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“Turn that shit off!” Miles yells from the backseat. He watches as Richard, riding shotgun, switches from fumbling with the GPS device to fumbling with the radio dials. But it doesn’t do any good. If there’s anything worse than country music on one station, it’s country music on every station. Finally, Richard lands on what sounds like Top 40 Hits for the Pathetically Tasteless.
“Is this better?” Richard asks over the grating tones of Maroon 5.
From the look of inquiry in his face, Miles can see that Richard honestly can’t tell. “You're joking, right?”
He mentally adds ‘musical education’ to the already long list of things he and Jim need to teach Richard about life in the modern world.
“Don’t matter anyhow. We’re here,” Jim announces, peering into the deepening darkness as he drives.
Miles looks out the window. It looks like the same backwoods they’ve been driving through since they left New Orleans earlier that afternoon. “Here where?”
His question is answered as they approach a gas station with a sign out front welcoming them to Bon Temps, Louisiana. Jim pulls up and rolls down the window.
“Hey!” he shouts at the attendant. “Got any idea where we could find a place to stay around here?”
“And something to eat,” Miles whispers. Jim repeats it for him in a bellow.
“Ya’ll better head over to Merlotte’s. Just a couple miles down this road and take a left. Can’t miss it. Only place in town. Ask for the owner, Sam Merlotte. He rents out some trailers behind the bar. He’ll probably let you have one for the night.”
They wave their thanks and continue on. Maroon 5 gives way to some bad U2 from the 90s. Miles shakes his head; after three years of being cut off from the outside world, he wants to hear something new, dammit.
“You sure you know where you’re going, boss?” Between the bad music and his hunger, Miles is feeling cranky. And apparently he isn’t the only one, because Jim immediately lays in on him.
“How many times I got to tell you not to call me that? I ain’t your boss anymore. I ain’t Jim either. Jim LaFleur… that all stopped when...” He trails off, and his shoulders slump.
Miles knows the only way to keep his friend from continuing down this path is to keep arguing. “Well I sure as hell am not going to start calling you Tom-freaking-Sawyer.”
“I ain’t Sawyer anymore, either. That ended… hell, I got over that before I even met you. Either of you.”
“How did you get over it?” Richard asks, with a strange twinkle in his eye.
“Long story. I’ll tell you some other time.”
Miles already knows the story, so he doesn’t press for details. What’s interesting, however, is that, through the rearview mirror, he catches Richard smiling a private little smile, like he knows something they don’t. Miles has noticed that Richard does that a lot. But since they’ve only really known him about a month, and given that Richard is going on 200 years old, he can give the guy a pass for coming off a little smug and mysterious sometimes.
“Well, just let me know what the verdict is when you’re done having your little identity crisis, okay?” he continues. “In the meantime, Jim, explain what we’re doing in bumblefuck nowhere?”
Jim’s only half paying attention to what he’s saying as he navigates them down a dark dirt road. “I told you. When my parents died, some relatives took me in for a couple of summers. They lived out here in Bon Temps. It’s the closest thing to a happy home I ever had, before the island. We stopped by your hometown. It’s my turn.”
The last thing Miles wants is for Jim to go into the dark place he so often needs snapping out of, so he refrains from pointing out that at least Encino had lights and commerce and an actual hotel, instead of what sounds like a trailer park for rent. So, instead all he says is, “Well, at least whenever we get around to visiting Richard’s hometown we’ll be on the beach. It’ll beat this place.”
“Actually, I was from an inland village,” Richard pipes up.
Miles slumps back into his seat. “Of course you were.”
In a minute, a neon sign beaming the word ‘Merlotte’s’ lets them know they’ve arrived. The lot’s almost full, so they pretty much just stop the car; Miles wouldn’t technically call it ‘parking’.
“Hopefully the owner is in tonight. Otherwise, we might have to camp,” Richard notes. He doesn’t sound displeased. After over 150 years on the island, Miles figures camping is more natural to Richard than sleeping in a hotel.
“I’ve done enough camping for the rest of my life, thanks,” Jim snaps back. But Miles knows Jim well enough to tell that he kind of misses it. And to be honest, as long as there’s no ‘running for your life’ involved, Miles wouldn’t mind too much either.
A dog… looks like a Collie… runs out of the woods and into the parking lot. Jim whistles at it, “Here, boy!” and snaps his fingers. Instead of coming to be petted, the dog just kind of looks at them, with a suspicious “Who are these people?” expression on its face. Jim shrugs, muttering, “Stupid dog,” under his breath.
On their way to the entrance, Jim, who’s suddenly all jovial now that he’s back in this middle-of-nowhere town, slaps Richard on the back. “Smell that, Ricky-boy? That’s what America smells like.”
“Like hamburgers and stale beer? Yeah, I’d say that’s about right,” Miles quips.
Richard gives them both a quizzical glance. “It smells exactly the same as it has everywhere else we’ve been during the past three weeks. Also, I have been in the US before this trip. Many times.”
“I know, I know,” Jim blusters.
