Smoke and Pine-Sol

CW: Substance abuse, mental health

We passed another dilapidated adobe building (this one’s roof had caved in) as we made our way to Portales, New Mexico. The result of pointing to a spot on the map with my eyes shut. It didn’t matter where my finger landed. I just wanted to get as far away from Garland, Texas as possible.

I brought a Louis L’Amour novel, but my dad’s incessant throat clearing made me want to throw the book at him rather than read it.

Why on earth did I get in the budget airport rental with this man? Well, despite simulating a sham 15th-century explorer’s decision making process, I’m not completely crazy. I wanted to see Eastern New Mexico University before attending.

Being on the road with him isn’t all bad. We’ve hit the blacktop many times since I was a little boy. Normally, we’re towing a 97 Ranger on our way to some east Texas bass fishing mecca, pan-fried meaty greatness permeating the truck cabin, overtaking the ever-present beer and bait air freshener.

I have two brothers, but this trip was like all the others, just me and him.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one thinking about those bacon and egg roll-up fueled mornings. My dad chuckled, in the way a father recalls a parenting decision gone wrong, and said, “Hey, remember that trip to Toledo Bend—”

How could I forget the time you left a twelve-year-old to find his way back to a campsite on Texas’ largest, stump-infested freshwater lake.

“—I was so worried you hit a stump and sank the boat.”

Sinking the boat, that was my worry too. I snorted and laughed all in one breath and said, “Yeah, still not sure how I found my way back to the boat ramp.”

He chuckled again, but nothing more was said of Toledo Bend. That’s how most of our conversations went these days. Two or three sentences at most. More throaty silence breakers than words.

Daylight broke as we meandered through the quaint city center of Portales. Clouds blanketed the sleepy town making it resemble a barren alien landscape.

I was quickly reminded our no-smoking-car unmistakably reeked of smoke and Pine-Sol but I also caught a whiff of that familial beer and bait stank.

I tried the radio to distract myself, but only found white noise. Each station had a slightly varied tone and pitch of static hum. These aliens either have a peculiar taste in music or are too out there for music.

The no-name motel’s check-in wasn’t until the afternoon but Portales was in the rearview mirror before we could consider how to kill time (little did we know that someone had solved that problem for us), to the university campus it was. Some fresh air would be copacetic.

The college campus was sparse but its Collegiate Gothic facade gave me the impression of Cambridge, Massachusetts. I admired it as we stretched out our bodies after the long drive. Maybe my finger was on to something.

I caught my dad massaging his hands trying to subdue a subtle tremor that developed over the drive.

He noticed me watching and with a smile he said, “These old hands can’t handle a long drive like they used to.”

I chuckled and said, “Walking around will help.”

Before we could get to that walk, we were distracted by a faint rumble in the distance. A Humvee like in the movies (even a soldier dressed in combat fatigues occupied the machine gun) darted from behind a building and swerved around the corner clipping the curb at the campus entrance. Another Humvee, a couple behemoth trucks loaded with soldiers, and a freaking tank all thundered into the parking lot.

A stocky man jumped out of the Humvee before it came to stop. He carried a megaphone and immediately put it to his lips.

“Residents,” he paused a moment knowing that the ruckus of army vehicles, especially the machine gun like clanging of the tank’s metal tracks against the asphalt, seized everyone’s attention but needed to give them time to find him.

He continued, “I am Lieutenant Colonel Everest J Banks. We are here to take over the premises and evacuate all nonmilitary people under directive of federal and state orders.”

Someone from behind us shakily shouted, “What’s going on?!”

Another, more sternly, said “You can’t just take over!”

Lt Col Banks ignored them and said, “Before we can evacuate you, you will be subjected to a quick exam by our medical team.”

A few soldiers jumped out of the lead truck and started setting up a makeshift tent. Others followed them and began unpacking the trucks contents. I spotted large crates stamped with Property of US Army and a few boxes with medical symbols before the hoisted tent obstructed our view.

A small group had inched their way near us to the edge of the parking lot and a blonde, curly-haired woman within them bellowed “You have no right to examine me!”

My dad even joined in and yelled, “Yeah, this is bullshit!”

“Ready sir!” said one of the soldiers that had been unloading the truck.

Another soldier ducked out of the tent, pointed to the group next to us, and barked out, “Let’s start with them.”

The whole event had me in a trance, but the soldiers jogging in our direction and the hard SMACK, SMACK, SMACK of their boots against the pavement woke me up.

One soldier, not much older than me, swung around the group to our right, began directing them forward with his hands, and said “Let’s go folks. Move. Move ahead.”

The other soldier had the beginnings of a beard covering his face that made him appear older. He circled around our car and herded us in with the group but didn’t say a word.

They formed us into lines at the tent and separated the men from the women.

