My Dodge Charger had seen better days
My Dodge Charger had seen better days
June 11, 2024
I was at the end of my line, at the end of Montana State Route 245, nearly 40 miles west of Jordan. The check engine light was bright and because I hadn’t paid much attention to it, I wasn’t.
So, I placed the transmission in neutral and coasted just to the crest of the next hill. With the only luck I had seen this morning, a small town (three buildings) lay at the bottom of the hill on the (now) unpaved road. The Dodge may not always work as I want it to, but it can coast with the best.
I pulled into what looked like a garage and there the Dodge died. It would take money (I had) and time (I didn’t have) to achieve its resurrection. I opted not for a horn, but for a personal greet with the proprietor of this establishment.
Who emerged was a young woman of average size, wearing the customary coveralls of every grease monkey depicted in every movie I have ever seen.
I introduced myself as Jacob. She began removing her gloves before introducing herself as Constance. Over the next few minutes, I explained my urgency to have the Charger repaired. She inquired if I had the finances to expedite such a request. Opening up my wallet, I removed the credit card. Constance just laughed. “Around here, plastic is only good for waterproofing. You’ll need cash.” I acquiesced and gave her $500 down to convince her I was serious. She took the money, holding onto my hand just a bit longer than was necessary. Her smile said she was interested in more than repairing my vehicle.
“It will take a day or so. I have an old Dodge truck I have been parting out, out back. Until then, you might want a bite to eat and a room to sleep. Both are across the street. I’ll keep you updated as to my progress.” I handed her the keys and made my way to the hotel. I am sure her eyes kept close watch as I walked.
I might have to spend a little quality time in these parts more often.
Upon entering, I discovered Constance working behind the desk. Only this wasn’t Constance. She must have been watching me with Constance as she introduced herself as Lorelei, a sister of Constance. Had I been more aware of anything other than the uniqueness of finding fairly attractive twins in such an isolated locale, I would have picked up on her grammar.
That was the first of many mistakes I would make that day.
She said she overheard my conversation (she was blushing at this time) and already knew my name, Jacob.
“Well then, do you have a room for the night?” It was the obvious next part of the conversation.
Walking behind the counter, she turned the ledger of guest’s signatures for me to make my addition.
“It will be $40 a night and that includes a hot bath. If you want meals, they are $10 each. We have a small bar with a few bottles to choose from if you are of the imbibing type. Prices are negotiable depending if you can impress the bartender with your charm and a story of the outside world.”
I gave Lorelei enough money for a day of rest, feasting, and possibly more. She took the money as I signed in, tucking it under her bra strap for safe keeping. Turning to the keys, she gave me the one for Room 5. “Upstairs and at the end of the hall. You can’t miss it.”
I tipped my hat and gave Lorelei a wink as I walked the flight toward my room. I wondered about the odds of finding myself in such a place. There must be a father or a husband present, somewhere. I could have wandered the area, but the clean bed covered with the large quilt made me decide on a few hours of nap time first.
When I awoke, I discovered a pitcher of water resting in a basin. Two small towels and a bar of soap sat abreast of these items. I never heard anyone enter, but I was pleased they did.
I checked the closet and found a white shirt, freshly starched, that fit me perfectly. No such luck in the drawers for any other clothing. Since I cleaned up well, I made an effort to make the bed, dust off my boots, and run my fingers through my hair to look as presentable as possible.
Then, and only then, I descended the stairs.
The smell of coffee wafted through the corridor. I heard the sizzle of something from the kitchen. I discovered the dining room with a table set for four. Perhaps I was not the only guest here today. I wanted to sit down, but I awaited an invitation first.
I did not have to wait for long.
In walked Constance, but not Constance. She looked like Lorelei, but something was different. I held my tongue as I would if I drew quad aces and the big blind began raising.
“Sugar, do you require an engraved invitation? Go on! Sit down and eat while it's still hot.” I moved as ordered, but remained slack jawed none-the-less.
