The Moonlight in Men's Eyes
by Bryan Harrison

Harold watched El Centro diminish behind him, a barrage of flashing neon in the midst of incandescent gold, shrinking in the rearview. The solitary mound of civilization slowly morphed to a thin strip of light across the black desert landscape. Through the windshield was only a blurred halo of freeway in the headlights and minute red eyes fleeing in the distance ahead, signs of life outside the vacuous pit that was his life. The damned CD player was broken again, so the motor's growling refrain was the solitary, monotonous background over which Mandi's voice intermittently broke.

She wanted to talk. Again. She always wanted to talk about whatever matters Harold assumed were concluded, and the failing of the CD/radio/cheap piece of crap, gave her the perfect opportunity. He cleared his throat and pretended to be absorbed in the slit of orb that was starting to peek over the horizon behind them, washing the desert in a growing glow of silver light that now competed with the fading luminescence of the city.

"Why you always ignorin' me?" Mandi inquired in that wet, wounded sound that always managed to awaken his demons. "We been ridin' for damn near three hours in this goddamned heat and you can't even talk to me?"

Harold cranked down his window in response, and a hot fist of desert air screamed in from the black to pummel her words, sending them fleeing into the meaningless void. He breathed deep the flat breath of that void. Cauliflower, barley, cow shit and insecticide like ozone on the sprouts of civilization that shot up along the roadside. None of them could erase the primordial aroma of this place; the first dirt.

"That's it?" Mandi inquired loudly against the din of the ancient wind, "That's all you got to say? Nuthin'?"

Harold replied by glancing out ahead, just long enough to make sure the twin yellow lines were streaking where they were supposed to; then he turned his attention back to the horizon, now distinguishable in the light from the moon. Blessed silence ensued in the wake of his unresponsiveness, but only briefly.

"Do you still love me?" She asked, and even in its vulnerability this whisper somehow pierced the braying wind. "Do you?" She inquired again when Harold did not turn from his introspections.

"A'course, dammit, girl," he responded, annoyed at having to repeat this, again. "I'm just thinkin', Mandi! You know you're my jewel," he insisted. He was sure he loved her, ever since he'd first seen her erupt from the back door of Randy's Tavern, adjust the straps on her dress, laugh at the man that followed her and then fall to the ground in a drunken heap. He'd known immediately that whatever had made him look twice at her would grow into something he could not control. When she'd looked back, and the weight of her lingering gaze made him loose his unconcerned façade, he was sure something had been triggered inside; in the secret realms he had no word for, and where no other eyes could wander.

But then, that was long before the tedium of daily life had stolen away the bright colors of their youth, long before he would awaken to see something other than his "precious jewel" beside him. Silently, he began to wonder what had happened to the life he'd lived before.

"I need a damned drink," Harold said, quickly, before she had a chance to ask more of him. He slid onto an exit, off the freeway, and into the stark light of a solitary, anonymous mini-mart. They sat in the cricket-coated quiet of the lot for a slow minute after the engine was silenced.

"Wha'chu want?" He asked finally, but received only silence in response. He returned the silence for a moment before he exhaled a long sigh and climbed out of the car, retreating to the flat white coolness inside the mart while Mandi gazed into nothing, probably preparing for her next barrage of complaints.

"Hey now," a longhaired relic grumbled from behind the counter, standing up from whatever he'd been doing when Harold had pulled into the lot. Harold didn't want to know what that was.

"Hey now," Harold returned, and headed for the back of the store to admire the chilled racks of bottles, shining amber and gold in the frosty glow behind the glass partition.

As he gazed on the sight, a memory winked open inside his head, an image of her, laughing, shaking a sweating bottle, thumb pressed against its tiny mouth and then released so that the foam spat and coated him. He jumped and tackled her as she tried to flee, laughing as he took her down onto the sand where he lost himself in the feel and smell of her skin, the musk of her breath and sweat.

"Well, that shit's over," Harold muttered and the thoughts dissipated into the Freon mist as he opened and closed the door.

"Oldie," the man behind the counter said, nodding at Harold's canary yellow Camaro, as he tilled the twenty and handed back the change.

Harold grunted a non-committal response.

