The Buchanan Book of the Dead

Our entire town smelled like dead fish and old cooking oil, and that was on a good day. Every day I went to work, and every day at work I contributed to the town’s smell and even added a few of my own. But that’s the way it was—we were all cooking or attending gas stations or gift shops. Because in a tourist town, that’s just what you do.

At times, generally late at night, while drinking beer and smoking cigarettes in someone’s backyard, we’d get this idea to leave town—hell, leave Texas while we were at it. These ideas never really seemed so great. First, going east meant Louisiana at the soonest and Florida at the latest. I’d heard of cool times in Florida, Orlando, or Daytona, but I’d heard of it all. The shit times in between and Louisiana? Well, I’d been to New Orleans a few times: big things like Mardis Gras and Jazz Fest. But no matter how many beers we drank, how many cigarettes we smoked, or how many nights after work we discussed this stuff, going east seemed an awful lot like cooking food, serving tourists, pumping gas, or selling postcards. In short, any town, any place east, just seemed like we’d be better off to stay put even if it sucked, and it did.

Liz came from San Antonio, or some such similar place. She had left a very religious family and a very religious university over in Abilene before coming our way for the summer. She bought an old Chinook RV and stayed at the state park, which I thought was pretty cool. She made lemonade and worked the counter where I fried fish and mopped floors. We all knew one another by first name and where you worked. For instance, she was Liz from Coney’s Best, like I was Dave from Coney’s Best. There was Lizzy from 31 Flavors and Lissett from Arby’s, and all the other places had at least one Dave or David or Davy. We Daves were nothing special.

A common platitude was keep your pennies, the saving of money and an escape to elsewhere. Some people thought Dallas or Houston may be the way to go. Like there was really anything out there worthwhile. 

So, there we were. It was nearing midnight, and finally a cool breeze came. We were at Davy’s house, Davy from Scoop’s Inc. I liked Davy because he never let you say no to beer, any beer, and he always had whiskey for his guests. The whiskey never did me any favors, but I drank it anyway. Davy had a horseshoe pit in his backyard.

So, when Liz showed up, I was naturally surprised. She hadn’t worked that day, and it made no sense for her to be at the after-work party.

“Whatsup?” I said.

“Dave,” she said. “What’re y’all doing here?”

“After-work party,” I said.

“I came with Jules,” she said. “How was work?”

“Slow,” I said. “Jules who?”

“Jules from Corner Antiques,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. I moved a little closer to the horseshoe pit. “See ya,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said.

It was refreshing to see her outside of work. After all, she wasn’t wearing a uniform or part of a uniform like the rest of us.

For the two or three hours the party went on, we kept the other in sight and made eye contact a bunch of times.

When things were splitting up, I went up to her. “Hey, y’all want some pie?” I asked.

“Pie?” she said.

“Yeah, over at the diner.”

“Pie,” she said. “Yeah, sure.”

She said goodbye to Jules, and we walked through Davy’s neighborhood up to 287. I lived a few blocks on the other side. I rented a room from an old manager who left Coney’s Best to deliver pizzas. He liked speed, and he came and went a lot. He always thanked me profusely for the rent money, which I always paid in cash and on time. I figured Liz had left her Chinook at the park.

Once we were in the diner, the air conditioner at once relieved me and made me sick. We sat in a corner booth that had a view of the grease trap and dumpster on one side and the chipped parking lot on the other.

Liz pushed her purse into the booth and slid in next to it. She topped the table with her box of smokes and her lighter. I did the same.

She picked up the table tent and started to flip through the pages. “Frozen drinks, appetizers, daily specials, here we go,” she said. “Pie.”

“What kind they got?”

“I’m getting peanut butter chocolate and coffee,” she said. She handed me the table tent. “What about you?”

“Maple pecan,” I said, not looking at the menu. “And coffee.”

When the coffee came, Liz lit a smoke. I did too. “You going back to school?” I asked.

“Eventually,” she said. “You?”

“Naw, I never went in the first place.”

“I haven’t told my parents yet.”