I had to ask, but I couldn’t.
Right then, Constance and Lorelei entered to introduce me to their sister, Annalise. They were indeed identical triplets and began telling me the story of their life.
Their parents moved here before their births, seeking isolation from a world incompatible to a pair of Luddites (their term, not mine). Since their deaths from old age, six years ago, the three of them continue their Spartan lifestyle earning just enough to get by. Rarely does anyone come calling, even rarer do any of the three leave. Only a monthly run into the nearest town of Jordan or a fishing expedition into the adjacent wildlife refuge disrupts their placid existence.
“And we prefer it to remain that way”, Annalise interjected.
When pried for a similar tale, I stopped eating my pork chop to reveal that I was single (smiles from Constance and Lorelei) and in my “wandering mode”, living off savings, waiting for that turn of events that could straighten out my life.
Then I sipped the coffee.
The rest of the meal consisted of a few jokes, an inquiry into my musical abilities (could I sing or play an instrument), and what makes me happy. None of the three cared about politics, or fashion styles, or celebrity status. Their life was a charmed life, simple to the core, and oddly wonderful to someone somewhat interested in all it had to offer.
When finished, Constance and Lorelei cleared the table while Annalise took me by the hand to the bar.
“You look like a whiskey guy.”
“I never turned down one yet.”
The rest of the night included a few dances, a few laughs, and a few stolen glances. All three sisters gave as good as they got.
As the night rolled on, I forgot to ask about my Dodge repair status. It could wait until the morning. I also dispense with polite conversation in response to pointed questions from the three.
Constance enjoyed moving her hands across my shoulders as she passed by where I sat. Lorelei was more of a stare into your soul with her big brown eyes. Annalise gave the pretext of reading my palms to hold my hands.
I was feeling the effects of the whiskey and the charms of the ladies. If I didn’t make a choice (how could anyone make a choice?) they might make it for me. Would that be so bad? If I picked one, I would remain here with the other two, forever. There are worse lives than that.
One more shot, one more attempt to stand up. The former I conquered. The latter conquered me. I heard Annalise ask for help as the three of them escorted me to my bed.
I did not resist.
Perhaps I should have.
By morning, by which I mean just past 2 am, I found myself sewn into the quilt, almost mummified. The sisters stood over me, donned in red velvet robes with heavily applied, garish, makeup. They were chanting incomprehensibly, swaying in a synchronistic manner, invoking images of witches and ghouls of ancient lore.
Was there a pentagram in blood on the floor? Was I to be a sacrifice?
I wanted out of there. I leapt up and (bean bagged raced) jumped out the only window, crashing through the glass, falling one story to the dust below. The cuts loosened the quilt’s hold on me, permitting me to escape.
An escape I did. Through the night, naked, running without stopping.
A local sheriff found me and arrested me for a series of crimes ranging from vagrancy to indecent exposure to trespassing. I tried to bail myself out, but my credit cards were maxed out and I (now) have outstanding warrants for identity theft in both Los Angeles and San Francisco.
I told the Sheriff I had never even been to California. He told me to keep quiet and be thankful that I was still alive.
When I get out, if I get out, I am never coming back to Montana again.
My Ford had seen better days.
I was at the end of my line, at the end of Montana State Route 245, nearly 40 miles west of Jordan. The check engine light needed the attention that I failed to pay it miles before.
I had no choice but to keep going. I managed to crest the next hill. With the only luck I had seen this morning, a small town (three buildings) lay at the bottom of the hill on the (now) unpaved road. The Ford may not always work as I want it to, but it has never failed me.
I pulled into what looked like a garage and there the Ford died. It would take money (I had) and time (I didn’t have) to achieve its resurrection. I opted not for a horn, but for a personal greet with the proprietor of this establishment.
Who emerged was a young woman of average size, wearing the customary coveralls of every grease monkey depicted in every movie I have ever seen.