Charles "Chip" Northrup is running from something
Charles "Chip" northrup sank down into the driver's seat and thumbed the lock. The echoing clicks of the passenger- and backdoors locking mixed in with the thrumming of the rain on the roof. Chip glanced out the passenger window at the motel lights, distorted somewhat by the rain.
It was 2:27, by the car clock, and he was heading out on the road again. That last motel had been almost decent. THe last one hadn't had towels in the bathroom and the sheets had been pocket-market with cigarette burns. Room 17 of the Watercreek Motel had not only had towels (small) and sheets (old), but a working television (channels 2 and 5 a snowy haze).
Although that last hadn't, in the end, been such a good thing: he'd stayed up watching the news, drinking some watered-down coffee he'd managed to coax from the sputtering coffee-machine by the bed, wishing he hadn't quit smoking last fall.
Chip leaned on the steering wheel, running his thumbs along the rim as he closed his eyes. His thoughts flickered through the exits he had to take, highways, mileage and gasoline estimates blinking against his eyelids. Chip eased his right hand along the wheel. The small car seemed to fill with the rhythm of the rain and the windshield-wippers rocked along.
He leaned back and tried to clear his mind just a little while. He'd meant to rest at the hotel, had had every intention of just taking the hottest shower the over-charging motel could offer and then offer himself up to unconsciousness for a few hours. But it'd been smack on nine o'clocck when he'd sat down to take off his shoes. He'd flipped on the TV for the headlines, arguing to himself that they only lasted a couple of minutes, and that'd been that.
Chip let his mind settle on the next exit, picturing himself in his car on his highlighted, circled, arrowed and sorely-used map. He listened to the rain and windshields for as long as he dared, before the urgency hit him again and, instead of soothing him, the pounding noise flooded the car and jump-started his nerves.
It didn't take too long: he had to keep moving.
Shouldn't have watched the damn headlines.
It was 2:27, by the car clock, and he was heading out on the road again. That last motel had been almost decent. THe last one hadn't had towels in the bathroom and the sheets had been pocket-market with cigarette burns. Room 17 of the Watercreek Motel had not only had towels (small) and sheets (old), but a working television (channels 2 and 5 a snowy haze).
Although that last hadn't, in the end, been such a good thing: he'd stayed up watching the news, drinking some watered-down coffee he'd managed to coax from the sputtering coffee-machine by the bed, wishing he hadn't quit smoking last fall.
Chip leaned on the steering wheel, running his thumbs along the rim as he closed his eyes. His thoughts flickered through the exits he had to take, highways, mileage and gasoline estimates blinking against his eyelids. Chip eased his right hand along the wheel. The small car seemed to fill with the rhythm of the rain and the windshield-wippers rocked along.
He leaned back and tried to clear his mind just a little while. He'd meant to rest at the hotel, had had every intention of just taking the hottest shower the over-charging motel could offer and then offer himself up to unconsciousness for a few hours. But it'd been smack on nine o'clocck when he'd sat down to take off his shoes. He'd flipped on the TV for the headlines, arguing to himself that they only lasted a couple of minutes, and that'd been that.
Chip let his mind settle on the next exit, picturing himself in his car on his highlighted, circled, arrowed and sorely-used map. He listened to the rain and windshields for as long as he dared, before the urgency hit him again and, instead of soothing him, the pounding noise flooded the car and jump-started his nerves.
It didn't take too long: he had to keep moving.
Shouldn't have watched the damn headlines.