“What?” I asked.

“That I’m not going back to school.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Or church,” she said.“Or home for that matter.”

“Shit,” I said. “That ain’t gonna be easy.” I meant that. Telling your parents big things can never be easy. You can’t tell your parents that you’re vegan or democrat or gay and figure on a somewhat positive reaction. But those things are not bad things to tell your parents. Your parents should love you even if you believe in the ethical treatment of animals. Telling your parents that you dropped out of college, ran away from the church, and have no interest in seeing them again is liable to get you whipped or shot or arrested or any combination of the three.

“I don’t plan on saying anything,” she said.

“What do you plan on doing?” I asked. The pie came—peanut butter chocolate for her and maple pecan for me.

“You know where 287 goes?”

“No,” I said.

“Canada,” she said.

“No foolin’,” I said.

“Sure, by way of big and small towns in Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana.”

“Whatcha’ll looking for?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve been reading,” she said. “You ever read, Dave?”

“I’ve been known to read, but I don’t make a sport of it.”

“I got The Buchanan Book of the Dead,” she said.

“Buchanan?” I asked.

“James Buchanan”, she said “fifteenth president of the United States of America. James Buchanan.”

“Oh,” I said. “Of course. What did he do?”

“As close as I can tell, he didn’t do much.”

“Wrote a dead book.”

“Book of the Dead,” she said.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means that I can’t ever go back to the church, and I can never go home again.”

“Powerful book,” I said. “So whatcha going to do?”

“At the end of August, I’m going north on 287.”

“That right?” I asked. “All the way to Canada?”

“If I have to,” she said. She took a final bite of her half-eaten pie and slid the dish with most of the crust still intact all the way to the end of the table. She pulled the ashtray closer. She lit another cigarette. “I promised myself that I’d come here, get a job, and work all summer,” she said. “When it’s time for school, I’m leaving.”

“Fourth of July is next week,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say, and I don’t know why I said it.

“I got about eight weeks,” she said.

“What did James Buchanan know?” I asked. I took too long of a sip of the coffee and felt a nut skin get dislodged from my teeth.

“Well,” she said. “He knew almost everyone was dead, even if they had a pulse. He knew that looking forward would right itself. There’s a belief in a certain level of hedonism.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Lots of food and booze and a copious amount of sex,” she said.

“I’m on board with that,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “It’s like this. I’m leaving in eight weeks. If you have the same amount of money as I got and you read the book, you can come with me.”

“To Canada?” I said.

“Just north,” she said.

“Lots of food and booze?” I asked.

“And a copious amount of sex,” she said.

“All I gotta do is have the same amount of money as you?” I asked.

“Yeah, we gotta go in on this financially equal so neither of us can dominate the other. We won’t make any decisions, the road will. But you gotta read the book.”

“Okay,” I said. “How long is it?”

“Like 500 or 600 pages maybe.”

“Oh,” I said. I hadn’t read that many pages in my entire life, and that counts the picture books when I was a baby. “You think I’ll understand it?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said.

“Well, can I borrow your copy?” I asked.

“I’m not done with mine yet.”

“Where do I get one?”

“I got mine at the army surplus store up in Galveston,” she said.

“Galveston?” I asked. I’d heard of this place only because Ted from Poppies Fine Dining said you could buy a helicopter there if you had the money and knew what your were doing. “How much money do I gotta save?”

“I almost got three grand,” she said.

“Three grand and a 600-page book?” 

“That’s right,” she said. “It’ll be worth it.”

I looked from her eyes to her chin and then to her neck. “I’m sure it will be.” I looked back from her neck to her eyes. “You’ve saved three grand already?”

“Yeah, I hope to have six or seven at the end of the summer.”

“Who else have you made this offer to?” I asked.

“You mean to whom have I made this offer?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. I was unsure if she asked in earnest or if she was correcting me.

“Jules,” she said.

“Is Jules going to do it?” I asked. What I wanted to know, of course, is if she was going to do Jules.

“Yeah,” she said.

