A Toast To David Carradine
They were late so I thought I'd get some reading done.
I took out my paperback, read the epigraph, The future belongs to crowds, and took off my coat so I could get comfortable. But then I got the nagging feeling the lighting was better on the other side of the booth. The future belongs to… Closer to the entrance, I caught a pretty cool draft and slipped back into my winter jacket. Wondering how much time had passed, I took out my phone. The future belongs… After checking my messages and putting my phone away, I realized I'd forgotten the hour. I toggled to the other side of the booth once again and eventually I found a much more comfortable position curating the built-up scores of tabs in Firefox as I skimmed five articles about that recent death cloud in Ohio and X-ed out two more on Erdogan's paltry response to the earthquake the previous month. Soon I was on Twitter or X or whatever, wondering, with growing levels of disgust, whether the meme of the Secretary of Transportation dressed as Bob the Builder would be dated by the time I crosspost it to Instagram. I planted my phone on the table. The future...
“Tim!”
“Hey, uh, Chase,” I said. My coat fell under the booth. I ducked to get it.
“Whatchoo doin down there? C'mon, gimme some love.”
We hugged and they apologized for making me wait.
“Nah, it's cool.” I sat on my backpack and put the novel inside. Slid a menu over. “Gave me a chance to catch up on some light reading.”
“Anything good?”
“Not really. Just, the world's ending.”
“Nostradamus? That's your book?”
I brought out the paperback again.
“Looks cool.”
“Does. Haven't started it yet.”
I held up my Samsung.
“Ah, that end of the world. All the Chinese spy-balloon UFO hullabaloo?”
“That train derailment in Ohio,” I said. “Turns out it's a bad idea to use Civil War technology to transport toxic waste across the country.”
“Oh yeah, that. Who'da thunk. What a mess.”
“A real trainwreck.”
“Why you never got into standup, Tim.”
“For one, I'm not very funny.”
“Well, fortunately or unfortunately, that's not a prerequisite to being a comedian nowadays. But no,” they said. “I have to confess I haven't really been following it too much. The rail disaster. I mean, it's just a few states over, but it's like. Every time I open my feed--”
“It's like one goddam trainwreck after another.”
“Yes! Right? Exactly. Like, how are people even supposed to keep up? Do they? I was just thinking that on the drive over. This morning when I left home—”
“Gotta have a super human attention span just to keep abreast—I mean, stay up-to-date with even a fraction of it.”
“Or like,” they said, “I don't know. As I was leaving—I mean, right now, I bet Mom's still in the living room with MSNBC and Donnie's out in the garage blasting Tucker's latest two-minute hate-rant or whatever. And, it's like, every single thing they're talking about is the most important thing that has ever happened to anyone. And like, what do they expect you to do about any of it? I mean, paying attention gets you what? Not to downplay anyone's suffering, but--”
“Same. My mom's been fuckin glued to the set since,” I tried to remember. “Nine-eleven maybe?”
“Nine eleven, now there's a deep cut.”
“Yeah, right? Nine-eleven low-key fell off.”
“And people said they'd Never Forget.”
One of the few people who could consistently make me laugh. Naturally I kept this to myself.
I said, “I think the media is the one who mostly downplays the suffering.”
“Yeah,” they yawned. “Sorry. I mean, yeah. For real.”
“But mosta the stuff you hear about, anyways, it's like that balloon shit.”
“Mhmm.”
“Full of hot air. Get it?”
“Oh snap. You're on fire.”
“Lot like Palestine, Ohio.”
“All these puns. Keep em coming.”
“Palestine, Middle East, for that matter.”
“Check, please. Yeah. It's all bad. Everything's fucked. Climate change.” They focused on the grubby windows.
“Oh, Jesus. Talk about falling off. The only people talking about it nowadays are those old farts who make some dated Al Gore joke because they had to shovel the sidewalk that morning.”
“Are you spying on me? Donnie said that, I swear to God, word for word just this—”
“My dad, too. When it's really like a massive elephant—an elephant-shaped mushroom cloud in the room.”
“That one isn't that bad. The elephant mushroom cloud.”
The diner's mascot grinned down from the wall. It was the same Native American caricature that'd been there years back but they'd just colored it grey and gave it a weird hat. Was it supposed to be a coyote? In a sombrero?
“I probably heard it in a podcast. The elephant-cloud metaphor. Or is it a simile?”
“I think you said 'like,' so it's a simile.”
“Right. But it's like,” I said, “now you also have a real life—or potentially real life mushroom clouds on the horizon. It's been over a year since the Russia-Ukraine thing started, and you barely even—”
“Oh yeah, with that psycho over there. Nukes'll be flying in no time. I'd almost forgotten. Thanks for the—”
“And it's not like we're that sane over here either. You read that article about how we bombed that Nordstrom pipeline?”
