transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] The Truth.

Speaker 2:
[00:01] This is The Truth, I'm Jonathan Mitchell. And The Truth is taking a break right now, and we'll be back with all new stories in May. So we wanted to take this opportunity to introduce you to another show called Alice Isn't Dead. And after eight years, they are returning with a new sequel series called Don't Tell Alice. It's available wherever you get your podcasts. And today we're listening to episode one.

Speaker 3:
[00:31] I need to tell you another story, a different kind of story, less triumphant, less self-righteous. Because in my first story, Alice was the one who did wrong, vanishing from my life, leaving behind only mourning and memory. And I was the one who found her and forgave. That was my first story, and it's the easier one to tell. But... Come on, buddy. Drive your special car. There you go. Sorry, a one-car traffic jam ahead of me. A couple years after everything ended, I'd settled deep into the slow spin of domestic life. My phone rang, and I picked it up. I don't know why. No one picks up the phone anymore, but I did. And there was a voice I knew somehow, although I couldn't quite place it. It was a voice I trusted. She said a lot of things that didn't make sense, and then... Alice, I'm sorry. But first and last, the voice gave me a warning. And something in the way she said it made me think I had better pay attention. She said, Don't tell Alice.

Speaker 1:
[03:27] Alice Isn't Dead, Don't Tell Alice by Joseph Fink, performed by Jessica Nicole, music and sound design by Disparition, part one, chapter one.

Speaker 2:
[03:43] After the break, we'll listen to episode one of Don't Tell Alice. And as always, if you'd like to hear the truth, ad free and support the work that we do, go to the truthpodcast.supportingcast.fm. I know you can't see me right now, but if you could see me right now, you would see that I'm wearing a gray cable knit sweater. And I love this sweater. It's comfortable. It's always the right temperature. It's a nice sweater. And I happened to have purchased it from one of this month's sponsors of The Truth, Quince. Quince makes beautiful everyday clothing using premium materials like 100% European linen or organic cotton. And they have a lot of spring pieces right now that are perfect for the weather. And they also have things like leather bags, which are made from 100% hand-woven Italian leather and honestly look way more expensive than they are. Refresh your spring wardrobe with Quince. Go to quince.com/truth for free shipping and 365 day returns. Now available in Canada too. Go to quince.com/truth for free shipping and 365 day returns. quince.com/truth.

Speaker 4:
[04:58] The Saja Boys Breakfast Meal and Huntrix Meal have just dropped at McDonald's. They're calling this a battle for the fans.

Speaker 5:
[05:04] What do you say to that, Rumi?

Speaker 3:
[05:05] It's not a battle.

Speaker 6:
[05:06] So glad the Saja Boys could take breakfast and give our meal the rest of the day.

Speaker 7:
[05:10] It is an honor to share.

Speaker 3:
[05:12] No, it's our honor.

Speaker 6:
[05:14] It is our larger honor.

Speaker 4:
[05:16] No, really, stop. You can really feel the respect in this battle. Pick a meal to pick a side.

Speaker 2:
[05:24] I participated in McDonald's while supplies last. And now back to Don't Tell Alice.

