FICTION: LANDSICK / Ericka Lutz
Ericka Lutz sent in a veritable goldmine of amazing writing a few weeks back. It was one of the rare occurrences where we just mashed the “yes” button on all of them. We’ve already published one of Lutz’s poems in Issue 52 of The Racket Journal and let us tell you, there’s more to come. Before then though, the author was nice enough to record this dust-bitten piece of flash fiction. It’ll stuff grit in your teeth and salt in your eyes and you’ll be all the better for it. Give it a listen.
“Landsick”
by Ericka Lutz
At a Bucc-ee’s Gas past Tularosa, Salty sees a bleak-faced boy, bandage wrapped around his hand, press a paper plate against the window of a battered Chevy S10. On it, he’s written HEL. Does he mean HELL or HELLO or HELP? But the nozzle fuels Salty’s Winnebago and the paper plate disappears. The Chevy’s driver – a thick man in a baseball cap – reboards and peels out, boy inside.
“Did you see that?” Salty asks Patti, climbing back into the RV.
“Not my circus.” Patti plucks her brows, hummingbird eyes bright.
He married her fast back in August, mistaking humid air for love. Sold the boat, bought the ‘bago. Now they travel the desert tortoise-style, casino to casino.
“Stop!” Patti squeals. Ahead, THE LIGHTHOUSE. Happy wife, happy life, so Salty moors near the same battered S10 pickup. Inside the dark bar, at a far table, the man grips the child’s bandaged hand. The ground swells but Salty is distracted.
“Chuck,” Patti says to the cowboy bartender.
“Long time, Patti.”
Salty nudges her.
“Old friend.”
Cowboy Chuck sets ‘em up and comes to sit. Salty hears a scuffling behind them and the boy and man leave. Patti’s hand is on the cowboy’s knee.
Salty’s landsick. He staggers outside to piss. The S10 is still there but empty. The desert howls. He grabs the prybar from the Winnebago’s storage hatch.
Salty heads into the open darkness, voices in the distance, tumbleweeds like seaweed. Never turn your back on the ocean.
Ericka Lutz is a writer and book mentor living in the Bay Area.