I still hadn't, either—the article was still open in my tabs. But I had listened to part of a podcast interview with its author on the drive over.
“Doesn't surprise me.” They took off their coat and scarf and made a show of putting them on again. “Well hey, shucks, Tim. Nice to see you after all this time. Glad you agreed to catch up. Such fun talking about such nice things. We should do this more than, what, once a decade?”
“It wasn't that long ago, was it? Nice to see you too, but really. Especially with World War Three going on in the background.” I pointed to the TV closest to the gas station half of the truck stop. An ancient tank was plowing some muddy field in I'm guessing the Donbass. “But yeah, I didn't mean to be such a buzzkill. We don't have to... I guess I was hoping we'd just banter on until one of us would transition to—”
“Hey, that's good.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean, I meant—”
“Messing with you. Relax. Jeesh.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. I looked around. The waitress had forgotten my water. I wondered if they served booze now. I tried to specifically remember the last time we'd been there. Couldn't have been a decade. “But hey, how bout this—'every mushroom cloud has a silver lining—’”
“Oh he's back.”
“And the silver lining here, I guess, is thanks to budget cuts, I'm gainfully unemployed. You're on vacay, visiting the fam. So we're here, we're... both in the neighborhood, so to speak. So yeah, how's things? How was the drive?”
“Yes, let's try and forget that massive black hole of doom just over the horizon, make some chitchat. Good idea. Talk of old times, new times. Well, lemme tell ya. Things are honestly pretty good for me right now, personally. Thanks. Et vous?”
“No malo.”
Zoom in on Brad Pitt's face. It was a movie then. I looked back at Chase. Their hair was longer than their last Instagram selfie led me to expect. They'd filled out a bit and their eyes were deeper but other than that.
“Oh, and the drive was good,” Chase said “Little icy in patches but noone was in the ditch or anything. What else. Ooh, I'm learning stick!”
“Like today? You taught yourself on the way here?”
“No, hah. My partner's teaching me.”
“Congrats.” I said. “That's awesome.”
I was balancing my Samsung upright on the sticky table.
“Madeleine grew up on a farm,” they said, “so it's like second nature for her. You remember her, right?”
“Maddy? Of course.” I said it through a yawn even though I wasn't the least bit tired. “Tell her—” the phone toppled over, somersaulting off the table. I reached to get it. “Hi.”
“Oh my. Sure. Um. You ever learn?”
“What? You mean stick? Hey, I grew up on a farm and I can barely drive the regular way. My ex—I mean, my after-college-ex—spent like three months trying to teach me. Stick.”
We both looked at the tv.
“It's a lovely thing to have on,” they said. “Especially when it's supposed to be a family restaurant now. God, hate when I sound like my dad.”
Brad Pitt was forcing an American kid to shoot an unarmed Nazi kid.
“Well,” I said, “ya gotta teach your children well. I think that's what that song was about.”
Chase sneezed. I was transferred to a musty apartment, mentally cataloguing a shared vinyl collection
“What song?” Chase said.
“What song?” We'd spun that specific album so many times I could still hear the loops and scratches when one of its tracks comes on the oldies station. “The song about teaching your children well. About being on the road. Having a code to live by. About.”
Another beat and another sneeze stopped me from actually singing it. I fought the urge to check the time. Instead I said, “bless you.”
We were the only customers. They ignored my comments and the waitress ignored us.
“Think it would've killed them to dust the place once? Sorry. Was that when you were doing N-triple-C out in wherever?” they said. “When you learned stick?”
“Yeah. Year after graduation. Out in 'wherever,' exactly. And she, uh, only tried to learn me stick. It didn't stick, shall we say. Driving manual. Nor the relationship.”
“It's hard to get the hang of.”
“What? Relationships or driving stick?”
“Both, maybe,” they laughed. “No, all the gears. The clutch. I still don't have it fully mastered, but now whenever I drive automatic it's like I'm on autopilot. I get bored.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Once you figure it out though—I mean, it's a cliché, but it's like learning to ride a bike.”
“Well, it took me til I was like twelve to take the training wheels off my old Target one, so...”
“That's right. You always were a late bloomer.”
I noticed them watching me fidget with the salt shaker so I set it down and looked at the menu. Chase did the same. We discussed our disappointment with the change of management and menu. The waitress finally approached with two waters. They didn't serve beer. We gave our orders and agreed it was a good thing we couldn't drink. We each had a long drive ahead of us and there was talk of a blizzard in the forecast.
Chase nodded towards the gas station half, “Think they still sell those VHS pornos behind the counter?”
The waitress must have heard us talking about the tv earlier because the channel got changed. It was right at the end where Uma Thurman is about to give David Carradine the five finger death punch.
“It's better than the movie they had on, but not a step up if you're trying to be a family restaurant,” I said. “I still remember when he died. You were there.”
