Crossroads

The evening had finally dawned and the crickets came out to play. The orange dust, large boulders and tall peak mountains had been simplified down to blackness and basic outlines. The roads were mostly quiet in the countryside of Arizona and it was peaceful, relaxing, and dangerous.

There had been reports of strange electricity problems out in the plains- reports of flickers of lightning in the road- but it had never been seen up in close but the religious summed it up as a Crossroad Summons; there was stories of a young lady who lost her husband in the Iraq war and tried to make a deal with the Crossroad demon but found herself going crazy and then vanished off the face of the earth.

A van filled of mostly drunk fools were racing through the countryside, far from cities, blaring their music out loud with hardly any care. It was their night of reckless fun. Inside the fools sang out loud to classical rock music by Guns an’ Roses until it made half of them cough violently, straining their voices.

One passenger was beginning to feel very sick after a large number of bottles of beer and from the continuous shakes from the vans as it jumped over the rocky roads. The sorrowful John O’Callaghan was suffering from loneliness after yet another failed relationship that drinking until paralytic with a bunch of strangers was acceptable.

John was wearing jeans he had no care for that had hole forming at the knees; he wore a rugged dark blue shirt with his chest tattoo visible and he had been wearing a leather coat which vanished within the overcrowded van and he was glad he was no longer wearing it because the night was strangely hotter- or maybe that was because he was in a van filled with drunk strangers with the windows only just opened.

He pressed his head against the back of the Driver’s seat and new found friend and designated driver, Robert, glanced back, laughing.

“How you holding out back there?” He laughed.

Robert was just a bit shorter than John was and had shaggy curly hair which was shaved on both sides and he described his hair cut as the ‘retarded version of a Mohawk’ because his head was shaved whilst passed out a few months ago; he had a rugged face with a distinctive button nose and childish, bright blue eyes; he dressed formally and a little old fashioned at the most.

A flash of lightning zipped in front of them and Robert stomped down on the breaks, causing everyone and everything in the van to fly forwards. Things remained still for a moment in the van.

“There’s a girl out there,” said Robert quietly.

John groaned as he clawed his way out from under the half-paralytic bodies. He squinted to look through screen of dust but couldn’t see well; he pulled open the door and stumbled out of the van. He got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his knees.

“Where?” he asked.

The blanket of dust fell to the ground and out stood a stunning beautiful angel, metaphorically, and yet there was something severely wrong with the way she dressed which caused John to laugh louder. Firstly, her hair was pitch black and curled and practically was moulded to her head; her face was pale with rouge lipstick and medium grey eye shadow; her dress was simple black which touched the floor with two black pointed shoes visibly poking out from underneath them; and on top, she wore a fur hem black coat.

“Good evenings, miss, are you lost?” John giggled, mocking her poshness.

“Well, yes, sir. Where is this?” She asked.

John was taken back a little. Was she for real or did she get the hint that he was laughing at her fashion?

“You’re in Arizona…” he said as the drinks were finally causing an effect on his mental age.

Robert jumped out from the van and joined John as they stared at the girl as she fidgeted on the spot, rubbing her hands.

“What’s your name, love?” asked Robert.

“Esther, Esther Browns, but you must call me Miss. Browns. And who are you’s two?” She asked, taking a step closer.

“I’m Robert Remington and this is John O’Callaghan, the great singer of The Maine, if you’ve heard them,” said Robert with a uplifting voice and taking giggling John by the shoulders. “He’s too drunk right now, sadly.”

“Oh… sorry, I have never heard of this- The Maine- nor Arizona. Is this still England?”

“Erm…” Robert was about to answer when John finally threw up to the side of the road.

Esther hurried over and stood worryingly to the side of him. She rested her hand on his back.

“I feel like I’m gunna die,” John groaned.

“Don’t be silly. By the morning, you’ll be back to normal and not acting like a little girl goggling over their crush.” She laughed.

“Thanks,” he groaned before yet another sea of yellow mixture of the day worth of food water-falling from his mouth.

“So, what year are from, Miss Browns?” laughed Robert.

“This year! 1940!”