* * *

On Wednesday, my next day off, I borrowed my roommate’s car. He let me have it without a fuss. He’d been driving all day anyway, ferrying pizza and crank, and was ready to be done with it.. He was always kind of trusting and was paranoid as hell. On his days off, he never left the house.

“When do you work again?” he asked as I was taking the car keys out of his hand.

“Friday,” I said.

“Oh, me too. What time?”

“Three,” I said.

“I work at five,” he said. “Listen, take your time. Stay overnight.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, absolutely. There’s no hurry, I insist.”

* * *

I avoided Steve at the BP station. I waited to pay until there was a great big line forming. He would not be able to talk to me outside of the normal pleasantries.

I bought a coffee, a box of smokes, and some beef jerky.

When I got onto 287, I thought about the road ahead and how long it would take to get to Canada. I couldn’t even imagine getting out of Texas on 287.

In Galveston, I checked the road map. Route 287 did indeed go from Port Arthur to Canada. It was not the romantic idea like Highway 66, and I knew that by just seeing the towns that 287 went through. All those towns had to smell like dead fish or burned oil. Or, at the very least, they had to smell like shit. The Texas towns, anyway. I’d never been north of Oklahoma. 

I rented a room at a small motel.

I hadn’t made it to Galveston before the army surplus store closed. There was no hurry, as my roommate said. I had all day tomorrow, and he was more than happy that I wasn’t in the house.

I drank a six pack of beer, smoked a box of cigarettes, and a lackluster experience masturbating. 

The next morning, I woke and ate a paltry continental breakfast. It did nothing for my hangover. I had time enough for a second breakfast before the army surplus store opened.

I ate a Denver omelet.

I sat in the parking lot listening to 104.5 FM and thinking about whom I’d have copious amounts of sex with first—Liz or Jules. And as I couldn’t decide, I figured they would be having copious amounts of sex with each other, and seeing that just might make the reading of 600 pages of The Buchanan Book of the Dead worthwhile.

When the shop opened, I sat still and lit a smoke. I didn’t need to be the first one in the store. But as I sat there, I realized I probably would be. The cigarette was magnifying my hangover, and no amount of Denver omelets would make it any better.

I sat on the curb in front of the army surplus store. I felt queasy and, on every other breath, thought I was going to puke. I reasoned it was only the last beer that had done it to me, and not the five before it. I was already trying for lots and lots of booze to gain my position in James Buchanan’s good graces.

I stood up slowly, but it was too fast. I resisted the urge to puke and instead of going inside the store, I went for a long walk instead. I sang quietly “copious amounts of sex,” breathing each syllable as a heel hit the sidewalk.

After three trips around the block, I felt better and hoped that the AC in the store was cranked up to refrigerator setting 5.

* * *

I wandered the aisles in the dim light. There were all sorts of bins, each one holding an article of clothing or a piece of equipment. I searched the store, and there were no helicopters and no books.

A silver haired woman stood behind the knife case as I approached. “Hello,” I said.

“Kin I halp you?” She said it like she didn’t really want to help, which was no different from the way most people say it.

“Y’all got books here?” I asked.

“Books?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“We got some books,” she said. She walked around the counter and started to walk away. I started to follow, but in my tragic condition, could not keep up. 

“Here we go,” she said and pointed to a shelf of books. It was more like a magazine rack, and the books were mostly magazines and ancient-looking army field manuals.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m looking for a book. A book book.”

“Oh,” she said. “Whatcha’ll looking for?”

“Um . . .” I was unsure how to begin this conversation.

“Well?” she said. “What is it?”

“The Buchanan Book of the Dead,” I said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

“The Buchanan Book of the Dead,” I said again.

“Like the president?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s right, James Buchanan. Fifteenth president.”

“The Buchanan Book of the Dead?” she asked.

“I know it’s here,” I said.

“Do you now?”

“It has to be,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t,” she said.

“Liz said it was here. It’s 500 or 600 pages. If I read it, I get to go with her.”

“I’m sorry, son. I ain’t got no Buchanan Book of the Dead.”

