Troll Booth
by Don Bagley

   Mike stamped on the gas pedal and swerved around the slow Toyota that was blocking traffic. He slapped at the horn as his '69 LeMans passed the slower car. Lame drivers pissed him off, and he was already late getting Mikey back to his mother in Concord. From his car seat, four year old Mikey peered at the toll station on the northbound side of the Benicia bridge. Traffic going the other way was slowing for the toll collectors.

   "What's that, Daddy?" Mikey asked. A trail of dried snot from the last time he'd cried formed a ridge from his nostrils to his upper lip.

   "Those are toll booths," said Mike, slurring his speech with the vodka he'd sipped so he could face a meeting with the bitch.

   "Troll booths?" Mikey said.

   "Yeah," said Mike. "Every booth has a troll that lets good people through, but not bad little boys."

   Mikey's eyes widened. "What do they do?"

  "They take bad boys," said Mike. "And they jump at their eyes and tear their faces off and eat their skin, lickity split!"

   Mikey shuddered. Instinctively, his little hand slid up to massage the purple blossom of a bruise on the side of his neck.

   Damn, thought Mike. I didn't mean to leave that. I'll catch hell from Heather for this. He looked in the rear view mirror and spotted a cop car. Slow down, he thought, and he let off the throttle. If the cop had pulled him over... he had a suspended license. This was Heather's fault; if she'd bring the boy up north for his visitations, this shit wouldn't
happen.

   He was relieved when the cop passed him. The bridge fell away behind as the LeMans sped southward. Mikey's small head began to nod and finally flopped forward. Soon they would be in Concord.

   "You're late," said Heather, taking the sleeping boy from Mike's arms. She had blond streaks in her hair, and she was wearing black tights with pink leg warmers.

   "The traffic," said Mike.

   "And you've been drinking, Mike. You know you're not supposed to drink when he's in your custody."

   "It was just a screwdriver. Just one."

   "Don't lie to me," she said. "I know you better than that. Is this a bruise on his neck?"

   "He fell," said Mike.

   "You liar," she said. "You Goddamn liar. If you hurt him, I'm taking you to court."

   "I don't need this shit," said Mike, and he stormed out of her apartment. He felt better once he got back on the freeway. He took a couple of hits on his flask and lit a cigarette. The bitch drove him nuts; he couldn't believe he'd had a kid with someone like her. And the boy was always whining. Mom does it this way, Mom does it that way. He needed all this shit like a hole in the head. He'd like to give somebody a hole in the head.

   He was coming over the Benecia bridge now. The toll station loomed ahead, so he slowed down. He flicked his cig out the window and found a lane. There was a Honda Accord sitting between the two booths in front of him. The damn car was blocking his lane. Mike leaned his head out his window and noticed the driver's side door of the Honda was hanging open -- nobody was in the car. Mike got out to take a look. He walked up to the Accord and looked in. It was empty, all right.

   Mike looked around. It was dark, and there was no traffic, as it was late Sunday night. The nearest toll booth was open; the sliding door had been pushed aside. He walked over to the booth and looked in. At his feet, there was something that first appeared to be a pile of laundry. He bent down to examine it. The second to the last thing he saw in his life was the body of a dead stranger -- the front of the man's head was pulped and meaty, as if his face had been torn off.

   Mike heard a scuffling noise behind him. He turned , but the thing leapt at him too fast for him to even scream.

©2003 Don Bagley