The thing is, much as they’ve been saying that this whole road trip is for Richard’s education and benefit, Miles and Jim both know deep down what a load of bullshit that is. It’s really because they have no clue what to do with themselves back here in the real world. What are three guys who’ve long been presumed dead but who are now stinking rich (thanks to Miles’s diamonds and Richard’s mysterious bank accounts) supposed to do now, after everything they’ve been through?
Sure, he doesn’t know how to drive yet, or use the Internet, and he hasn’t seen any movies, but Richard would be perfectly fine without them, and they all know it. He’s really doing them a favor… After just two days of hiding out at Kate’s house in LA, Jim and Miles could tell there was no place for them in the ‘Aaron Has Two Mommies’ show, so they’d skipped out, dragging Richard with them. With no family, no friends, and a boatload of baggage, a road trip seemed like the best way to kill some time until they figure out what to do next.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Richard asks just before pushing the restaurant door open. “Someone might recognize you.”
“I haven’t been here since I was twelve years old. My relatives moved away at the same time. No one’ll remember me. And anyway, I’m supposed to be dead. If I know anything about people, it’s that they don’t see things that aren’t supposed to be there.”
It’s a good point, but Miles doesn’t have a chance to respond because he gets hit with an all-too-familiar wave of nausea as soon as they walk into the restaurant. It’s crowded inside, and a lot cozier than he’d expected. It’s like the whole town is there; although, with only one place to go, it isn’t too hard to guess why.
They stand awkwardly in the doorway for a minute before a skinny woman with red hair comes to greet them. After going a little slack-jawed at the sight of Richard, she shakes her head and says, “Hey there, I’m Arlene. Welcome to Merlotte’s! Don’t know where Jessica has gone off to, but I’ll get you boys some menus.” She goes over to the empty hostess stand, muttering, “Why am I the only one who ever does any work around here?” Aloud, she continues brightly, “We’re full up tonight, but you can take a seat at the bar and I’ll let you know if a table opens up.”
She shoots a concerned look at Miles and then says to Jim, “We only have menus in English. Do you think your friend will be okay?”
Jim cackles as Miles fumes, “I’m from Encino! Jesus Christ! Now I see why you---” But he stops himself before continuing with “---why you’re from here,” since they’re not supposed to let on about that.
Arlene gets flustered, and flutters around them. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“Don’t worry about it, Red,” Jim says. “I made the same mistake when I first met him.”
At the word ‘Red’, Arlene stops and looks more closely at Jim than she has before.
“Do I know you? You look real familiar.”
Jim is smooth as butter as he replies, “Don’t think so. I’d remember meeting someone like you.” She titters and Miles groans, but he has to admit that Jim plays a good game. With his practiced charm, flirting always works as a distraction, even though this particular bird’s sights are clearly set elsewhere.
“Well, it was worth asking… Anyway, you boys just holler if you need anything.” She moons at Richard before getting back to work. Miles rolls his eyes; this happens every single time they go out. Yeah, Richard’s handsome. Miles gets it. He just wishes everyone would move on, already.
“I thought you said no one would recognize you,” Miles whispers savagely.
Jim whispers back, “It’s under control. She can’t even place me.”
“Who is she?”
“Damned if I know. She might even be confusing me with someone else. Simmer down, champ.”
Miles rallies past the wooziness he still feels to remark, “These people all sound like you. It’s like I’m watching ‘Jim: This Is Your Life’.”
“What are you talking about?” Richard asks, just like he always does when they make a pop culture reference.
“I’ve got an Alabama accent. These people all have a Louisiana accent. Can’t you tell the difference?” Jim asks, giving them the same look of disbelief that Miles gave Richard about Maroon 5.
Thankfully, Richard backs him up. “No.”
“We’ll add ‘accent distinction’ to the list, then,” Jim replies. “For you and Miles.”
Richard, who, as Miles has been learning, is a hell of a lot more observant than his quiet demeanor would suggest, pats him on the shoulder and softly asks, “Are you feeling all right?”
It’s the feeling Miles usually only gets around dead bodies when his power (or whatever you want to call it) kicks in. But given that you don’t usually find corpses in restaurants, the only other possible explanation is that he’s carsick. However, he’d rather kill himself than let Jim hear him confessing something like that. He doesn’t need any more fodder for teasing.
“It’s just the stench of whatever they’re cooking in this dive getting to me,” he says, hoping Jim won’t see through his lie---Richard, either.
As he’s looking at the floor to keep from falling over, Miles hears someone drawl, “Now, there ain’t many people I’d let get away with a crack like that about my cooking, but you boys is too delicious.” Miles looks up and sees a guy with a feather dangling from one ear and wearing what looks like a ladies’ top---the kind where it’s low in the front and ties up at the neck. Miles remembers Juliet telling him what that was called, but damned if he can remember now.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and then gets up. He’s had to pee since Baton Rouge, and now seems like a good time, what with feeling sick and this dude maybe flirting with them… probably just with Richard, though, if experience is any indication. “I’ll be back.”
He spots an arrow pointing to the bathroom and follows it past the waitress station, and past a door marked “Office” that’s slightly ajar. Inside, something he’d rather not have seen catches his eye: a man standing there, buck naked, and swearing to himself. The guy comes closer to the door and pokes his head out. “Tara! Can you come here for a second?”