“Lots of food and booze,” I said.

“I don’t think there is such a book,” she said.

“What about the copious amounts of sex?” I said.

“James Buchanan?” she asked.

“Did you know 287 goes all the way to the Canadian border?” 

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

“Is there anyone else here who might know this book?” I asked.

“I do all the buying here. I’m not saying your book of the dead don’t exist. It just isn’t here.”

“How about another army surplus store in town. Is there another army surplus store in Galveston?” I asked.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “Houston, maybe. But I think you’ve been—”

“But the copious—” 

“Pranked,” she said. “Can I help you find anything else?” This time she sounded much less sincere.

“No,” I said. “I’ll just look through these.” She walked away before I finished talking.

I felt heat coming from my body. I had a little of the antiseptic smell I’d picked up from the motel room. I had that stale-cigarettes-and-too-many-beers-last-night smell. I smelled a little like puke, which I took as either chewy bagels and cream cheese or the oil-soaked Denver omelet.

I sighed.

There was a smell a little more faint coming off me that I began to recognize. It was the smell of Coney’s Best. It was dead fish and old cooking oil. It was the smell that a road trip to the Canadian border or lots of food and booze and a copious amount of sex could not mask. It was the smell of someone never reading the 600 pages of The Buchanan Book of the Dead. 

It was a hangdog drive home, partly because of the hangover, partly because of the army surplus store and the “I do all the buying, son, you been pranked, kin I halp you” still ringing in my head. The truth was, the drive home wasn’t very far, not at least by Texas standards, and I was starting to think that a road trip, any road trip, was going to do right by me. I wasn’t sure that a road trip alone was going to be better than one with Liz and possible Jules. 

My roommate was home when I rolled up. All the blinds were drawn, and there he was looking through a couple of chinks, the house behind his small peep darkened. I stood there, dumb. It wasn’t but mid-afternoon, Thursday, and going into the house was likely a bad thing. My roommate got to going sometimes about things that made little sense. He talked about how the government was purposely setting fires or causing other disasters in order to rebuild cities. He was sure that chemtrails were making us all democrats and the chemicals they put on crops were making people asexual. I never had the nerve to tell him that he voted for Sheriff Stephens, and she has always been a democrat, nor did I point out to him that I’d never known him to have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or a one-night fling. I just stood there and looked at the small peep from the blinds and knew I couldn’t go inside.

Instead I walked up to Coney’s Best. 

“Hey, Dave,” Liz said. I knew she’d be at work. “Whatcha’ll up to?”

“I went to Galveston. Just got back. I met the buyer at the army surplus store,” I said.

“Whatcha’ll doing in there?”

“The Buchanan Book of the Dead,” I said.

“The Buchanan Book of the Dead,” she said. “Didn’t you find it?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, I’d loan you my copy,” she said.

“I know, I know, but you’re not done with it.”

“I’d loan you mine, you know, if I had a copy.”

“Does Jules have it?” I asked. I had that flash of jealousy that Jules was reading the 500 or 600 pages and that she was well on her way to saving the money, and she was going to get the food and booze and copious amounts of sex before me.

“No,” she said. “There isn’t one.”

“So, Jules doesn’t have it?” I asked.

“No, Dave. There isn’t The Buchanan Book of the Dead.”

“Fifteenth president,” I said, my voice cracked. I would ordinarily be embarrassed by a voice crack, but I suddenly had no interest in impressing Liz. I took a look around Coney’s Best. There wasn’t a soul in the place. “This is a nice shift, though. Where is everybody?”

“I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t think you took me seriously.”

“Copious amounts of sex.” I couldn’t believe I’d taken her seriously.

“Not going to happen,” she said.

“Well, see y’all later,” I said.

“Dave?” she called. I had already walked from the counter that separated us. I turned to face her, but I didn’t look at her.

“You still going up north?” I asked.

“North?” she said. “Well, I don’t know.”

“Fifteenth president,” I said.

“Where you off to?” she asked.

“I guess I’m going home. I could use a shower.”