Unwelcome Passenger

UNWELCOME PASSENGER

by

Adam Forge

(Word Count: 2608)

         The man stood at the counter of the QuikStop 24. He wore oil-stained jeans and a torn leather vest, no shirt beneath it. A head of straight black hair hung almost to his waist. A tattooed serpent curled around his thick forearm. Mid-thirties, I guessed. I didn’t realize I was staring so hard until he scowled at me and grunted, “Whatcha starin‘ at, bud?” I averted my eyes, not wishing for an exchange of words or maybe more. I'm not exactly a coward, but I’ll avoid a fracas when possible. And this guy looked like someone to avoid a fracas with, I thought.

         The man picked up the newspaper and a pack of cheap cigarettes he had just purchased, and walked toward the doors. I stepped to the counter to pay for my gasoline. Dismissing the incident, I was now thinking what a relief it would be to get home. I’d been on the road for too many hours. Only fifty more miles to Cedarton, my hometown. It was summer vacation and I was going home. I loved my time spent on campus, but I also looked forward to seeing my old friends in Cedarton again, the ones who still lived there.

         Exiting the glass doors of the store, I stepped out into the thickening dusk, inhaling deeply of the familiar, wet-smelling air left behind by a recent rain. The smell intensified my nostalgic frame of mind until a gruff voice intruded, breaking the spell.

         “Hey, man.” Turning, I saw the longhaired guy again.

         “Yes?” I hoped this didn’t mean trouble. It was such an inconvenient time for it. But then, when is trouble convenient?

         “Hey, man,” he said again, uncertainly, “which way you headed?”

         “To Cedarton. Why?” I started to walk to my car. The guy followed, to my annoyance.

         “Can you give me a ride, bud? I need to get to Cedarton, too.” His voice was strangely eager now, almost pleading.

         “Well . . . ” I hesitated. He came closer. I could detect the combined odors of dried sweat and stale tobacco smoke radiating from his body; a smell that would cling to my car’s interior for a week. “I’m in a hurry,” I mumbled and slid into the driver’s seat of my Corolla. I attempted to close the door, but the guy grabbed the handle with surprising strength, preventing me.

         “Have a heart, man. I’ve been stranded here for, like, six fucking hours, and nobody’ll give me a ride. Got a ride with a trucker from Bannon to here, but can’t get nobody else to take me. I just need to get to Cedarton, man.”

         As he spoke, I began to wonder if I had ever met the guy. Everyone knew everyone else in Cedarton. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it’s almost true.

         “Do I know you? I lived in Cedarton practically my whole life,” I ventured.

         “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t recognize you.” My question irritated him, I could tell.

         I’ve always had a soft spot for people stranded and needing a ride. Even longhaired freaks with snake tattoos. I remembered being stranded a few times myself, when I was sixteen or seventeen and drove an eight-hundred-dollar hunk of metal with wheels. “Get in,” I said, leaning over and unlocking the passenger door. I’m gonna regret this, I thought, then cracked a smile at my foolishness. What could happen? Why should I regret it? I was doing a good deed, was I not? Sure, I might need to buy a pack of air fresheners when I got home. No big deal. Or so I tried to tell myself. But I didn’t like it.

         Within minutes of being back on I-40 West, my unwelcome passenger lit a cigarette. I don’t smoke, and the smell gives me a headache, but I didn‘t stop him. The smoke was like a heavenly breeze after his rank, gag-inducing body odor.

         The man didn’t say anything. Neither did I. I was feeling a bit irritated by the way he’d badgered me into giving him a ride. It was downright rude. I turned a scowl his way. My God, but the guy was hairy! He looked half-ape and smelled worse. After a few miles, the absence of conversation was getting on my nerves almost as much as the loud noise he made every time he exhaled a double lungful of smoke. I had no radio to turn on. (Inwardly, I cursed the nameless lowlife who had stolen my car stereo several months back.) I lowered my window to release some of the smoke, and looked over at my passenger, figuring I’d make a bit of small talk to dispel the awkward silence.

