I Hate Cheerleaders

An American Tale

Forty miles from the next town it happened again, and this time even Busby felt the extra weight. He swore and hit the steering wheel with his blistered fist. "Another one? Here?"
"Seems that way," said Blasio.
"That's three since we hit the desert," Busby said. "Three in a hundred miles."
"A hundred and twenty," said Blasio. "Next one should be in town."
"Not with my luck," Busby said. "Three in a hundred and twenty miles is one every forty miles. There'll probably be another one before we get out. Most likely there'll be twins."

"Stop the car," Blasio said. Busby stopped the car and stared morbidly into the mirror. A hundred and twenty miles of empty road stretched out behind. Busby shifted his stare morbidly to the windscreen. Thirty-nine and a half miles of empty road stretched out in front.

"The next one'll be in town," Blasio told him. "It won't be sand next time. It'll be somebody's garden or something."
"In broad daylight?"
"It'll be dark by then." Blunt complacent fingers stroked Blasio's glistening dewlap.
"Not with my luck," Busby said, and punished the steering wheel again.
"Don't damage it," said Blasio. "If the steering goes the way of the air conditioner, as soon as we hit a bend in the road we'll have to stop. You'll have to carry them on your shoulders, forty more miles each time." He yawned. "Plus fifty paces, of course."
"And what will you be doing?
"Looking out. And if you're good I'll carry the shovel so you don't have to dig with your bare hands. Speaking of which."

The shovel was on the back seat because when it was in the trunk it kept ending up underneath the cheerleaders, and Busby disliked moving the cheerleaders in order to get at the shovel. Blasio had pointed out, scratching under his porkpie hat as he always did when being profound, that the cheerleaders would have to be moved anyway, so what was the difference; and Busby had replied that it still meant the shovel had been lain on by a cheerleader, and he didn't enjoy using a contaminated shovel.
"Throw it on the back seat, then," Blasio had said.
"What if someone looks in?"
"Just say we dig having it there."

Busby had not laughed because there had still been a cheerleader to move, and one of the heavier ones. Even the bulimics were no small weight, and he was morally sure that some of the damn things were pregnant.

"Speaking of which," said Blasio, and leaned back and closed his eyes. He couldn't even be bothered to pull his hat down over his face.

Busby opened the door. Immediately the car, which had been unbearable, became worse. The desert shimmered at him, and Busby unstuck his dry lips to grimace back. He got out and pushed the seat forward and reached into the rear for the shovel. "Fifty paces," Blasio mumbled.
"Sir yes sir," said Busby sulkily. He pushed the seat back and closed the door and executed a theatrical about-turn which wobbled a bit at the end. He trudged over the sand and pebbles and lumps of hostile vegetation, counting off the paces as he went. Forty-nine would never do, and forty-eight would be worse, and the paces couldn't be too short either. Blasio always knew.

At fifty he hauled the gloves over his blisters and commenced digging. There was no point looking at the cheerleader until he absolutely had to. They all fitted into the trunk, so he always dug a hole the length and breadth of the trunk and then a bit deeper. As he dug, he tried to work up some enthusiasm by imagining that the sand and the stones were cheerleaders beneath the blade of his shovel, blonde and brunette and redhead and raven, though mercifully without pompoms; but the resemblance wasn't strong enough to keep his vision sustained.

Eventually he walked back to the car and stood beside the trunk. After a long, considered moment Blasio lurched forward to push the button and the trunk cracked open. At least that meant Blasio was satisfied with the hole and the fifty paces, which was something. Then again, it also meant Busby now had to deal with the cheerleader. He opened the trunk and glared down at her.

She wasn't one of the rotted ones, so that was another small mercy. She was neatly packed in with her legs drawn up and her arms crossed over her chest. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was slightly open as though snoring. It was all right for some, thought Busby.

He leaned in and hauled her out. If the shovel had been underneath her instead of on the back seat, he would still have the hole to dig and all that work in front of him. Almost any situation could be endured if you tried, thought Busby as he hefted the cheerleader over his shoulder and started his cheerleader-weighted fifty-pace desert march with more spadework at the end. You just had to discipline yourself to take an optimistic view of things.

When he finished, dusk was creeping up and the air was beginning to chill. Blasio had turned on the car radio and was listening to golden oldies. Busby pushed the seat forward and tossed the shovel in the rear, then pushed the seat back and got in. "I'm thirsty," he said.
"Must be the heat," said Blasio unsympathetically. "Start the car." Busby started the car. "I hope there's not another one before we get to town."
"Next one'll be somebody's garden," Blasio said. "Clay loam at night. Easiest digging in the world. Let's go."

Half a mile from town, with the dark in full descent and his sweat-stains beginning to ice over, the air conditioner came back on and the radio fizzled out, just as Busby was beginning to find it tolerable.