They were looking at their phone. “Who died when now? And I was where?”
They set the phone face up on the table.
“David Carradine.”
“Should I know who that is?”
“Bill.”
I pointed at the flatscreen.
“Oh. Yeah, this is the part where she kills Bill. Wait, how do you remember when the guy who plays Bill in Kill Bill died? I can't even remember which celebrity died this morning.”
“I'm the same,” I said. “I totally forgot that Ray Liotta was dead. I looked it up this morning and he's been dead for like a full year.”
“That's a name I recognize at least.”
I took a drink from the glass of Mountain Dew the waitress had just set on the table.
Chase put the unopened straws to the side of the table.“You're aware of what that does to your sperm count, right,” they said.
“Yeah, well why do you think I'm drinking it? With the world as it is today, how could someone, anyone, even think of bringing life into this fallen world.”
“So true. Parents these days are so selfish. Who do they think they are, trying to share the gift of life with future generations.”
“It's criminal. We should go all Brian Jonestown on all these hopeful parents. But instead of Kool-Aid, we force them to shotgun Dewskis.”
“Why not. Send their bitchasses to Guantanamo. Waterboard em with it.”
It splashed all over my beard. I cleaned myself with my sleeve. I drank water to stop the coughs.
“Jeez, cover your mouth, Tim.”
“Yeah, one of the other customers might think I got the rona.”
“Funny. So you're back with Lou and Maxine?”
“Livin it up at the Chez Parent's House. Spend most of my time in my dad's old mancave, looking for a job that doesn't involve an app. Or something to watch on one of their many streaming services.”
A monstrous engined roared outside. Someone was letting their horn have it. Tires squealed. Shouts. We couldn't see anything beyond the 2021 and 2022 county fair advertisements taped to the windows and the thick cake of grime and dust on the glass, some layers of which had no doubt clung there in previous visits. With the grey light coming in, it resembled smokey stained glass. I took another drink of Mountain Dew.
“You know,” I said, “it's hilarious all these anti-vax types, chugging gallons of this corn syrup chemical slurry daily. And they're worried about what the jab'll do to their DNA.”
They were watching the tv, folding a napkin til it got smaller and smaller.
“Sorry,” I said.
“For?”
I wasn't sure. An old couple dressed in their Sunday best hobbled in the restaurant, stopping at the Please Wait to Be Seated Sign. They gawked at us.
“Nothing,” I said. Hadn't Chase posted about her grandma dying or something in the first wave on Facebook? “I mean, look at this shit. Have you ever seen anything that glows as green as this?”
“Other than Mountain Dew?”
“Yeah.”
Chase looked from their phone to the tv. The commercial break ended and they turned to me. “So praytell. What was so interesting. Why do you remember it. Where was I.”
I cleared my throat.
“When?”
“When Bill got killed.”
“Oh, that.” I looked at the tv again. “I mean, it was more how he died.”
“So, what killed Bill?”
“Well,” I took another drink. “Auto-erotic asphyxiation killed Bill.”
“Jesus. That's when—” they mimed it out.
I nodded.
“And why do you associate me in your memory with...” They did the arm movements again.
“Oh no, Jesus. I don't think about you..I mean I don't....” I made the same gestures. “Jesus, no. You were with me when the news came out. I was going through that Caine phase senior year, remember? I think I forced you watch a few episodes. David Carradine. Kung Fu?”
“Such a relief and no, not really. Hey, that's how the singer from that Aussie band went out.”
“INXS.”
“I'll say.”
“Hah.”
“Well, takes all kinds.” Chase took a sip of water and held it up. “To David Carradine. Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation. Find something you truly love, never work another day in your life.”
It seared my nostrils as I spat it out on the table.
“Easy there, sailor.”
I wiped up the Dew snot and Bill swung his sword at Uma, who blocked it by resheathing his blade—it was the climactic showdown of the two part series. She jabbed his chest five times with the tips of her fingers and David flung back, blood dribbling from his mouth. A staredown and we watched as he strolled across the lawn and collapsed--it was on mute so we couldn't get any of the dialogue or the Ennio Morricone soundtrack build. A tear rolled down Uma Thurman's cheek, she smiled, and then there was an ad for The General car insurance with Shaq. The Pina Colada song played out of the gas station. The old couple, mouths agape, were still waiting to be seated.
“I suppose there are worse ways to go out,“ they said.
“Must be nice,” I admitted. “Otherwise why would people do it?”
The waitress handed the old folks menus. They didn't move.
Another man, one with a stick, tapped his way past. A dog trailed behind. He shook snow off his cowboy boots as he poked out a booth. He left little puddles wherever he stepped.
So it was already coming down.
The dog sighed and plopped in a wet spot as the man settled in. On the side of the dog a placard was strapped. “Do Not Pet Me. I'm a Service Animal.” I pictured it guiding the man to the truck stop, barking when to turn and when to slow down. I felt like I'd dreamt this years earlier.