         What I saw caused my heart to lurch sickeningly. The man’s hand was emerging from inside his vest. In it, he clutched a long hunting knife. The blade was at least four inches. I caught my breath. The man turned, noticed my expression, then laughed. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Thought I’d clean my fingernails.” He proceeded to do just that, digging under his dirty nails with the point of the blade. It hardly served to ease my jangled nerves. The last thing you want to see in a hitchhiker’s hand is a weapon of any sort. It scared the moisture out of my mouth.

         “You know, man, it’s hard to hitch a ride.” the guy was saying. “Must be my looks.” He stared at me, as if to catch my reaction to his words. “People don't seem to trust me.” He laughed again, but I found nothing funny in what he said.

         I was thinking, sarcastically: Don’t trust you, huh? Strange. I find it perfectly normal to carry a giant Rambo knife hidden in your vest and to clean your fingernails with it, when bumming a ride with a complete stranger.

         I managed a chuckle, but it sounded a little choked. Aloud, I said: “I always try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.” Mentally, I added: Unlike you, you freaking wacko. I’m sure you slaughter people indiscriminately. Regardless of race, gender, religion, disability, or sexual orientation.

         “Good man, good man,” was my passenger’s reply to my audible statement. Fortunately, he couldn’t read my thoughts.

         I held my breath, and kept my eyes focused on the road. At one point, I checked the screen of my cell phone, though I already knew from past experience that I would get no signal on this godforsaken stretch of highway. Sure enough, no reception. Feeling helpless, I flipped my phone closed with a sound that made both my passenger and I jump.

         "Nervous?" he asked.

         I managed a weak smile, swallowed my Adam's apple, then shook my head no. Old Knifey just laughed. He wiped the blade of the weapon on his oily jeans, then used it as a toothpick. My palms were sweaty on the wheel and my breath tasted foul in my dry mouth.

         The miles fell behind, and we were entering what might be called a town; at least at one time it was. A couple of broken down houses and a still-operating gas station in the middle of nowhere. I knew I needed to find some way to ditch this guy. My bladder was about to pop because of the fountain drink I‘d consumed a couple of hours ago. It offered an excuse for stopping. “I gotta take a leak,” I explained, turning into the gas station, which, thankfully, was lit up and open. Some of those out-of-the-way gas stations close quite early.

         “I need to drop a load, myself,” the knife-wielding hitcher announced.

         It was providential. The perfect opportunity to get rid of him. I’d leave him sitting on the crapper while I made my getaway. I hoped the station would have a restroom that was not “out of order.” Turned out, God was smiling on me, or so it seemed. The restroom was functional, a single stall with no urinal. I hurried in ahead of my passenger, and went about my business, touching the filthy restroom fixtures as little as possible. When I made my exit, my unwanted companion went in after me. “Wait for me,” he said. There was a hint of menace in his voice, and I wondered if he guessed what I was planning. “I‘ll wait,” I lied. Like hell, I’d wait.

         I thought of asking the old man behind the counter if I might use his phone. I could call the cops. But what would I tell them? That I'd picked up a hitchhiker and he was carrying a knife? That was not exactly a crime, as far as I knew. He hadn’t threatened me with it. I figured my best bet was to get away. PDQ. Shamefully, I didn't consider that I'd be leaving the old man who ran the cash register at the mercy of an obviously unbalanced guy with a large hunting knife. I was too busy thinking of my own precious skin.

         I hurried to my car, climbed in, and with a cheerful yell of relief, I put it in reverse. Checking the rearview mirror before backing out of my space, I was startled to see in the glow of my back-up lights, a man running toward my car. He held up his hand to stop me. “Wait! Can you help me?” I heard him through the open window.