Only then does he see Miles. He blushes, and pushes the door shut, only to have it opened again when the girl who’d been pouring drinks behind the bar runs down the hallway and pushes it open. “Jesus, Sam! Why’re you naked?”
“It doesn’t matter right now. I just need you to take the keys to my apartment and get me some clothes.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”
Thankfully, at least this doesn’t sound like some sort of skeevy sexual harassment thing. But all the same, it’s already much more than Miles needs or wants to know about, so he keeps on going down the hallway, hoping he doesn’t puke before he gets to the bathroom. The wonky feeling is only getting worse---stronger than it’s ever been before. He’s about to enter the men’s bathroom when he hears it.
Oh god, he’s here, he’s here, what am I going to do?
Miles looks around, but no one’s there. And even if someone were, it wouldn’t matter, because he already knows the voice is coming from inside his head. Even though for the past five minutes he’s been trying to pretend it’s something else, he’s known the difference his whole life, ever since his super-power, as Hurley used to call it, first manifested itself years ago.
It’s a dead person. Their voices always sound like this---foggy yet distinct, too close yet coming into his head from a distance (probably some sort of metaphysical distance that Miles prefers not to think about).
He usually only gets the last couple of sentences they were thinking before they died, and he hears them over and over in a loop, so he isn’t surprised when the voice---young, female---repeats the thought a couple more times while he’s in the john.
The only explanation is that someone’s buried under this restaurant, which doesn’t say anything good about the place’s hygiene. But then again, it’s not like Miles expected stellar things from this town anyway.
By the time he gets back to his friends, the flirty guy in the blouse is pouring beer for Jim and Richard (probably because the bartender went to get the owner some clothes, Miles thinks).
“I’m Lafayette. I’ll be your chef tonight. So where’re all y’all from?” he asks, setting the pint in front of Jim much more saucily than is necessary.
Miles waits for Jim to spin a tale. Once a conman, always a conman; Jim takes pride in coming up with good lies.
“We’re from all over. I’m from Alabama.”
“I could tell. Soon as you opened your hick mouth.”
Jim looks over at Miles, triumphant. “See?”
“Whatever.” Miles is too busy observing that Jim’s going for the truth today (bold) to bother responding to the accent thing.
“Miles is from California. Richard here, he’s Spanish… Or something.”
“I’m from the Canary Islands, not the mainland proper,” Richard explains.
“So how’d y’all meet?” Lafayette asks, leaning sexily over the bar.
“Stop hitting on the customers, Lafayette!” Arlene snaps as she walks by to drop off an order.
“Why? So you can?”
Arlene purses her lips in annoyance. “Where’s Tara anyway? Isn’t she supposed to be bartending tonight?”
“She ran outta here like a bat outta hell a minute ago. Said she had to get Sam some clothes.”
“Is he naked again? That’s the second time this week!”
Miles raises an eyebrow. This Sam either has a mental problem or some weird kink Miles doesn’t want to know about. And he’s apparently the guy they’re supposed to ask about finding a place to stay tonight. Great.
Lafayette just shrugs. “Don’t question it, just roll with the crazy.” He turns his attention back to them. “Now where were we? Oh right, you were gonna to tell me you how all y’all met.”
“It was… it was a kind of camping vacation in the tropics,” Jim continues, flashing a dimple. “Richard here was sort of the camp director, weren’t you?”
Richard’s been getting used to Jim’s horsing around, so he smiles and answers very seriously, “I ran things for many years.”
“Yeah, and he gave us a real hard time, didn’t you now?”
“I was under orders.” Richard looks genuinely regretful now, and Miles hopes Jim’ll know to stop before Richard starts going into one of his funks. Geez, the two of them. As the one with the least amount of baggage, Miles often finds himself playing the pick-me-up role.
Lafayette just watches them bicker back and forth between themselves, like he’s either trying to figure out what the hell is going on, or else he’s trying to figure out which one of the three of them he has the best shot with. Luckily, there isn’t much time to make any more progress, because Tara runs back in, carrying an outfit in her arms.
“What took you so long, whore? I’ve been pouring your rounds for you,” Lafayette teases, and Miles can see that he and this girl are a lot like him and Jim---mean, but well-meaning.
“Shut up, bitch,” she calls as she runs past them and back down the hall. Miles hears her yelling, “Now get dressed!” before coming back to the front.
Lafayette points at Miles. “This one needs a beer,” he tells her before sauntering off.
“What do you want?” she spits, oozing hostility.
Yikes. Miles almost wishes Lafayette could come back. But before he can answer, it happens again.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Last thing I need is to be all disgusting in front of everyone.
It’s the same girl’s voice, but now she’s on a completely different tangent than she’d been on the last time he’d heard her. This has never happened before. The dead stick to one short train of thought and that’s it. That’s all they have time for before they’re gone.
“Hellooo? Do you want a beer, or don’t you?” Tara yells, bringing Miles back to earth, or at least to the land of the living.