Speaker 3:
[05:39] I'm back out here. Some anonymous road up through remote northern Nevada. Car this time, not a truck. Told Alice it was a business trip, that the new job required them, that I kind of didn't mind because I had been missing the travel. I don't know if that part was a lie or not. Did I miss this? There's a sign for something called Horse Canyon in 800 feet. Tempting, but I'll have to pass. And some place called Dog Creek. Naming must be real easy out here. Just an animal and a geographical feature. Or is it anxiety when the fear is warranted? The heat was like a thrown punch when I opened the car door. I staggered a little. The walk from the car to the bar was a struggle, and then I walked into the freezing AC inside, and it was like dunking my head under ice water. But, like, in a good way. Place was mostly empty. There was a Latino man in the corner, dusty work shirt, sleeves pulled up on burly arms, a cowboy hat pulled low over his face. And there was a woman behind the counter, aged somewhere between 40 and 60. The woman winked hello. Names, Lexi. What can I get you? What do you have? I said. Lexi laughed. Anything you want long as it's a hamburger, hot dog or fries. A hamburger sounds great. It didn't, actually. I'd been on the road long enough, eating in places like this, that I had started to dream of green vegetables. The magic food that allows your bowels to finally get back to moving. But I'd take it. She went into the kitchen. The man in the corner was disquietingly still. I found myself watching him carefully for signs of life, and thought I saw breathing. If he wanted to keep to himself, that was fine by me. I wanted the same. Lexi came back with a burger that had not only onions but lettuce and tomato. It was so much nicer than I expected from whatever kitchen this relic of a bar must have had. I took a big bite. Holy shit, I said. Yeah, I know, Lexi said. Take pride in what you do or don't do it. That's what my mom always told me. She was a mess and a liar. But you know, still those lessons stick with you. I know what you mean, I said. I nodded to the man in the corner. He OK? Oh, he's always here, Lexi said. I wouldn't worry about it. That's when the woman from the phone walked in. I only had heard her voice, but I knew it was her at one glance. A box truck, with one side missing, parked perpendicular, just off the road. Empty. The woman was real thin, clothes loose on her, like she lost a lot of weight way too fast. Cancer is what I immediately thought of, but who knows? She had a hat pulled low over her face, dark glasses, like a celebrity trying and failing to be inconspicuous. Can I get you anything? Asked Lexi, walking up. And then she saw the woman's face and she went pale, retreated to the far end of the bar, made herself busy with bottles and dishes. I looked at the woman. She didn't look at me. There was nothing inherently threatening about her, but I've learned that appearances don't mean shit. Oh, and one more thing, the woman said suddenly, like it was the next line in a conversation we'd been having. You aren't going to like what comes after America. I'll bet, I replied. Leonard Cohen said that, the woman muttered. Wasn't he Canadian, I said. Did you tell Alice? The woman asked. Why in the world would I follow orders from a stranger on the phone? I don't know you, and she's the love of my life. My loyalty is clear. I tapped out a wonky little rhythm on the bar top with my fingernails. But no, I didn't tell her. I can't explain, other than what you said felt real. Real in a way that nothing has since. I trailed off and waved my hand to indicate a series of events that upended everything I had understood about the world. Extraordinary things are only supposed to happen to a person once in their life, if that. I had no interest in being struck by lightning twice. The woman nodded. Good, she said. This would be a lot more difficult if you had. It was bad enough involving you, but we felt we had no choice. Who is we, exactly, I said, not expecting a straight answer. And she didn't even attempt a crooked one, so. Is this about Thistle? Are they back? I asked. I had come all this way. Might as well get the worst of it over. We were left with the lines between arid desert and irrigated farmland, brown to green, sharp divisions, like the squares of Orothko. The writer William T. Is this about Thistle? And she actually laughed. A surprised laugh, like when a kid tells you a joke that's way cleverer than you expected from their age. No, Thistle is gone for a good while, she said. Longer than I will live, or you. You and your crew did good there. Suppose that's why your name came up for this one. I got lucky, I said. Coined flip and I would have died instead. And it was true. I had been brave, I had been resourceful, I had been stubborn, but most of all, I had been lucky. Lucky is the best thing to be, the woman said. So if it's not Thistle, I said, then what is it? The woman examined the far corners of the bar, the jukebox that only allowed song selection from some app, because everything works from some app now, the bathroom signs with cute illustrations of a cowboy into cowgirl. Honestly, we don't know, she said. If we knew that, we could take care of it ourselves maybe. But this is beyond us. She grabbed a napkin off the bar, stamped with the name of the rocky view inn, scribbled down some numbers, coordinates, I realized. She shoved it toward me. Go here, take a look. I can't tell you what to do after that. You'll have to make that call for yourself. She got up, started heading for the exit. Hey, I said. She stopped but didn't turn. Why did you tell me not to tell Alice? She stood still for a moment, deciding whether to answer. Then she did, in a voice that sounded different. She was terrified, I realized, and her fear made my stomach tighten, because this did not seem like a woman who scared easy. You can't tell her, she said, her voice a tight rasp. Promise me you won't. I can't promise anything, I'm sorry. She nodded, stood a second, then disappeared back out the door. How much do I owe you? I called to Lexi, but she wasn't there, probably ducked back to restock something, or maybe to avoid the woman who she seemed to know and want nothing to do with. There was a heavy stillness in the bar. I glanced over at the man in the corner. His shoulders were shaking like he was laughing, but he wasn't making any noise. I didn't like this, and one thing I've learned is that you can always just get up and leave. And so I did. The heat and light outside made me stoop, like it was something heavy dropped on me. I scurried to my car and then looked back. I was only a little surprised to see that the windows of the bar were boarded up. The sign by the highway was missing letters. At least one of the motel rooms out back had its door kicked in by someone seeking shelter. This place hadn't been open in years. I crossed the parking lot again, despite the heat. Tried to look around the edges of the boards. I could see, faintly in the darkness, the long sweep of the bar, covered in plastic sheeting and dust. There were no bar stools, no tables, only the smell of old paint and sealed spaces.

