and the engine started on the first try and the gearshift actually slid into reverse without having to push down and yank on it and I could hear the gravel crunching under my tires when I backed up and then when I plugged in my iPod, the song that started play­ing right away was “Idioteque” and I couldn’t help but think, This is going to be a good day.

      I was still planning to go to work then, though, too.

      I missed every single pothole on Carpenter—even that su­per-bumpy part at Court Street—and I even hit the green light at Stimson, which never happens. And then I didn’t see one cop on the whole entire highway, so I could drive eighty all the way to where the road splits to Coolville or Pomeroy. It was like the whole universe was working to­gether to get me to work on time.

      When I got to that “Abortion Stops a Beating” bill­board, I remember thinking, God, I wish I didn’t have to go to work today, but I didn’t notice it being any different than my normal God, I wish I didn’t have to go to work to­day feeling.

      And somewhere in there I was trying to figure in my head how much I pay for rent, plus the electric bill, plus groceries, plus all my credit cards, plus whatever else, and trying to figure out, if I made eight dollars an hour instead of eleven, if I’d have enough to pay my bills and still get schwasted every now and then.

      And then I slowed down as I got to Dixon Road—I had my turn signal on, I remember that—and I looked at my watch and I was thinking, Okay, it says 3:26, but it’s actually forty-three minutes fast, so that means it’s actually 2:54, which means I’ve got eight minutes to get from Dixon Road to Dogwood to Buckeye.