"You from Phoenix?" The man asked. Harold fixed him with a quick skeptical glare as he tucked the change in his pocket. Aged desert leather for skin, long strands of hair faded to grey-brown, falling over the shoulders of tattooed arms that were too big for his uniform.

Harold nodded a hesitant admission.

"Yeah, I can usually tell." The man's chest puffed a little when he said this, and Harold guessed all the man had to do at night, was to guess where people were coming from or heading. "Running or chasin?" The man asked next. Harold didn't quite get this question and paused a moment, his brows raised in a question.

"Everybody's runnin' or chasin'. Got a little pot-o-gold up around the corner, or maybe a little devil behind," the man shrugged and leaned on the counter, eyes squinted as they scanned Harold. "I bet you're doin' a little of both."

Harold didn't know why he wasn't heading for the car, didn't understand why he was standing there listening to the forgotten hippie, stranded biker, whatever the fuck he was. "You must get pretty bored out here," Harold said and eyed the man's nametag, "eh, Gus?"

Gus shrugged the question off and glanced around the store as if he was worried someone might overhear what he was about to say. The absurdity of this caution made Harold listen.

"Gotta be careful out there in the full moon," Gus started when he decided the coast was clear. He gestured to the blackness beyond Harold's car sitting outside the glass front of the store. "Them Indians that use to live out here, they believed some weird shit about the moonlight." He said, his eyes scanning the dark horizon cautiously.

"Weird shit," Harold repeated sarcastically, convincing himself he was just being amused by the ramblings of an old fool and his feeling of unease was just anxiousness to be on his way.

"Yeah, spirits, demons, you know… shit like that," Gus elaborated. He crossed his arms and leaned on the counter. "A year back or so, there was this fella' came in the store all freakin' out and shit. Says he came out from Mesa with his girl, right? They was headed for L.A., just like you, I suppose." He stopped as if waiting for confirmation of this assumption, but Harold didn't bite. "Anyway's," Gus continued, "he says he stopped to take a leak out past Blythe, just past Bakotahl Canyon, right? It's right off the freeway, you'll see the road sign when you pass it. So's, he gets out to piss and then he hears this hoot… like a dog or a coyote, ya know? But he don't think nothing of it and starts whizzing. He finishes his business, zips up real quick, and then he sees something in the moonlight. He said it looked like a dog or wolf, but it dashed across the desert as fast as damn lightenin'. He gets a little scared and runs back to the car," Gus stopped and did the slow scan of the place again. "Then he finds his girl dead, man, all cut up and bleedin' like," he flexed his fingers as if to pull the words out of the air, but they were, apparently, not coming. "Something just fucked her up!" he said finally, "The guy didn't even hear shit!" Gus stopped then, brows raised, nodding his head slowly.

"And you believed all that shit?" Harold asked coolly, stepping backwards towards the door.

"Hell yeah! I seen her in the car, all covered in blood, sitting right where your pretty wife is waitin' for you now." Gus replied.

Harold couldn't hold his laughter. "And what's your boss think about you getting drunk on the job, old timer?"

Gus shrugged and scrunched his face up in a pensive expression. He seemed about to respond, when his eyes fixed on something over Harold's shoulder and his expression changed suddenly. "Oh shit!" Gus bellowed and jumped back. Harold turned quickly, stepping away from the glass door, his hand automatically rising to a fist, to ward off whatever might be there.

But he saw only a reflection in the glass, his reflection, peering wide-eyed and sweaty against the blackness beyond, fist cocked and ready to strike. He turned slowly to see Gus barking a rusty, old laugh.

"You sonofabitch," Harold said, snorting a weak, un-amused chuckle. He raised a solitary finger at Gus, who only cackled harder.

"Yeah, I get bored sometimes, partner," the man explained, when his wheezing laughter had subsided, "so, I'm always happy for a chance to chat with a customer."

Harold tucked his finger away and was turning to leave when he noticed a wooden stock sticking up from a harness behind the register. His gaze wandered from the harness to Gus and back. "Bad neighborhood?" He inquired.

