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Toll Booth
by Michael Aronovitz
The volume of this book corresponds to 116 paperback pages.
James Raybeck has been sitting at a small toll station along Route 79 for almost 40 years now, doing a job that no one else but him could stand for so long. Former colleagues report of fainting spells, strange visions, apparitions and frequent anaemia.
James, however, knows that these mysterious incidents have something to do with him, because the past of the toll station does not come to rest, a past that he has decisively shaped. He also knows that he has to pay a damn high price for it. In the certainty of his imminent death James tells his story - the story of a misunderstood friendship with the coolest guy in school, Kyle Skinner...
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker präsentiert, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Sonder-Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks und BEKKERpublishing are imprints of
© by Author / Cover: Based on motifs with Steve Mayer, 2020
© this issue 2020 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westfalen in arrangement with Edition Bärenklau, published by Jörg Martin Munsonius.
The imagined people have nothing to do with actually living people. Identical names are random and not intended.
All rights reserved.
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Anemia: a condition in which the blood is deficient in red blood cells, in hemoglobin, or in total volume.
Prolog
My name is James Raybeck, and if you are reading this message, I am already dead.
It most probably took about two weeks to work through all the light-weights trying to make it all night in the booth just once for the thrill of it. It probably took another two to put feelers out past Westville and come up absolutely empty in a serious search for long-term toll collectors to work the graveyard shift. I would estimate it was another three or four working days to rush through the paperwork issuing the green light for removal, and a few more for the dismantling, the demolition of the concrete pad beneath, and the excavation of the ground under that.
It is no secret to the townspeople of Westville that the Siegal Group claimed back in ’74 that the footer under the base was never properly surveyed and assessed while Runnameade Engineering gave the quicker OK for the construction of the pad, and later, the single toll booth at the base of the exit ramp off the Route 79 overpass. Everyone and their mothers knew that Siegal never really cared so much about that initial pour (small beans) or the possible flaw in the footer (a technicality to be used for leverage). Their real interest was in the contract for an entire toll plaza, a complicated network of lighting systems and road signs, a restaurant complex, a gas station complete with plumbing of its own, and a double-yellow two-way straight through to Main Street. It was Goliath’s vision. Risky, gargantuan costs up front, and when it all came down to whose bid was chosen, Ed Runnameade was the now late Mayor Smitherbridge’s second cousin, and his middle boy was just starting out on his own with Runnameade Concrete, Road Systems, Builders, and Wreckers. The easiest (and most expeditious) solution was dumping in the backfill, pouring the concrete, and enjoying the highest initial profit margin that a simple guard shack, traffic signal lamp, and barrier gate arm would bring despite the horrible things that happened right there at the edge of Scutters Woods.
Since the present-day removal of the booth itself will be the first item of business (the current governor is married to a Siegal) and certain individuals in current positions of power downtown have been waiting for an excuse to move forward with the closure of this particular chapter in Westville history no matter what the cost, I would estimate you are reading this approximately five weeks after my demise, six at the outside. A new contractor recommended by the conglomerate now known as Siegal/TriState Industries, initially represented by some twenty-five-year-old kid with a hangover from last night’s adventures at the Pleasure Chest Gentleman’s Club out on the Pike, will have found this packet of writing long before his team has taken out the safety glass, disengaged the roof support channels, and used mini-grinders to cut through the welds bonding the wall panels.
He will have found this writing in its manila envelope under the storage cabinet that I bolted to the floor with wedge anchors last February. I kept the night-time stuff in that steel case, the lot consisting of a pair of Embury Luck-E-Lite Kerosene traffic lanterns, a Streamline Fire Vulcan flashlight, and a pair of PF 500 power flares, meant to be of bland disinterest to the dayshift employees: Tim Clements Monday through Thursday, and Frank Hillboro the long weekend crew chief. And just in case one of them had gotten a wild hair up his ass, unscrewed the bolts, and moved the cabinet before I died of “natural causes”? Well, I do carry a Ruger LCP .380 for protection. I would have had no problem turning it on myself. It has been a long road, my friend.
Since the age of seventeen I have dedicated my life to this toll booth, this literal sanctuary, this metaphorical prison, Monday through Monday, 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. Cal Ripken’s got nothing on me. If you entered the town of Westville, Indiana, from Route 79, down Reed Road and through Scutters Woods between the years of 1978 and 2021 after the sun dipped below the horizon, you did it on my watch.
I endure.
When this structure went up, the first toll collectors on graveyard shift initially complained of feeling faint. Then came rumors of severe palpitations, followed by stories of visions in the windows, always at the edge of sight, teasing the periphery of the given operator’s view of the 360-degree sliding glass safety panels around him. Some claimed it was a boy laughing maniacally and then being decapitated from behind, while others swore it was a woman ripping apart an embryo. After two short weeks, the booth almost came down. I dropped out of high school to save it. I had no choice.
Within days of my first moments on the job, I started taking Geritol to up my iron and B vitamin counts. It was like a Band-Aid on an amputation. The visions were bad enough, but the blackouts were disastrous. In the first month I was woken up from a dead faint three times, twice by customers laying on their horns, and once in August when a young waitress from Kulpswood actually exited her vehicle, opened the portal door, and helped me off the floor. I approached my doctor and was refused medicine for anemia, which I showed no signs of in my life outside of the booth.
I thickened up my blood the old-fashioned way. I went on a “diet” including high-fat stuff like liver and whole milk. Since my late teens I have consistently eaten breakfasts made of a minimum of five egg yolks, three large links of Hatfield sausage, home fries smothered in onions, and Jewish hallah covered with butter. My lunches have been constructed of various red meats, and my dinners have always included drawn butter, fried side dishes, and cheeses. Between meals I’ve pretty much settled