Episode 3 – Crystal Meth Beth
Hayward: Episode 3
Crystal Meth Beth
or
Once Bitten, Twice High
“While one enjoys the wilderness of the greater Hayward area, it is important to take note of the many exotic predators found in the area. Wolves, bears, muskies, and other assorted, but as of yet unidentified creatures, may put a premature end to the unobservant vacationer’s respite from the doldrums of the work world.”
–Midwest Historical Surveyors Organization, 1924
The phone was ringing. In Lowell’s dreams, the phone was always ringing. In the real world the phone was ringing too and after several minutes, Lowell answered it. In the harsh light of the setting sun creeping in through his bay window’s curtains, Lowell could see it was only the early evening, the latest part of the afternoon, and he was not pleased.
“Come on Murray!,” he said with too much agitation. He knew it wouldn’t be like Murray to call him for no reason but, it was still light out. “Every man has his needs and every need has a man,” was exactly the kind of Eastern sludge Murray was always slinging, and at this moment, what with all the malarkey involving wolves, Spooner, and runners, what Lowell needed was sleep!
“Sorry Lowell, really, I am so sorry,” said Murray. And Lowell immediately regretted letting his anger get the better of him. He really did know that Murray wouldn’t be calling, especially after the Spooner fiasco, unless it was regarding something extremely important. Silence came between them, connected by a landline.
After a long minute of listening to Murray’s halting, murmuring trembling, Lowell spoke. “Listen, I’m sorry Murray, tell me what’s happened. Why are you crying?”
The silence returned, briefly. “I’m so sorry,” said Murray again, regaining some composure. “I’m so sorry my friend, but, it’s your cousin Bethany…I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
…
Bethany Ward was a terrific walker. She walked everywhere she could and did so as often as possible. Not one for the rigors of running or for the balancing of biking, Bethany was quite all right with a simple walk.
It had not gone unnoticed by the citizens of Hayward, that Bethany Ward’s preferred place to walk was in the local graveyards. Bethany had always found graveyards to be places of peace, of solace, rather than locations of doom or terror. She liked the flowers, the signs, the monuments to lives lived. She respected the immediate pain of mourners but knew that in time their mourning would gentrify into an appreciation for their lost loved ones, for the lives they had lived, the love they had given. Bethany herself liked to think she contributed to the local graveyards’ loveliness by always bringing a plastic bag with her, for cleaning up any wayfaring litter, any runaway tissues.
It was while bending over, just past the Pastor Bever’s plot, and picking up a discarded pop can, it was just then that Bethany Ward was run completely over by the grave keeper’s tractor. Bethany had kept a trim figure her entire life and this was aided greatly by her daily walking. But, Bethany’s lithe figure was really no match for the graveyard tractor and so offered very little resistance when it plowed over her. Her body (and the pop can) crumbled terribly. It was generally assumed that Bethany had offered no final words before the tractor operator, in a blind panic, had slammed his vehicle into reverse and, even more horrifically, had backed right over her again.
The unfortunate operator of the tractor was an unfortunate man named Browning. Browning was, of course, horror stricken at what he had done, at the mess he had made, the absolute wreck he had made of his afternoon.
Looking at the mangled body of Bethany Ward, Browning shouted and hooted and jumped down off of his now stopped tractor. He looked at Bethany, looked at her real good. He thought maybe he had hit her mostly with his tractor’s shovel. That might be good, he thought. Yes, Browning was pretty sure the shovel had done most of the damage. Browning was very thirsty in his panic and he noticed that there was a crumpled up pop can by the crumpled up lady and Browning thought it might have a sip or two of pop in it. Looking at the can though, Browning saw that it was grape pop and he really didn’t care much for grape pop…his day really was not going well.
Skin and bones, his face pocked with picking from his “itchy itchies,” Browning was higher than a kite.
Staggering towards the crumpled up lady (and the pop can) he stopped and checked, and was, in fact, certain that he was higher than heaven.
Heaven! That lady was going to go to heaven–and he was going to go to jail–if he didn’t try to help her! Browning knelt next to her and he said, “Lady! Lady! Are you okay?” (He was not so good with words.) He looked around. He did not see any help coming. He thought it might be up to him, up to ol’ Graveyard Browning to save the day!
So, he sat back on his butt. Taking out his pipe, he lit the hit. “Lit the hit, lit the hit,” he said. The toxic fumes poured up and over him, through his skin, and through and into the welts on his lips. Browning’s yellowed eyes were half charged now and he thought it best to complete the process.
“Lite the height, light the height,” he said incorrectly. Feeling very in control, very calm, Browning clamped his fingernails into the torn wrists of Bethany Ward, infecting them. Eyeing her like Sinatra would a classy broad, Browning sealed his poisoned, meth laced, broken lips onto the broken mouth of Bethany.
And he blew.
Browning blew all the smoke and dust and phlegm and blood he could from his tortured lungs and lips, blew as hard as he could into Bethany Ward’s battered face. He pulled his mouth off and stared stupidly at her.
She was not moving.
Browning thought he should try again but he also thought it would be better if he was a little higher so he lit his hit again and repeated the entire process. Browning kept repeating this process for a full twenty minutes, and, quite unwittingly, saved Bethany Ward’s life.
Browning was still keeping his hit, lit, and was still inadvertently blowing crystal meth into the previously pure lungs of Bethany Ward when some high school students cutting through the graveyard had stumbled upon the scene. Thinking they were witnessing either the worst porn they could have ever done an internet search for, or, an unbelievably gruesome tractor accident, the teens did what came naturally to them…and ran.
The teens had ran straight to a Safe Haven convenience store where, in fits of sheer terror, they relayed what they had just seen.
In minutes, the local police and ambulance had arrived but even before that, news had started traveling through town, for anyone with any sense immediately knew that the woman in the accident was Bethany and anyone with half a wit knew the operator of the tractor must have been Browning.
Like lightning the information had been relayed and like lightning it struck painfully and totally. The bolt had come to Murray at his own residence, him being on the short list of townspeople who knew everyone–and knew how to contact them.
He had driven right over to the Ward’s house. Murray knew her husband like himself, worked nights. He’d be asleep, his phone ringer turned off to preserve his sweet silence. So he’d pounded on his door until Mr. Ward had straggled to it, perplexed by the absurdity of Murray being at his house. He’d caught the husband in his faint, sat him down in his car, and driven him to the emergency room, to his crumpled wife.
Murray had made a few calls from the hospital lobby, called Bethany’s favorite cousin–called Lowell, called him and told him everything.
“Good God Murray,” said Lowell. “You better make sure Browning isn’t at that hospital when I get there, you’d better make sure he’s locked up, locked up and safe from me mister, locked up or I’ll kill that bastard.” The calmness of Lowell’s voice was terrifying, the voice of someone who had known murder, knew killing.
“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary,” said Murray.
“Why’s that? You’d know me! I’ll–” but Murray cut him off.
“It won’t be necessary, because Browning is already dead.”
NEXT: THE WORLD IS A VAMPIRE, SENT TO DRAIN
OR
BETH I HEAR YOU CALLING, BUT I CAN’T COME HOME RIGHT NOW