Gus followed Harold's gaze to the shotgun. He smiled and winked. "I got that just about a year back. Went out and bought it the day after some loony pulled into my parking lot in the middle of the night with some crazy story about seeing a wolf, and a dead woman all cut up and bloody in the front seat of his car." There was a potent silence in which Harold realized the old guy wasn't playing.

"You know what I think," Gus said, and Harold couldn't help but listen. "With the moonlight in men's eyes, they can prolly see just about any fuckin' thing they want."

#

Mandi didn't even wait until Harold was seated to start in. "What the hell was goin' on in there?" She barked as Harold strapped in and snapped the ignition. The car howled into life and he kicked it into gear, tearing into the gravel lot as he backed out and sped onto the freeway.

"Just some crazy old shit telling dumb jokes," he answered finally, as the mini-mart shrank behind them.

"Well you didn't have to stand there and listen, did you? You knew I was sittin' out here in the damned heat!" She yelled.

Harold opened the bag, extracted two bottles and handed one to her. He popped the cap on his own bottle and heard Mandi sigh when she read the label. It was 'their' beer. "You remembered," she said, surprised.

"Yeah," Harold mumbled. He sucked a mouthful of the crisp brew and wiped the foam from his lips. "I remembered."

He remembered well, taking her on the riverbed that night, in the sand, in the flat silvery glare of the moon. He remembered straining against her, against the sting of her fingernails on his back and shoulders, feeling the wet grip of her, feeling his howl build and release as he finally lost himself in her, panting frantic declarations of love as their bodies rocked uncontrollably under the gaze of the mindless orb in the sky.

"That shit's over." Harold muttered.

"What'd you say?" Mandi asked.

Harold shook his head, realizing he'd spoken aloud. "I was just thinkin'… 'bout Phoenix, 'bout stayin' at your sister's place and all. I'm glad that shit's over," he chuckled convincingly and sucked at his beer again. "Things are gonna be different in L.A."

Mandi grunted a quick agreement and pulled another swig, while Harold grimaced in the dark, trying to recall the last time the sound of her voice had not made him want to run. Just like he was running now, to Los Angeles this time, under the shaky promise of a job at a body shop his cousin owned. She was supposed to stay with her sister and he was going to come for her, after he'd saved a few months rent. But she "wasn't having none of that," she'd proclaimed, with an accusing eye. They were married now, she'd explained, and 'married' meant never being apart.

Harold didn't need her to tell him what married meant. He knew well enough. It meant the shit was over, the parties and the good times. Hell, pretty much everything that made life worthwhile ended when he'd said those two stupid words. What the hell had he been thinking? How had she tricked him into this?

He glanced at her face, lit in the momentary glow of a passing truck. It was puffy now and pale since she had taken to spending so much time inside sitting around in her bathrobe, watching her fucking "stories" on the damned television. The slight curl in the corner her lips used to precede some clever sexual innuendo or the 'lovey' talk that newlyweds do. Now it only came when she was getting ready to bitch about some meaningless shit.

"I wanna go to Rodeo Drive when we get settled," she said and turned to him. He looked away, pretending to be contemplating the road. "Your cousin's place anywhere near Beverly Hills?" She waited a moment in the silence that greeted her question, and then continued. "He better pay you good because a girl can't live cheap in Los Angeles. Gotta look good, and that takes money, honey."

He was about to respond. He was about to tell her that it didn't fucking matter how much money he made because he was sure she'd suck it up and spit it out just like she had the rest of his life. He was about to explain just why he'd sought out the job in L.A. in the first place and how his heart had dropped when she insisted on coming along; how it had been a year since he had last given a damn about her and how the only reason he hadn't divorced her is because he wasn't about to pay her any goddamned alimony, and…

Then he saw the sign.

"Bakotahl Canyon," he whispered in awe. She was lost in her verbal daydream about Rodeo Drive and Hollywood and about how she had "modeled some" when she was in high school, so she didn't register his words. But she did notice the way he slowed the car and turned off the freeway onto the little strip of dirt road that ran into the wild tangle of sage and ancient darkness.

"I gotta piss," he explained when he knew she was about to ask. Fortunately he did, so there was no need to rationalize this detour. Something small scampered across the bumpy trail, whisking a quick shadow in the headlights, and then vanished into the blackness.

