Page 2 of Gotta Dig Deep
***
Rolling out of bed the next morning, he settled his ass on the edge of the mattress. Both hands scrubbed his face as he worked the sleep sand out of the corners of his eyes before blinking blearily around the basement bedroom.
Nothing had changed. It was the same small space it had been since his bed had been moved here and out of the nursery at the ripe old age of two.
Not that he remembered those days, or anything about the second-floor office next to his mother’s bedroom serving as an unwanted nursery, but pictures in his dead grandmother’s photo book didn’t lie.
I’ve truly got nothing to keep me here.
The factthatwas his first cogent thought upon waking was probably important, but Graeme shook his head and pushed off the bed.
Dressing without urgency, he turned back, straightened the covers and glanced around the room a final time as he stamped into his boots. Nothing in the space even said it was inhabited, much less presenting anything of his personality. It could be a rent-by-the-hour bed. Sure, there’d been a time when he’d had posters and pictures on the walls, but age and indifference had stripped them away.
Padding up narrow, steep stairs to emerge in the shared kitchen, Graeme went directly to the coffeemaker, thumbing the switch to turn the already prepared device on. He perused the space with the same flat pique as he had his bedroom. Few things here said anyone lived in the house, much less a twenty-three-year-old man and his couldn’t-give-a-shit mother. The sturdy coffee mugs were a matching set, not screaming male presence but also not effeminate in any way. A calendar hung on a space next to the cabinets, the picture a bucolic and serene scene, also gender neutral. And a month behind.
If I left today, there’d be nothing to say I was ever here.
For some reason that wasn’t an alarming thought. Instead, the idea there’d be nothing of him left behind was comforting.
She doesn’t wanna claim me while I live here? She shouldn’t get to keep anything after I leave.
The certainty in his thoughts was a surprise.
Once his second cup of coffee was poured and doctored, he pushed through the back door and claimed a chair at the patio table. Half-baked ideas about what he could do floated through his head, but nothing as defined as a full-formed plan yet.
He had money saved, years of birthday and holiday presents from extended family amounting to a few thousand dollars tucked into a sock underneath his mattress. Half of his pay from the bar went to rent and household expenses, but he mostly banked the rest into a healthy savings account. The biggest barrier he could come up with was that he didn’t have a vehicle. There’d been no reason to bear the purchase cost—never mind maintenance and upkeep—when the bar sat just a couple of blocks away, but he did have a license with motorcycle endorsement. He grinned at the idea, because he’d never been on a bike in his life but having a distant cousin who worked at the local motor vehicles registration had played in his favor.
Slowly sipping the coffee, Graeme decided his first purchase would be a phone, and the second should be some sort of transportation. He’d need to ensure he had enough accessible money to fund this escape, which meant a daytime trip to the bank for cash. That would be the one place he’d have to be careful to avoid recognition, because there was a cousin who worked there too. Hell, might as well clean out the account. It wasn’t like he’d be coming back anytime soon.
And exactly why the hell do I need to hide what I’m planning?
His mother likely would give just as many shits about him leaving as him staying—which was to say none at all.
This was beginning to feel more like a fully baked plan than anything he’d had before.
***
“So much? You sure? It doesn’t look like it’s even road ready.” Graeme leaned backwards and rested his shoulders against the side of the car parked just behind him. “It’s got four different brands of tires, and there’s oil dripping out the tailpipe.” He grimaced and waggled his head side to side. “Doubt it should be that dear.”
“Shows what you know about used cars, boy.” The rotund gentleman standing next to Graeme laughed, fingers rubbing between gaping buttons across his belly. Gray and matted tufts of hair protruded through each, ruffled in turn by the edges of dirty nails. He looked like he worked on the cars himself. “Dear doesn’t cover the half of it with this beaut.” Mr. Embry, owner of Embry’s Cars, slapped a palm against the roof and Graeme winced as the springs groaned in protest.
“You don’t have anything for less?” Folding his arms across his chest, he scanned the small business for a final time before turning away. “That’s too bad. Thanks for your time.”
“I got a bike. About half the price of the cheapest car on the lot.”
“What?” Graeme whirled and stared, waiting impatiently as the man coughed roughly and spat. “You do?” He hadn’t noticed anything as they’d walked around the front rows of cars.
“Said I did, didn’t I?” Lifting an arm, the man pointed towards the back fence. “Needs some work, but what doesn’t these days?” He began walking, a stiff-legged shuffle as accommodating of his belly as any heavily pregnant woman’s. “Come on, then,” he tossed over his shoulder, the tease in his words dragging Graeme behind him. “I’ll show you what I got.”
Along the back fence, tucked in behind the rust-tortured remains of a van camper was a motorcycle. The bones of the bike rivaled any of the best rides the bikers who came to the bar had. At least, to Graeme’s untrained eyes it looked like it, mostly hidden under the patchy paint and salt scum. He found he didn’t hate the idea of a bike.
I could ride across the country on a bike, once I fixed it up. Follow the wind wherever.
It might mean his departure was delayed, but it wasn’t like he had a timeline that was dependent on anything other than him closing a door. And how cool would he look on the bike?Fucking cool, that’s how I’d look. Fucking cool.Graeme didn’t say anything along those lines. It wouldn’t do to tip his hand early during this round of negotiations. Instead, he pinned a scowl on his face worthy of his mother’s worst day as he walked past the bike, pretending not to notice it at first.
“Whoa.” He angled back, taking a couple of steps in reverse. “This thing? How much?” If the car had been the cheapest the man had at eight bills, then he’d be asking four for the bike. Well within Graeme’s budget, even if he had to rebuild much of it.
I’m handy enough. Plus it’s not like I don’t have resources.
