Next Exit (Video Found Behind Three Other VHS Tapes)

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Peering into the rearview mirror, Ryan Kelly continued monitoring, an uncomfortable developing situation, taunting the travelling free bird, concerned with what was behind him, past events challenging his independent lifestyle.

Only a second or two behind the fictional author who would sell anything to someone buying into an unbelievable story, Ryan could make out a license plate number identifying a respectable automobile.

“PMS,”

“That is the same one, parked in the restaurant,” Ryan recollected, touching the wheel gas pedal.

Nearly ninety miles ago, he took the next right investigating the advertising billboard suggestion, reeling in a relaxing experience dining inside the Bait and Tackle maritime themed seafood establishment. Filled with fish tank television monitors, Ryan caught the first three innings to the early evening number 103 baseball game. After his team got off to a good start, he completed the meal when someone probably a dedicated reader who knew his work, paid the tab. Due to low book sales this business outing, Ryan graciously accepted, before the multi-lane road beckoned.

Darkness overpowered the Interstate, traffic headlights provided safe illumination. A few minutes later Ryan’s ADA approved four-wheel Ford model high beams shined upon an announcement, “Next Right, Hospitality House”. Deciding it was time to take care of business the lonely busy soul, slowly steered, venturing through the dark path leading towards a gigantic white mansion, promoting closed fast-food chain quick fixes.

“Your right on schedule,” a gothic looking character, holding cleaning supplies noted checking his watch, “I will not do the floors until you are done.”

“Thanks, Frankie,” Ryan acknowledged, gripping the crutches, hopping along due to a birth injury, permanently paralyzing some of his lower body.

Rapidly moving up the ramp due to the urgent matter getting irritated, the well-known writer, triggered the electronic doors, before receiving open sesame treatment, “just go towards the right and through the wide space,” an invisible voice vocalized.

“All right, Frank,” Ryan shouted arriving safely, and standing above the urinal, unleashed nature’s demands.

When the calling finished, he limped outside and due to the late-night hour, the graveyard library surroundings hinted Ryan, the mile markers are requesting attention.

Pressuring the ground using one crutch tip, the glass entryway slid apart, revealing a dark-haired blonde dressed, in an angler uniform.

“Linda,” Ryan greeted.

“How do you know my name?”

“Tag there,” Ryan pointed, lazily slumping his arm pits allowing them wooden arch rest time.

Hand over the heart, Linda smiled, coaxing the summer breeze to continue interacting with the artificial cooling system. “Are you the author Ryan Kelly? I read one of your books, “The Dead Fisherman” and we need to chat.”

“About?”

“The Beginning,” Linda folded her arms, “when the tackle bait tease lured a recent high school graduate, telling America’s future surf’s up and so is my time on earth.”

“He was eighteen, reached the draft age,” Ryan paused watching Linda pass him leaving the electronic device behind, ending the air invasion,

“Follow me,”

“Are you persuading me into a situation,” Ryan inquired, seeing the glare, reinforcing the strategy, rework the schedule.

Discovering two loitering chairs, both occupied a seat, “let me get this straight you tailed me for nearly an hour and half, to ask me about one of my published works?”

“No,” Linda answered, “you forgot your wallet. Your big wallet.”

Very grateful, Ryan thanked her, “I am glad I did not get pulled over,” the royalty-controlled employee mentioned.

“Father left me two Bait and Tackles, one Northbound, one serving the Southside,” Linda reported, “one hundred minutes apart.”

“So, you did not go out of your way?” Ryan relaxed.

“I am, filthy rich,” Linda halted staring into the dark, seeing a pinstriped suited elderly man appear, holding what seemed to be an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.

“Miss Trabue,” the friendly stranger acknowledged, “where are you off to now?”

“Pastor Tom,” Linda replied, “are you servicing the poor? Or just homeless.”

“Doing God’s work,” Pastor Tom defended, “young lady.”

“Just because my father never saw me marry does not mean I am a young lady,” mature Linda made clear.

“And who is this?”

“The world-famous author Ryan Kelly,”

Taking a step back, Pastor Tom realized the two were engaging in private intimate dialogue, “Mr. Kelly if that is your real name, not a pen one, to sell books, such an Irish Cat, you do know God made you the way you are, for a reason.”

“Yeah, powerful hands and fingers and they communicate all the time with a creative mind,” Ryan retaliated.

“You made a valid point, Mr. Kelly,” Pastor Tom commentated, “what makes you two think you can sit here and exchange words.”

“Besides, being two successful individuals?” Linda started.

“Meditating on a sultry summer night,” Ryan finished.

“But that is not how God intended things to be,” Pastor Tom grew angry.

“What are you going to do rewrite the script?” Linda questioned.

“Add different plotlines like squeaky clean big three network shows would do after watching a blockbuster movie,” Ryan challenged.

“Mr. Kelly, now it's the movies who use small screen episode storytelling to go on and on,”

“Let it be known it's still the keyboard that creates the big scene,”

Realizing the competitive reality, decided going in another way, Preacher Tom stepped aside, disappearing into the mist.

Walking out Ryan Kelly observed something missing, “the auto registered as PMS, no longer existed.”

“I thought PMS was yours,”

“No, honey,” Linda snickered, “those stood for Preacher Man Saint. I wear my identification, ‘Linda’”

Brushing off the explanation Ryan escorted Linda, “where are you spending the night?”

“I was going to do a few more miles, then”

“Well, I invested in a bed and breakfast right off the next exit,” Linda boasted, “it quickly turned a profit.”

“Really,” Ryan acted intrigued.

“I offer a comfortable bed,” Linda waited for passenger access, “and cook a nutritious breakfast.”

“Linda, do you even have a land-yacht?” Ryan curiously remarked.

“I do not own one,” Linda confessed, after granted copilot status, “how do you like your eggs? Over easy, properly seasoned, maybe?”

Welcoming the companionship Ryan reversed gears and followed directions, accepting domesticated training, enjoying Linda applying make-up during reflection activity time, spotting the “PMS” issue returning, creating a smirking grin, knowing ‘daddy’s coming home’.