Richard notices that Miles is out of it, and gets concerned. “What’s---”
Miles cuts him off. He doesn’t know what’s wrong and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. Not until he has some idea. “Becks is fine. Thanks.”
Tara eyes them suspiciously and slams the beer on the counter so hard that it spills. “We haven’t had the best track record with strangers lately in this town. What brings you fellows to Bon Temps?”
“Just passing through, sweetheart,” Jim sing-songs, but his charms don’t work on this one they way they did on Arlene.
“I ain’t anybody’s sweetheart.” But underneath the sass, Miles notices she seems kind of sad and brittle, in exactly the way Jim gets sad and brittle when he thinks about everything that’s happened.
Sam, now fully dressed, comes out. When he spots Miles, he grimaces, his eyes giving the three of them the same, “Who are these people?” expression that that dog outside did. For all that Jim has talked this town up, people here aren’t too friendly. Even the dogs.
“That’s Sam,” Miles tells his friends.
Richard, in full business mode, gets up and goes to shake Sam’s hand. “Are you Sam Merlotte?”
“Yes, I am. How can I help you?” He seems like a nice enough guy, but the suspicion is still there.
“My friends and I were told that you can rent us a place to stay for the night.”
Sam checks the other two of them out. “I’ve only got one trailer left, and it’s pretty small.”
“We’re used to cramped quarters. Whatever you have will be fine.”
Sam shrugs. “Okay, sure. It’ll be $50 for the night. Just let me go to my office and get the keys.”
Tara, who’s been listening in and ignoring her other customers, remarks, “All y’all gonna share one itty bitty trailer?”
“Guess so, unless one of us goes home with somebody tonight.” Jim winks. It’s a good thing Miles doesn’t think he's seriously propositioning her, because it’s another strike out. Tara just shakes her head and frowns with sassy disapproval.
Arlene comes back, apparently on a little downtime between tables. Addressing a middle-aged woman a few seats down the bar from where they’re sitting, she says, “Doesn’t this guy look so familiar?”
Here they go again. Miles knew it was a bad idea to come.
The woman peers drunkenly at Jim. “You know, he does. Can’t think who he reminds me of, though.”
Jim puts his hands up, realizing this is getting serious now. “I swear, ladies, you don’t know---”
Across the room, some drunk teenagers start hollering obscenities. “Hey, you dumb shit waitress! We need some beers over here!” One of them staggers towards Arlene and smacks her on the ass so hard that she falls over.
Jim’s up in a flash and catches Arlene before she hits the ground. “I’ve got you, Carrots.”
Arlene just stares up at him in a daze while Sam yells at the guys to get the hell out of his restaurant and chases them out the door.
“I knew it!” Arlene suddenly exclaims. “It is you! Little Jimmy Ford! He was the only person who ever called me ‘Carrots’.”
The middle-aged woman Arlene had just spoken to comes closer. “Heavens, you’re right!”
Jim had been too busy getting ready to deny to have looked at this woman before. But now that he does, his jaw drops and he’s too taken aback to remember to lie. “Jane Bodenhouse?” he whispers.
“Jimmy!” She wraps him up in a hug that Miles thinks is supposed to be the kind your aunt gives you, but given Jane Bodenhouse’s current state of intoxication, her hand slips a little too far down Jim’s back to be purely maternal. “Still cute as pie. And still got that smile, don’t you?”
Arlene leans back and looks immensely pleased with herself for figuring it out. “Lord, I had the biggest crush on you when I was a little girl. You didn’t even know I was alive. We used to call you ‘Dimples’ when you weren’t around.”
Oh thank goodness. Everyone’s distracted, so they won’t notice me crying.
Miles wishes weird, whiny, dead chick would shut the fuck up already, because he wants to pay attention to what’s going on here; this is good stuff.
“Sam, this is Jimmy Ford,” Arlene gushes to her bewildered boss, who’s back from taking care of the assholes. “He used to live here… what is it now? Must be almost 25 years ago.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sam says slowly, obviously not sure how much he’s supposed to care about this.
“Yeah, it’s been a long time,” Jim admits, now that the game is completely up. Miles and Richard exchange a look; they don’t have any plans in place for a situation like this.
“I remember that name,” Tara pipes up. “Something about someone from Bon Temps being in that plane crash three years ago. Arlene wouldn’t shut up about it.”
Jim looks at Richard, and Richard looks at Miles. Miles shrugs; he has no idea what to do.
“Yeah,” Jane says, now that the excitement of discovery is wearing off. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
She’s so damn loud that by now everyone in the bar is listening to their conversation and waiting for Jim to answer.
“Well…” Jim’s always been good at lying in a pinch, but this one’s beyond him, Miles can tell. But it doesn’t matter, because the townspeople seem to be filling it all in for them.
“Yeah, you went down in that Oceanic Airlines crash. The one where the only survivors went missing all over again last month,” someone else says.
“All of them except that Austen woman,” Arlene corrects. “The good lord took all the pure souls, and left her. Well, I guess he also took that Iraqi terrorist friend of theirs, but I’m sure he had it comin’. I bet you anything he’s the reason their plane crashed. Both times.”
