Read Online Travelin' Man by Tom Mendicino - Free Book Online Page B

liar, a dishonest fake who told them what they’d wanted to hear, desperately needing to be accepted. He’s a homo who has sex with other guys, sometimes for money. And now he’s a thief too, a fucking criminal who will be thrown into jail when he’s caught driving a stolen vehicle. It’s too late for anyone to save him. If he ever prays again, he won’t ask God to waste any time on him. There are plenty of people more deserving of His help, like the quiet, confident captain of the Beaverton Grizzlies who seems uncomfortable, even a bit frightened, when he realizes he’s being stared at by a young man with a black-and-blue face.
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    It’s a constant battle with the gas pedal. KC typically has a heavy foot, causing the needle of the speedometer to flutter into dangerous zones. He’s been fortunate so far, avoiding speed traps and traveling below the highway patrol’s radar screen. His heartbeat races each time he sees a cop car in the rearview mirror. He tries his best to look unconcerned and nonchalant as they overtake him in the passing lane. He’s playing a dangerous game, driving a vehicle that’s sure to have been reported stolen by now. Sooner or later, he’s going to get pulled over. He needs to ditch this fucking car in a bus station parking lot the first chance he gets.
    He absentmindedly sticks his index finger up his nose to pick at a dry and jagged scab deep inside his right nostril. He gently scratches, distracted by the gaudy tour bus of a country music star traveling to his next gig. He feels something wet and slippery and is surprised to taste blood as he explores his upper lip with the tip of his tongue.
    Breathe through your mouth, don’t blow too hard into your hankie, and, whatever you do, don’t stick your finger up there no matter how bad it itches.
    He remembers Mr. Chandler’s advice but the damage is done. Mr. Chandler stopped the bleeding by pinching his nose, but it’s hard to steady the car with only one shaky hand on the steering wheel. His clumsy attempt only makes matters worse and now the blood is actually gushing from his nostril. The front of his shirt is turning bright red. An exit for Eugene, Oregon, is two miles ahead. A road sign on the exit ramp, a white capital H on a blue background, directs him to a hospital one and a half miles to the left.
    The woman at the emergency room registration desk doesn’t appear to be too alarmed, or even much interested, in a young man with a bloodied face holding a dirty handkerchief to his nose. The triage nurse, a burly middle-aged man with a thick tuft of blonde chest hair sprouting from the neck of his scrubs, is kinder.
    â€œWhat did you do to yourself?” he asks.
    KC is too embarrassed to admit he’d been picking his nose to a handsome dead ringer for the Six Million Dollar Man he used to watch on cable reruns.
    â€œCouldn’t resist sticking your finger up there when the scab got itchy, I bet. Looks like you’ve broken the clot. Now this is gonna hurt like hell,” the nurse warns.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œGo ahead and holler if you feel like it. No one’s gonna care,” he says as he pinches KC’s nose. “What’s your name?”
    â€œRicky.”
    The nurse smiles, but doesn’t comment on the obvious boner rising in KC’s pants.
    â€œOkay, good-looking, that ought to hold you ‘til the doc can see you. Tell you the truth, I’m more concerned about that mark on your cheek. Who bit you? Barnabas Collins?”
    KC looks at him, mystified.
    â€œYou’re too young for Dark Shadows and I’m too old to know the name of the Twilight vampires,” he laughs. “Seriously, though, we need to take care of that. We need to clean it out and get you a shot. But it looks like it’s gonna be awhile before they can see you. You tell that gal sitting at the desk to call me if you start bleeding