Hello, November

The Hitchhiker: write

            11/30/18

The radio switches from muffled songs to staticked podcasts. The air conditioning groans under its constant demand. Tour-the-state pamphlets flutter in the backseat. Something heavy rattles in the trunk. I hear melting ice slosh in the cooler. My foot is falling asleep from ceaseless driving, the car barrelling onward at 85. There is no need for accelerating or slowing, shifting or turning.

There is only me, the old red Honda, and the desert.

No other cars dragging on through weariness and dust, no clouds in the sky, no animals grazing.

I squint at something that lays across the road. Something dark. As I near it I see it's only a blackened head of sagebrush, blown here by the hot wind.

My wheels roll over it. The crackle gives me cruel satisfaction.

                                                             * * *

It's beginning to get dark now. The distant orange formations of rock are struck in the sun's changing rays, blazing forth as sentinels of the southwest, wreathed in bands of limestone.

I feel my eyelids start to droop. It's been a straight nineteen hours on the road. Sleep has been scarce on this trip. I may pull over soon and construct a bed in the backseat.

I take another sip of water, eat a Clif Bar. Five minutes later I'm turning off into the desert when I see a woman standing in front of me. I press the brakes, my stony feet slow to move. But I don't hit her. I roll down the window to apologize.

But she holds out a hand. "I need a ride."

Without another word she's opening the passenger door, she's stepping inside, she's settling into the seat beside me. She's setting a heavy suitcase on her lap.

I stare at her, shocked.

She leans over, her face inches from mine.

"Hey, listen," she whispers. "It's getting dark, right?"

"Yes," I manage.

"Are you headed that way?" She points to the faraway rock formations.

"I was..."

"I've come from there. I lived most of my life over that way," she hisses. Her bright red lips curl in shame. "Do you know what's over there?"

I swallow. "No, I don't."

She places a brief hand on my arm. "Oh, hon, do you even know why you're driving anymore?"

I stutter. "No," I finally admit. "No, I'm--I'm not sure. I was headed out to--and then I wanted--to just--drive. I thought it would be freeing."

She nods, shifts back in the seat.

I continue. "I thought I'd find something waiting out here in this great desert for me."

"But you were wrong, weren't you?"

"Yes," I say. "I think now...I was."

She's silent for a second. Then she looks right into my eyes and asks, "Then what about that ride now?"

"I..."

"I'm going that way." She gestures back, where the sun is sinking soft. "I can't afford to waste much time. Now, are you going to do it?"

I frown.

"Are you going to help me? Or are you going to sleep, are you going to wake up tomorrow and keep heading towards that sorry place? You don't know what's lurking under those rocks, honey. I don't think you'd like what you'll find there." She pauses. "It's a bad place."

I meet her gaze and press hard upon the pedal.