“I thought the Austen woman went missing along with the others?” some other lady pipes up.
“Nah. Turns out she was off ‘camping’ with her son when the second plane went missing,” Arlene explains. “That’s why the parole officers weren’t able to get in touch with her for a week and a half. Suspicious, if you ask me. Who takes a three-year-old camping? Murderous bitches like her shouldn’t be allowed to have children.”
Jim’s a good enough con-man that he doesn’t need to physically bite his tongue, but he’s not good enough that Miles can’t see the futile rage building in his eyes as this woman talks smack about their friends.
“Camping, you said?” Lafayette, who’d come out of the kitchen as soon as the hubbub started, stares hard at the three of them.
And that’s when Miles realizes this is the first time they’ve really interacted with anyone since they’ve been back. He knows this because it’s also the first time they’ve had to lie. Only now does he understand what happened to their friends who left the island the first time---why Hurley had wound up in a mental institution, why Jack had pulled a Marilyn, why Sayid… well, Miles had never quite understood that part. Anyway, he hopes that isn’t what’s in store for him, Jim, and Richard.
A serious-looking old man stomps towards them and gets up in Jim’s grill. “Do you remember me, Jimmy boy?”
Jim clearly does, because he goes pale and weak-kneed in a way that he didn’t back when Richard’s people were ambushing them with flaming arrows, or even when they were all dying of time-traveling nosebleed.
“Sheriff Dearborn?” he stammers, and Miles resolves to buy this guy some drinks and make him spill the beans on whatever dirt he’s got on Jim to make him so scared.
“In the flesh. Now, you’d better tell us exactly what’s going on,” he orders sternly. “It’s a simple question, son. Are you, or are you not, dead?”
“Well…” Jim starts, but Arlene freaks out and cuts him off, pointing and flailing all over the place.
“You ain’t… you ain’t a vampire, are you?” She backs up in panic, now also looking at Miles and Richard as though they might be, too.
Miles decides that everyone in this town is completely insane.
Jim tilts his head and gives her a withering look. “A vampire? Come on now. There’s no such thing.”
It’s the most sensible thing that’s come out of anyone’s mouth all night, but it doesn’t get the reaction it should, because everyone in the bar starts to giggle.
“Good one,” Tara laughingly approves, though of what, Miles can’t tell.
Richard’s been watching everyone, in that way quiet but wise way he has about him. “I think she means it,” he says.
“Hate to break it to you, but vampires? Are imaginary,” Miles reminds everyone.
Lafayette squints and says, “You know, I really don’t think they know.”
The voice in his head chooses this moment to start up again.
I wonder if his mama cut his cell phone off again. No, he’d have come anyway if he still loved me…
“You don’t know about vampires? Where’ve you been living for the past few months? Under a rock?” Sam asks, distracting Miles from The Mystery of the Chatty Dead Girl yet again.
“Worse,” he answers.
“It’s been all over the news,” Arlene says with disgust. “Vampires. Out and about and legitimate. With rights and everything. They’re everywhere.”
“And they’re kind of sexy,” Jane adds, with a drunken little burp.
Richard looks over at Miles. “Wait a minute…” he starts, and Miles knows what he’s talking about.
They haven’t watched or read much news since they’ve been back. Sure, they did the obligatory check to see if WWIII had started or something up while they’d been away, but Kate had assured them that no, it hadn’t. And to be honest, it’s not just hard to catch up on three years of news; it’s boring. So, they’d quickly stopped trying. Jim spends most nights reading novels that have come out in the past 30 years, Richard goes on long walks by himself to soak up his new life on the mainland, and Miles has been catching up on the seasons of ‘The Sopranos’ and ‘The Wire’ that he’s missed.
Thing is, while flipping through channels one night, they had seen something that looked like news about vampire rights. Miles had written it off as some sort of fake news comedy show. Richard’s mind had been totally blown, but Miles had pieced it back together with a lesson on the magic and wonder of Jon Stewart. And that had been the end of that.
Apparently not.
“You’re telling me there are vampires? Real vampires?” Miles says. “That’s impossible.”
But as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he somehow knows it’s true. Because who is he to be telling anyone what’s impossible? Not after smoke monsters and time travel and immortal douchebags who live in feet. Not with freak-of-nature Richard standing right next to him, and some dead chick in his head who won’t shut the hell up.
“Yeah, we’ve got one right here, actually. Now where’s …?” Arlene says, looking around. When she doesn’t see whoever it is she’s looking for, she shrugs and says, “Anyway, are you vampires?”
“This one has too nice of a tan to be a vampire,” Jane coos at Richard.
“We are not,” Richard states.
“Then how’re you still alive, Jimmy? Nobody survived that crash except the six who came back, and even they’re all dead now, except for the lady,” the Sheriff says.
“We’re not really at liberty to talk about this,” Miles says as authoritatively as possible, but it’s no good.