Speaker 2:
[19:10] We will continue the story in just a moment. If you'd like to hear the truth, add free and support the work that we do. Go to the truthpodcast.supportingcast.fm.

Speaker 5:
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Speaker 7:
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Speaker 4:
[21:15] So you're saying with Hilton Honors, I can use points for a free night's stay anywhere?

Speaker 5:
[21:20] Anywhere.

Speaker 4:
[21:21] What about fancy places like the Canopy in Paris?

Speaker 5:
[21:23] Yeah, Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 4:
[21:25] Or relaxing sanctuaries like the Conrad and Tulum?

Speaker 5:
[21:28] Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 4:
[21:31] What about the five-star Waldorf Astoria in the Maldives?

Speaker 5:
[21:34] Are you going to do this for all 9,000 properties?

Speaker 6:
[21:37] When you want points that can take you anywhere, anytime, it matters where you stay. Hilton for the stay. Book your spring break now.

Speaker 2:
[21:46] And now back to Don't Tell Alice.

Speaker 3:
[21:51] I plugged the coordinates into my phone and it was a spot in the deep desert a few hours to the northeast. I've gotten out of the habit of transit. I've stayed in one place. I've let the years pass through me, living them day by day. But things like hours and days don't matter to a long drive. Here, there is only distance, while time itself stands still. And somewhere between two hours and two thousand years, I turn onto the tiny road. Graves Road, says the sign. The graves of whom? Just someone's last name, probably. Hopefully. My little car bounces on the poorly maintained asphalt, and I find myself missing the immovable object that was my truck. Yeah, okay, it was a nightmare to drive in cities, and every time I had to change a lane, I panicked a little, no matter how many times I did it. But also, it was a fortress. I drove in it, I slept in it, I cooked in it, I lived in it. And it was the boundary between me and America. Now there is no boundary, only the poor sound of insulation of a cheaply made car, the best I can afford. Then comes the next turn off. This one has no name, although there is a little yellow triangle to mark the turn. This road is not just poorly maintained. It is never maintained. I think it's possible that no one has driven on this road since the day it was laid. The asphalt is cracking in the heat, crumbling away back into desert. Under the asphalt, the sand. The road abruptly ends. Not at any particular place. I haven't seen a single thing someone might need to access along its entire length. No, the asphalt just ends, perfectly square, and then the scraggle of landscape takes over, an orderly handover. I must have missed the next road. I do a laborious three-point turn, which is humiliating because I used to maneuver a vehicle so much bigger than this one. I drive back slowly, watching both sides of the road, searching for what I missed. And so you could too, if you were foolish enough. I am nothing if not a fool. And so I turn and bump my way painfully across the rough terrain. My car was designed for supermarket parking lots and weekend trips to wine country. It was not meant for this kind of exploration. But to my surprise, it holds up and faithfully gets me to where I'm going. I've been given no indication of what I was looking for, but she told me I'd know it when I saw it. And boy do I. I get out of the car. In front of me is a sweep of flat nothing. Gray dirt and a few weeds so tough and prickly, they could grow on the moon, and they basically are. A slow incline up to some mountain so unimpressive and remote that possibly no one has ever bothered to name them. Up ahead, a town, neat brick buildings, and something quaint but industrial, a mill maybe. I see the glitter of water in a river next to the highway. I can smell, only slightly, the deep murk of fresh water. I do not see this forest road instead of the desert landscape. It is on top of it. Here's what it's like. If you have a brain that thinks visually, which I was so surprised to learn some people don't, then picture this. Picture yourself peeling an orange. See your fingers on the peel. See the fruit as the peel is removed. But also, keep your eyes open. I am seeing the real landscape, and I am seeing this highway. Not flashing back and forth, not superimposed, but like a vivid image of the mind on top of the world, my eyes see. This is wondrous, and it is wrong. There is something so wrong about this, that I have to breathe very slowly to stop myself from vomiting the hamburger from that dead bar onto the gray dirt. It's like the two landscapes are struggling against each other. It's like one of them will someday win, and the other one will collapse. I switch my conception of which one is real. and the desert is gone. My god.

Speaker 2:
[31:34] You've been listening to Don't Tell Alice, part one, chapter one. If you'd like to hear the rest, search for Alice Isn't Dead wherever you get your podcasts. And The Truth will be back with all new stories in two weeks, so stay tuned. I'm Jonathan Mitchell, and you have been hearing.

Speaker 1:
[31:50] The Truth.