“This is kind of funny,” I said. The fluorescent lights glared white off his aviators. “Well, no it really isn't. But the writer of the book I'm reading, or planning to read, he wrote another book—actually, I think I must've been reading it back when we were still—”
“Okay, I'll allow that you recall which specific celebrity hanged himself while jerking off over a decade ago, but who remembers what they were reading—”
“It came up a year or two ago as a Facebook memory. When we drove out east to see Sufjan. I took a picture of the barn that said “Obama is Alien” on the side of it, tagged it as the 'Least Photographed Barn in America.' A reference to the book.”
“Fair enough. If it's related to maybe the best concert I've ever been to, I'll permit you to tie me in with—”
“It was a very important barn. Strangely the only photo I must've taken that whole weekend.”
“You always had your heart in the right place.”
“If only more people had photographed that barn, it could've went viral. Some D-list celebrity coulda seen it, got on the case. Forced the president to release his birth certificate. 'Prove you're from Earth or get out.'”
“Someone could make that guy president, jeesh.”
“Build a space wall around Earth,” I said. “Make E.T. pay for it.”
“Oh the possibilities of what could have been.”
I took a sip of Dew.
“But seriously,” they said. “What are we talking about? Why are we discussing a racist barn?”
“That book. They just made it into a Netflix movie.”
They looked it up. “Adam Driver's in it. Actually I think the algorithm was trying to push this on Maddy's account. Don Cheadle. Huh. We'll add it to the watchlist.”
“But no, what I meant to say is apparently that movie was like filmed near the town where the railroad crash just happened. So the book it's based on is all about this college town where a train collision releases this deadly chemical gas and, like, how inured everyone gets to all these mass casualty events. It was based on that Bhopal gas explosion in the eighties. Bhopal? Bhopal. However you pronounce it.”
“Okay. I thought you said this was supposed to be funny.”
“No, I said it really wasn't funny.”
“Okay. Well, looks like we're about to get our food so try and make me laugh or let's change the subject.”
“I just mean, it's like emblematic, maybe. Like you have all these levels of reality and unreality—”
“Uh-huh.”
“And they're like folding in on themselves to the extent that, I mean, doesn't it feel like time is speeding up while everything gets simultaneously, I don't know, I don't wanna say worse, but?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“So you got all these extras from the movie, these real life people. Locals from the Buckeye State and now they have to, like, flee for their lives from a toxic gas explosion—something they'd just been pretending to flee from months earlier. So you got real life imitating a straight-to-Netflix movie, which was based on a postmodern bestseller from the 80s, which was based loosely on a true story. The future—”
“Hilarious,” they said, cutting their omelet into fractals. “No really, what you're saying, it's super interesting.” They put down their fork and picked it up again. “Not what I meant. It's infuriating. It's—I don't know what it is. But what I really wanna do now is try and enjoy this Denver omelet while I still have tastebuds.”
They weren't waiting for me to get my food. It was a habit I always resented.
“I think she forgot your hot sauce, Ray.”
We made eye contact.
“Fuck, fuck, Chase. Sorry. Chase, fuck. Chase, sorry.”
Chase swallowed, took a breath. Fork on the table. “Jesus, fuck. Listen, kid. Do you think my 94-year-old abuelita still doesn't call me Raylene sometimes? My dad still thinks this is like my fucking emo phase. Look—” They straightened out the napkin they'd folded, mouth hanging open. There was more coming. I deserved it. “Think they gave you enough sauerkraut? Eat your rueben.”
They forked stringy melted cheese and egg in their mouth.
I hadn't noticed the waitress bring out my plate. I picked up my fork and remembered it was a sandwich. I dipped a fry in the thousand island dressing and bit into it. Then I picked up the reuben, a trail of grease rolling down my arm. No, their grandma hadn't died. Guess I'd been mixing people up. “Um. And how is...Carmen? And Don?”
“Carmen, así así. She finally tested negative after her second bout of Covid. She's in a different home now. But round two really took a toll. Like, her memory is super spotty, but, honestly, whenever you talk to her, she sounds happier than ever. And Don is same ol, same ol Donnie-boy. About what you'd expect, things being as they are. But no, he's fine. Just, carrying on. As one does. How's the rueben?”
“Not as good as before.”
“That's what people always say.”
The waitress guided the old couple to the booth kitty-corner the blind man, the German shepherd's tail slapping glumly as they passed. The waitress poured some coffee for the blind guy and knelt to pet the dog. I noticed then that the old man with his wife in the suit was packing heat. When did the gun laws change here? I thought of asking Chase but we were both so busy chewing I decided to let it rest.
Jason Schaefer is from The USA. He's been published in Expat Press, be about it press, Jake, and Bull.