The Sheriff leans into Jim. “Son, if you don’t tell me everything, right now, I’ll tell your friends here all about you and Kenya Bowles in the cemetery in 1981. I have a feeling they haven’t heard that story. ”
“No, we don’t know anything about that. Care to share, Jimmy boy?” Miles is more than intrigued. After three years of putting up with Jim’s tough-guy bullshit, the tables are about to be turned.
“Good ol’ Kenya. Is she still in Bon Temps? Gotta look her up tomorrow,” Jim says nervously, trying to change the subject. But Arlene isn’t having any of it.
“And I’ll tell them all about why old Gran Stackhouse had to tan your hide that time after church. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t think I won’t,” she adds.
Jim looks around, helpless and terrified. “Son of a bitch.”
*****************************************************************************
They get a super-condensed, psycho-free, completely boring version that, to be honest, Miles isn’t sure he would even want to be true. But he gets why Jim’s telling it like this; although she isn’t here, Kate’s cover still has to be protected.
So, as far as these people are concerned, Jim did indeed survive the crash of Oceanic 815. He’d made it to the totally not-crazy island Jack and Kate and all of them had pretended to have been on, but he’d chosen to disappear before the official rescue and subsequent media storm. He’d asked the rest of them to pretend he’d died in the crash. Miles and Richard are just some traveling pals he’d picked up on his way back to the States.
“But why would you want people to think you were dead?” Arlene asks, and despite her previous horror at the thought that Jim might be a vampire, she actually seems kind of disappointed that he isn’t. Typical.
“Just some trouble I didn’t want to deal with.” Jim fakes a guilty, secretive conscience, and even the usually implacable Richard has to roll his eyes.
“You in trouble with the law, son?” the Sheriff asks gravely.
“Not any US law, I can assure you, sir.”
“Well, then, I guess that’s all right.”
The townspeople lose interest after that. After a few “crazy story, man”s and “well, welcome back, Jimmy”s, they all either head back to their tables or back to work. Soon, they’re the only three people sitting at the bar.
“So, what happened with Kenya Bowles?” Richard asks once everything’s died down.
“No, start with the one where Gran Stackhouse tanned your hide,” Miles interrupts.
Jim shakes his head and downs the shot Tara’s just poured for him. “In your dreams. Man, that was close.”
Tara puts out three more shot glasses and pours. “This is on the house,” she says.
Lafayette, who’s finally bringing their food, asks, “You cleared that with Sam?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” she replies, not taking her eyes off the three of them.
“What are these for?” Richard asks.
“Just a little Bon Temps custom to welcome old friends back home. You get three shots. Since you two are with Jim, you get ‘em, too.” She smiles wide, and Miles notes that she’s actually quite pretty when she isn’t scowling.
Oh god, now that they’re all done talking to those guys, I have to get back to work. I wonder if he’s seen me…
That’s it. It’s official. Miles is schizophrenic, because there’s no way a dead person would be reacting to shit that’s happening right now the way this girl is. Since he’s finally cracked up---god knows he has more than enough cause---he might as well get drunk before he gets committed. Miles downs his shot and signals for another. Tara grins sexily as she pours.
Only after they’ve all finished their third does Miles realize, through hazy vision, that her smile is danger, pure and distilled.
Fuck.
“And now,” she says smugly, “y’all are gonna to tell me what really happened.”
Lafayette, who’s been milling around (no wonder Arlene was complaining about being the only one who works around here), comes to stand next to her. “Bitch is right. There is too much camping going on for me to believe you people is doin’ it voluntarily.” He shivers at the thought.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Richard slurs, and even though he’s feeling kind of nervous, and yep, still schizophrenic, Miles laughs at him. The only thing more hilarious than a scared Richard is a drunk Richard.
But Tara stands her ground. “Arlene and all of them may have bought that load of bullshit you just dished out, but I’ve been conned one too many times to fall for a weak job like that. Now, talk.”
They’re too drunk to protest, and she knows it. She planned it that way.
“First,” Richard says, more insightful than anybody as drunk as he is has any right to be, “you have to tell us what happened here to make everyone so suspicious of strangers.”
Tara leans forward. “So you’ve noticed, huh?”
Jim chuckles, his eyes unfocused and his better judgment turned off. “Richard has lots of experience of being ‘hostile’ to outsiders. But if we tell you, you gotta promise not to tell anyone. Ever.”
“Like I don’t have better things to do than yack about other people’s business.”
She and Jim shake. “Okay, it’s a deal.”
*****************************************************************************
This time, after Tara and Lafayette are done telling them about everything the town’s been through in the past few months (and seriously… orgies?! They had mass hypnotic orgies?! Miles would take Bon Temps’s weird shit over Whackjob Island’s weird shit any day of the week), all three of them tell the story, and this time they tell the truth. All of it.
“Now, that just doesn’t make any damn sense,” Tara says when they’re finished.
“Which part?” Miles snorts.
“The bomb wouldn’t have gone off if you hadn’t tried to diffuse it? But it still went off when you did?”
“Exactly what I said!” Jim exclaims, and he beams at her. She beams back.
I was never good enough for Hoyt anyway.
“Shut up!” Miles, finally fed up, yells at the air. Everyone looks at him like he’s grown an extra head.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jim asks.