"Boy, you are jumpy," Mandi laughed when Harold hands froze on the wheel. He slowed, his head cleared. What in the hell was he doing? This was crazy shit. "If you're scared of a little ol' rabbit, you'd better think twice about livin' in L.A." Mandi chuckled and finished her beer in one big gulp. He stepped on the gas and the car rumbled into the void.

"Jesus, Harold, you don't need to drive to the middle of nowhere just to take a damned piss!" She complained. Harold hit the brakes. He sat a moment, breathing, thinking, pausing at the edge of this crucial decision. He looked at her. She looked back, her eyes puzzled, her brows furrowed in some unspoken question. A slight curl was forming in the corner of her mouth.

"Be back in a sec," he said flatly, and opened the door.

"Why in the hell you gotta turn off the lights to take a piss, Harold?" She yelled as he strode towards a dirt mound at the edge of the road. Beyond the mound, the desert reflected light in cold lunar hues. Vague shadows lay flat against the earth, seeming to move as he watched them.

"Just wait," he yelled back. "My precious jewel!" he added, his voice shaking with something he could not control, something from the secret realms inside where his eyes dare not wander.

He mounted the dirt hillock, shaking, not really believing he believed this. Of course he didn't believe bullshit like this; it was fucking insane! He barked a nervous laugh, unzipped and stood, waiting, he told himself, for the pressure inside to release and free him of this goddamned tension, so he could be on his way, so he could get back to his life. His breath was as hot as the breeze that flowed from the belly of the desert, as ragged as the twisted plants that cast feral shadows against the haunted terrain. The moon stared down, a solitary eye, seeing all, knowing all. Casting no judgment.

Then he heard the howl.

"What?" she yelled from the darkness behind him. "What'd you say?"

Harold gripped himself to keep from pissing all over his boots. He was shaking uncontrollably now. 'It was just some damned coyote!' he wanted to yell to her, to tell her that she should shut the fuck up for once and it would all be over soon and he could go on with his fucking life like it was before the creases that formed along his forehead, and the bags under his eyes, and the constant pain in his gut.

Something moved across the desert, a flash of something that seemed to run over the ground like a…

Harold turned and ran, screaming, "Mandi! Mandi!" his voice breaking, like a child fleeing from a bad dream, fleeing from the monsters that dwell in the dark pits of the imagination. "Mandi, lock your…"

But Mandi wasn't there.

Something was, though. Something was standing beside the car. It turned slowly to face him where he'd stopped, frozen in shock. The thing was as black as the night, its moist snout full of razor teeth dripping with the remains of some foul feast. Its torn and stinking fur was as gnarled as the growl that rumbled low from the pit its demon soul.

"Where is she?" Harold hissed, shocked at the feral sound of his own voice. "Where is she, goddamn you?" He yelled and was further amazed at the feel of his feet rushing him towards this demon, "Where's my jewel?" He howled as he felt his hands grip the beast's throat and felt the thing tear back at him, roaring at his assault, "What did you do with her you fucker!" He screamed and fell with it, to the dirt, straining against it, against the sting of its claws across his back and face and shoulders, feeling the savage grip of the beast give way and his own howl build and release as he lost himself in the rage of loosing her, screaming frantic declarations of vengeance as he rattled the beast uncontrollably under the gaze of the heartless orb in the sky.

The beast was still, finally. Harold stood on shaking legs, panting and bleeding, and turned to the car which was still rumbling a low idle in the night.

"Mandi?" He cried out, walking to the opened passenger door. "Jewel," he whispered, trembling. But she did not answer. He backed away from the car and turned to gaze on the dead thing again, the thing that had stolen his love and ripped the colors from his life.

Harold screamed and started to flee, but quickly jumped back, his fist raised to ward off the dark shape shifting in the shadows against the car. But he saw only a reflection in the window, his reflection, peering wild-eyed and bleeding in the silver glow, fist cocked and ready to strike.

"You sonofabitch." He whispered and whimpered a weak, desperate moan as he fell to his knees. It had only been a trick of light against shadow, a trick of the moonlight in his eyes.


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