From my spot in line, I watched as the blond, curly-haired woman was dragged into the tent by the arm, screaming, “You can’t make me do this!”

It was my Dad’s turn. The soldier on the other side of the table simply said, “name?”

My dad didn’t answer. The soldier looked up and gruffly repeated himself, “name?”

“Andrew Whittaker. My…my son is with me.”

“What’s your son’s name?”

“Jeremy—” He shook his head and said, “—no, no, sorry that’s my other son—”

“What’s your name kid?”

Kid. He looked my age or not far off. “Jake…Jake Whittaker.”

He tore off a couple sheets of paper, handed them to us, and said, “Take these into the tent and await further instruction.”

My sheet had Jeremy scrawled out followed by Jake Whittaker.

Entering the tent was like entering another world. Some soldiers scurried around helping those that were examining people. I noticed the blonde, curly-haired woman was being examined and was handed something. I overheard him call her Jane. She appeared to read it, then said, “What the hell does burner mean?” before they ushered her out the back flap of the tent.

A soldier approached us and said, “What the hell, one at a time, get back—”

My dad cut him off saying, “He’s my son. I would like to stay together.”

Another soldier behind a table said, “It’s alright private. You two come over here and put out your hands.”

We followed his orders. The soldier behind the table stood up, briefly looked them over, and said, “papers?”

He scribbled something on my dad’s slip, raised it behind him, and said over his shoulder, “Got a shaker here.”

One of his lackeys took the paper and replaced it with a band. Then he fastened it on my dad’s wrist using a pair of pliers to cinch down a metal clasp. It looked like the band a patient at a hospital would wear, the kind that can’t be removed easily.

My dad stared at his new jewelry a moment then said, “The heck is shaker?”

“You and your boy head out that flap.” He pointed in the direction Jane went and said, “You’ll learn more there.” Then he shouted, “Next!”

We left army world and approached a group of people wearing similar bands as my dad. Jane was among them and we locked eyes for a moment.

After standing around for a minute or two, a head popped out of a Humvee and headed our direction. It was Lt Col Banks again.

As he approached, Jane said, “Hey! Mustache! what are we doing here?” The bullhorn he used earlier had concealed a bushy mustache on his face.

Someone else followed her up saying, “What’s with the arm bands?”

He put his hands up in a friendly gesture and said, “I know, you all have lots of questions. All I can tell you at this time is that we’re under attack by an unknown civilization that appears to be alien.”

He paused but the crowd was silenced. The man next to me held a hand over his open mouth. He was banded a drowner.

“Their attacks aren’t your typical bullets or missiles. They appear to be attacking telepathically. So far we know that some people think they’re experiencing earthquakes, others drowning, some even think they’re on fire. Some of you appear to be in the earthquake category. It starts as a tremor but can escalate into much more.”

Everyone remained quiet. One woman even backed away slowly, shaking her head.

“At this time you should go home and await further instructions.”

Part of the group started to scatter but stopped when an older man in the group said, “Wait. You’re not going to monitor us? What are we supposed to do?”

“It’s psychological. It isn’t real. Go home.”

Lt Col Banks strode back to the Humvee where a man waited holding a rotary telephone out for him. He snatched the phone as he ducked into the Humvee and it sped away towards the campus administration building. I wondered if this was happening in Cambridge as well.

Most people started to leave campus. Others stood by, paralyzed by the situation. We were somewhere in the middle. Going home wasn’t an option for us and we couldn’t stay, the dystopian riff of Closing Time by Semisonic.

Dad finally said, “I guess that’s our cue to go check in at the motel.”

The only coherent word I came up with in response was, “Okay.” Our flight home was still a couple of days away and if it weren’t for the fantastical military occupation, I would have thought the campus tour was on for tomorrow.

Why don’t I have symptoms? What alien invasion?

“But you oughta drive, son.”

I don’t know about the others, but the shaking was nothing new for my Dad. It hadn’t stopped him from driving before. I distinctly remember shoving an empty beer bottle in the glove box a time or two.

“Oh, that’s right. How’s it shaking?”

He raised his hand and we watched it dance. Then we made our way to the car.

On our way off campus, my dad pointed ahead of us and said, “look.”

He pointed at Jane. She was rolling back and forth on the ground, frantically patting her hair, her pants. The scent of smoke and Pine-Sol suddenly hit me again.

We stared as I drove by but didn’t speak another word to each other. It was the first time I thought maybe this is all real. Is dad going to be okay?

Not far from the motel we spotted a gas station. It was decorated with the usual neon lights and cardboard cut outs to lure people in. But this one had something else that stood out. A white sign scrawled with MEDICINE FOR SHAKER, BURNER, SPLASHER in thick black marker.