“Nothing. Just… just forget it.”
“Now, let’s back up a couple hundred years,” Lafayette interjects, batting his fake eyelashes at Richard. “So you’re telling me that some man gave you a ‘special touch’ and you immediately agreed to become his immortal companion?”
“Something like that, yes,” Richard admits, and blinks his (shockingly) not-fake eyelashes right back.
Lafayette shakes his head in defeat and stands up straight. “Well, I’m out. There ain’t no way I can compete with epic shit like that.”
Miles has never thought about it like that before but… damn. He stares at Richard like he’s seeing him for the first time. And judging by the way Richard drops his head and stares sheepishly into his plate when he catches him looking, Miles has a feeling Lafayette has hit scarily close to the mark, there.
Perhaps Richard’s in less desperate need of getting laid than he and Jim had realized.
“Uh oh. Trouble just walked in,” Tara seethes. Miles swivels in his seat to see what she’s looking at. A man and a woman have just entered the bar. They’re both pale in a way that Miles didn’t know people could be pale and they’re oozing smugness in a way Miles has never seen outside of Ben Linus. Now that he knows, there's only one thing they can be. Just when he thought he couldn’t be surprised by anything ever again… Vampires. In real life. As Marty McFly would say: “Heavy.”
But that’s not all. Miles gets hit with a new wave of nausea, and this time, there’s a totally different woman’s voice in his head, one that’s cold and cruel, instead of sweet and sad.
If Lafayette calls me a whore, I will rip that halter top off him and dye it in his own blood.
That’s when it clicks. He isn’t schizophrenic. He’s doing the same thing he’s always done: hearing the most recent thoughts of dead people, plain and simple.
Lafayette looks terrified and waves slowly at the woman. “Hey, Pam.”
Pam smiles fakely back.
“Can I help you?” Sam asks in a tone that sounds more like he’s asking them to leave.
“We’re looking for Sookie,” the man---vampire---says.
“Fuck you,” Tara spits, with an impressive amount of spunk.
If Sookie didn’t care about this girl, I would have shut her insolent mouth a long time ago.
“Where is Sookie, by the way?” Miles overhears Sam whisper to Arlene.
“Why are you asking me? It’s not like she ever comes to work. It’s not like anyone ever comes to work,” Arlene snits back.
Tara loses her temper for the millionth time that night. “Oh, quit your bitchin', Arlene. Lafayette’s here, Jessica’s here, I’m here…”
Is the baby vampire here, too? I could not be less in the mood for her.
“There are baby vampires?” Miles repeats without thinking---his inside voices and outside voices are too mixed up for him to realize he’s speaking out loud or that the vampire was only thinking.
Pam checks out her nails, bored and annoyed. “Eric, let’s go. Sookie isn’t here. And this place makes me itchy,” she deadpans.
But Eric isn’t listening. In less than a second, faster than any human being could possibly move, Eric grabs Miles by the neck, runs across the room, and shoves him up against the wall so that his feet are dangling at least two feet off the ground. Eric’s face is about three inches from his own, and with a little click, his fangs pop out and sit over his lower lip.
Everyone screams. Miles probably would, too, if the grip around his neck were less tight.
Yeah, Tara and Lafayette have just filled them in, but Miles hasn’t yet had a chance to process the news enough to deal with this. Vampires. Holy shit.
“Are you in my head?” Eric demands, his eyes searching.
“Uh… no? No no no,” Miles stammers, using the little oxygen Eric’s allowing him.
Intriguing. He could be even more useful than the Stackhouse girl.
Eric sniffs him. Aloud, he asks, “What are you?”
It’s not a question anyone’s ever asked Miles before. It’s always been pretty obvious, or so he thought. He’s an easy-going under-achiever with a closed case of daddy issues, a fondness for fish tacos, and an inexplicable ability to hear dead people.
“Put him down,” a stern voice from across the room says. Eric turns around, and Richard is standing there, eyes blazing. This isn’t the naïve, slightly bumbling fish-out of water they tease about never having used duct tape. This, right here, is the Richard who had Miles tied up and interrogated the first time they ever met. It’s the Richard Alpert who could haul around a leaking a hydrogen bomb like it was no big deal. This is Richard mother-fucking Alpert, the sight of whom once almost caused Juliet to wet her pants in terror.
Even Eric must sense that he’s in the presence of someone at least a little bit special, because he slackens his grip around Miles’s neck slightly, and gazes searchingly at Richard.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who’s dealt with worse things than you,” Richard quietly replies.
“Then you must have no idea who I am.”
Never one to be out-manlied, Jim steps up beside Richard. Women scream some more as he pulls out a gun out of his pants, cocks it, and aims. “I don’t care if you’re a male model, Brunhilde, or goddamn Tiny Tim all grown up. Nobody lays a hand on my people. Now. Put. Him. Down.”
It’s pretty badass, but the thing is, even though nothing sobers you up like a vampire attack, Jim has four shots of whiskey in him, and if he misses by an inch, it’ll be Miles's brains on the wall, not Eric's.
His stomach sinks when Eric’s only reaction to his friends’ threats is laughter. “Cute.”
