Godzilla's Night Off

That was just great. The rental had broken down in the middle of the storm and of nowhere.

He cursed his brother’s idea of renting that ranch to spend their ‘creative break’ away from spotlights and paparazzi. But he cursed louder his own idea of renting a car at Fargo airport, instead of taking a bus and meeting his brother at the bus station near the goddamn ranch.

He checked his phone again, in case a stray miracle had given it back any coverage. Damn. It was as dead as it’d been since he’d driven deeper into the countryside and the storm. He looked out the windshield, but it was pouring so hard, he could’ve had frigging Godzilla right in front of the car and he wouldn’t see it.

However, he was pretty sure he’d spotted lights up ahead before the damn car broke down, when the wipers still worked. According to his brother’s directions, that should be the bus station ten miles south of the town near the ranch.

He had no way to know how far it was, and the wisest thing to do was hunker down in the car for the night. But that implied linking the word wise to his name before Doomsday. And the river he’d just crossed looked like considering to top the banks. A flash flood washing him and the car away wasn’t exactly what he called a good plan.

At least he could congratulate himself for wearing his hiking boots, and the thick waterproof jacket he’d bought in Iceland when they were shooting Extremer’s video the year before.

His fingers closed around the handles of his duffel bag on the passenger’s seat. He emptied his chest with an annoyed snort and opened the car door, ready to sink his foot in the mud of the shoulder. The wind pushed the door against his leg, and he needed a little struggle to get out of the car. He didn’t even bother to lock it. If someone was out in that hideous night to hijack a broken car, they could totally have it.

He hung the bag from his shoulder, pushed the jacket hood down to his eyes and started walking, leaning forward to fight the push of the storm. He needed to shield his eyes with both hands in order to look further than his next step. Yup, the lights were there. Further than expected, but definitely there, promising shelter from that literal hell of a night.

Keeping his pace helped him warm up, even when his jeans turned into a frozen, heavy, hard thing squeezing his legs. He lost track of time as he labored his way toward the lights. Getting close enough to outline the station building felt like quite a feat, even though it was still too far for the cold, the exhaustion, the exasperation about finding himself in such an absurd trouble.

All of a sudden, he reached a detour and the road that led straight to the station. Now that he could see the building clearly, he noticed there were no vehicles parked outside. For a dreadful moment, he feared he’d find the building closed and locked.

To hell with that. He would break a door or a window and get in anyway. They could sue him, for all he cared. He wouldn’t spend a single minute longer out in the storm. His determination took him to the main access with firm strides.

Expecting the glass doors to be locked, he tried to yank them open. And almost smashed his face against the glass, ‘cause they weren’t locked and opened wide. As soon as he stepped into the entrance hall, he paused to catch his breath and enjoy the break from the howling wind.

The restroom sign called him like a siren, and a moment later he dropped himself sitting on the cold floor tiles of the gents’ by his duffel bag. An old guy was cleaning the place, and paused to flash a welcoming smile at him.

He managed a quick smile back and turned to fish through his bag, hearing the man hum some Sinatra tune as he resumed his cleaning.

The thick Icelandic jacket had kept him dry from his waist up, so he only needed to change jeans, socks and shoes. Before he could even come up with the idea, the old man handed him a plastic bag for his wet clothes.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

The old man smiled again and pushed his cart out. He lingered in the restroom, now sparkling clean and smelling of lemon, rubbing his wet hair with his hand towel before putting his baseball cap on.

He checked his phone just in case. Nothing, of course. The time caught his attention. It’d taken him almost three hours to get there? Damn! No wonder his knees felt weak.

A sound distracted him. It came from the hall. He reached out to open the door a few inches. Somebody was playing a guitar out there, singing in whispers. A woman, a girl. What was she playing? Didn’t it ring a bell?

His curiosity was enough to push him to his feet and up to the door. A smirk pursed his thin lips. Of course he knew the damn song. He crouched down to zip up his bag, shaking his head. Nice moment to come across a fan. The last thing he needed was signing autographs.

Back to the door, he glanced out at the hall. The singing girl was out of sight. Perfect. He crossed the hall in two quick steps and walked into the waiting room.

He almost registered the family playing cards in the seating area. His eyes were drawn to the couch at the other end of the room. He could rest there, maybe even get some shuteye. The storm wouldn’t last much longer. It’d surely clear by dawn. In the morning he’d call his brother to come pick him up and take him the hell away from there.

Another duffel bag and a rucksack sat on one of the armchairs, so he left his bag on the other one. The couch cushions were old and hard, but they felt like heaven after his walk in the storm. His jacket was still dripping and he had nothing else to cover himself, so he just folded his arms to slide his hands under his armpits, lay back face to the couch and curled up his legs.

He thought he’d seen a coffee machine outside the restroom. A coffee would be nice. In a minute, he thought, closing his eyes.