We weren’t the only ones to notice the improvised sign. Cars and trucks were coming and going, people honking and shouting.

Dad said, “Let’s pull in.”

The shake had advanced from his hands to his upper body now. It was as if he had caught a cold and couldn’t get warm.

“Here’s some cash. Go buy some.”

“Will they sell it to me?”

“Just tell them it’s for me.”

I walked in, a bell jingled above me, and I asked for the shaker medicine, “For my dad.”

The woman behind the counter, studied me, than raised a hand and said, “Mateo, shaker up front.”

Mateo approached with a set of shiny, unlabeled aluminum cans. It looked like a prop from a Star Wars set. But the prop was heavy and liquid sploshed around inside. It was real.

The woman was barely taller than the counter she stood behind. She put a hand on the cans and said, “Shaker medicine.” Her eyes questioned mine.

I repeated, “For my dad.”

She hesitated, then said, “Shaker medicine not restricted.”

I paid and we left for the motel. Shaker medicine in hand.

The motel did have a name after all, but it wasn’t worth repeating. My dad checked us in. I had enough of the locals after the medicine run.

The room had just one queen sized bed, it was cheaper than the double bed option, and either the rental car’s smell was burned into my senses or they used the same cleaner. At least it was clean.

I sat down on the bed and turned on the TV and found the local news station. It was the weatherman’s segment. Hearing the weather report was our version of deep breathing or classical music, it soothed us, connected us and suddenly we were talking fishing.

“Looks like a great day to be on the water,” said Dad.

“Would rather be there than here, that’s for sure.”

But a red banner at the bottom of the screen scrolled SHAKER, BURNER, AND SPLASHER, among other words, appearing from the right, disappearing to the left, and reminded us of our reality.

Dad sat down on the other side of the bed and listened to the weatherman.

I stopped listening and discretely watched my dad instead. It was the first time that I believed that something was wrong.

I covertly raised my hand enough to be off the bed but not above my leg. It was still.

There were no strange lights in the sky, no whirring helicopter blades or airplane, no explosions or gun fire, but sitting there on the bed I felt a mild tremor, shaking, like a car passing over train tracks.

I moved to a chair in the corner of the room that sat next to a table with the untouched shaker medicine, concealed by a black plastic bag. Dad was napping on the bed, the only escape from his impairment. I found a channel on the TV showing reruns of Home Improvement. No further news or instructions came about the alien invasion.

Night fell upon the motel. Looking out the prime parking lot view window I saw a glow on the horizon that I didn’t remember seeing before.

The parking lot was poorly lit and made it difficult to see what if anything was out there. Was something out there?

The wind whistled and brush scraped against the ground outside. The lone light pole in the lot stiffly wobbled with each gust. Shadows seemed to move.

My forearms grew minuscule mounds and the hairs stood erect.

I squinted my eyes and scanned the terrain outside.

A CLACK, CLACK, CLACK startled me and I whipped around to see my dad sitting up in bed.

He said, “I-I ne-e-d bath,” as the headboard knocked the wall behind it.

He climbed off the bed and attempted to walk but his legs toppled him into me. Using me as a crutch, we wobbled towards the bathroom.

“Th-that’s far e-enough,” he said. I helped him to the ground and he crawled the rest of the way.

Those few minutes waiting dragged on. I heard a couple bangs but nothing unusual. Could he have fallen?

Then I thought about fishing. When I was a little boy, I thought every tick of the line was a fish biting. I got so upset when it wasn’t. I would ask my dad how you know it’s a bite and not a tree or a bush in the water. His answer was always the same. You’ll just know.

After a few more minutes I heard the flush of the toilet. He crawled out of the bathroom and back to bed. We placed a pillow behind the headboard to quiet the impact of it against the wall.

“Th-the medicine.”

His tremor had progressed to the point where he couldn’t walk. How the heck was he going to drink it?

There were a couple of unused cups wrapped in plastic. I poured some of the can into one. It almost looked like liquid gold. The smell of it was awfully familiar. Like the smell of the glove box.

I put the plastic cup to dad’s lips and he gulped down a little at a time.

But the shaking only intensified.

It came time for another trip to the bathroom. Walking him to the bathroom is what I imagined it was like to work with a jackhammer.

When we neared the bathroom, the shaking took on another magnitude. He tried to steady himself on the dresser and tried to take a step. I looked into his eyes but only saw the whites and his body began to topple.

I caught him just enough to stop him from crashing to the floor but to the floor he still went. Saliva foamed from his lips as he convulsed on his side.

I ran out the door and screamed for help.

Smoke and Pine-Sol was all I left Portales with. Not another soul was on the road. No music played on the radio. I never thought I would miss dad clearing his throat. The doctor told me the shaker medicine might be what saved his life. I just hoped I get to hear it again.