The only thing worse than finding himself playing the role of the damsel in distress is the fact that the so-called heroes, while doing their best, are being pretty damn ineffectual.
Pam crosses the room and strokes Jim’s cheek with a fingernail. In a sickly sweet voice she asks, “Is this baby’s first vampire encounter? ‘Cause you know, bullets won’t hurt us.”
Jim shivers under her touch and looks weakly at Tara. “Garlic?”
“If garlic did anything, Lafayette’s cooking would have scared us off the second we walked in,” Pam answers.
These humans... always so unimaginative. They never remember to rescind the invitation.
Miles runs the risk of confirming the fact that he really can read Eric’s mind, but judging from the stupid, hangdog expression on the face of every single person in this bar, there’s nothing to do but out himself. Because now that he’s heard it, he does remember that being part of vampire lore.
With the little bit of air Eric’s allowing him, he croaks, “You gotta rescind the invitation.”
Eric’s eyes narrow. He knows. Thankfully, Jim catches on quickly. “Hey, you, Nudist Boy! This is your place. Kick them out,” he growls.
Sam steps up, but before he can say anything, Eric lets go. Miles crumples to the ground, gasping for air like a fish on dry land.
“If Sookie does come in, let her know we’re looking for her.”
Eric takes a last look at Miles. And we’ll be looking for you, too.
Without another word, he and his friend leave. The entire bar breathes a sigh of relief, and everyone starts gossiping at their own tables.
“What the hell was that?” Tara asks Miles once he’s staggered back to his seat, still holding his neck. There’ll be a bruise in the morning.
“It’s… I think it’s part of my thing. You know, my hearing dead people thing we told you about,” he says slowly, piecing it together as he speaks. “I think I just read their minds. Because, you know, they’re dead.”
“You definitely should meet Sookie,” she says. “She reads minds, too. But not vampire minds. Only living people’s. And she’s in good with Eric. Lafayette went from sleeping in a dungeon to having a brand new car just because she put in a good word. I’ll tell her to do the same for you. Don’t you worry.”
“Not sure I want to count on that one,” Miles replies.
“You know, we could use someone like you around all the time,” Sam says. “We’ve got a lot of vampires around here whose heads I’d like to get in.”
This reminds him of something. “Arlene mentioned awhile ago that there was a vampire here. Other than them.”
“Yeah, Jessica. She’s our night hostess. She’s all right, though. Not like those two.” Sam points at a smoking hot redhead with a sad expression who’s standing by the entrance. She looks like the kind of girl the voice in his head would belong to.
“And who’s Hoyt?”
Lafayette points to a guy at a nearby table. He catches the determined gleam in Miles’s eyes and gets excited. “What’re you plotting?”
“Just trying to make the voices stop,” Miles says and hops off his bar stool.
“We all trying to make the voices stop, honey,” Lafayette responds, but Miles is already up and walking towards Hoyt, who’s looking sad, too, sitting quietly while his friends horse around.
“You can’t let this thing with Jessica keep you down,” one of them says as Miles approaches. “You gotta get back out there.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Hoyt replies, drawing patterns in the table with his finger.
“Hoyt?” Miles asks.
He looks up, surprised at being addressed. “Yeah. Do I know you?”
Miles lets out a deep breath. Speaking really quickly he blurts out, “You need to tell Jessica you’re not mad, man. If you want her back---and I really hope you do, because she’s driving me fucking nuts, I swear---just go over to her right now and tell her it’s back on.”
“What do you know about me and Jessica?” Hoyt asks suspiciously. “You only just rolled into town with that Jimmy guy today.”
“I know plenty, trust me. She’s still into you. Can’t stop thinking about you. And look at her.” Miles points. “She’s hot. And seems nice enough, or at least she would be if she ever stopped crying over you. And the whole vampire thing’s got to be a turn-on, right? What’s the problem?”
“She’s been crying about me?” he asks hopefully.
“All night.”
There’s a pause, and then Hoyt looks around at his friends and gets up. “I’ll see you guys later, okay?”
“What was all that about?” Richard asks when Miles gets back to the bar, where Jim, Tara, and a bottle of Maker’s are starting what promises to be the world’s most insane game of never-have-I-ever.
“Just taking care of a little mental health,” he says.
“So, what do you think of ol’ Bon Temps, Enos?” Jim asks while Tara drinks after losing on ‘never have I ever been possessed’. They both look like they’re having fun and, for the first time since The Incident, Miles gets the feeling that someday, Jim might be okay again.
He looks at Richard, who, after his little moment of hard-coreness, seems like he’s finally got his mojo back.
He looks over at Jessica, who, in between bouts of making out with Hoyt, trains her eyes on him.
Hey, whatever your name is… Thanks. Now get out of my fucking head.
He winks at her, and she winks back.
Yeah… things are going to be fine. But not to get too mushy, he feigns disaffectedness when he replies, “I guess this place could be worse. And on the bright side, I think your little identity crisis is over.”
“What are you talking about?”
Miles slaps Jim on the back. “Well, at least I know what to call you now, Dimples.”