         I waited. I had little choice, for I would run him over if I continued to back up. Just who the hell was I about to meet now? It seemed as though he’d come out of nowhere. When the man reached the driver‘s side of my car, I was a more than a little surprised to see that he was decked out in a spiffy black suit and tie. He carried a metal briefcase. A businessman. Not someone I’d expect to see out here. He looked completely out of place.

         “Hello, there, son. Could I trouble you for a ride?” His voice was deep and polite, and if not for his overlarge nose, he would have appeared quite normal, unlike the knife-wielding man I was attempting to ditch. But I'd had enough of giving rides for the evening.

         “This is insane. I’ve gotta get out of here,” I muttered to myself, wondering what kind of freakish bad luck could bring two stranded people needing rides my way in one night. I was releasing the break and just about to finish backing out, when the businessman stopped me again. This time with a stronger argument.

         “I can pay you well.” He said, smiling, then produced a stack of bills and waved them in my face. “My car had a flat about a mile back that way." He gestured in the direction I'd come from. "I don't have a spare tire. I need to get to the nearest actual town to call for roadside assistance. Man inside says he’s got no phone here, though I don't believe him. And I can’t get any reception on my cell. Will you give me a lift?” He made the long speech automatically, then took a deep breath. He’d obviously already repeated his story several times. I wondered how many people before me had refused to give him a ride. I began to feel rather sorry for him. Again he flourished the green notes. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

         “Uh . . . sure,” I agreed. Money talks, you know. “Just hurry and get in.” I had just remembered the wacko with the knife. Too late. I had not seen him come out of the gas station, but at that moment the passenger-side door opened. The knifeman climbed in beside me, throwing an ugly look my way.

         “You were about to leave me,” he accused. I couldn’t deny it. Leaning over me, he peered out at the businessman. Producing the deadly-looking knife from his vest again, he brandished it for emphasis. “Beat it, fancy man. This is my ride. No room for you.” (The back seat of my car was piled with luggage: clothing, bags, and boxes.) “Drive,” my passenger ordered me.

         I obeyed. The four-inch blade was quite convincing. Turning my head as we pulled away from the station, I saw the businessman staring after us. I prayed he’d somehow get to a phone and inform the highway patrol of what he’d seen. It was my only hope. We rode in silence, my passenger toying with the knife and chain-smoking, while my nerves continued to fray.

         “That was a heartless thing to do, man,” he said after a while. “Trying to ditch me like that. I should slice you up a little to teach you a lesson.” He chopped the air with the knife and laughed. I ventured a sidelong glance at him. A wide, yellow-toothed grin split his leathery face; it could have been one of amusement, but looked to me more like the grin of a hungry wolf, anticipating the thrill of a kill.

         I kept quiet. Just held my breath and stared at the road, offering up a silent prayer now and then. It would be awesome, God, to see Cedarton alive again. I remember I always wanted to get away from there when I was a kid, but right now, it sounds pretty darn sweet. I’m not usually a praying man, but religion can be a handy thing in a tight spot.

         I was frankly amazed when we rolled into my hometown. I was ready to shout hallelujah and believe in miracles. I could still inhale the breath of life through my nostrils. I swallowed hard, thankful for the ability to do so. Glad that my throat had no bloody gash in it. The hitchhiker directed me to his residence. Somehow not quite shockingly, the house appeared uninhabitable. Rotting wooden siding, long ago stripped of most of its white paint, hung loosely in a number of places. A rusty pickup rested on concrete blocks in the yard. A gigantic Shepherd dog stood near the sagging front porch, watching us, rattling its chain and baring its teeth at my unfamiliar vehicle.

         “My girlfriend’s house. I just stay here with her.” the man explained, as if to distance himself somewhat from the unappealing place. I steered to the curb and the hitchhiker stepped out, a little stiffly, grunting his thanks followed by a phlegmy smoker’s cough. Inwardly, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. My fears had been proven unfounded. The man was not a bloodthirsty serial killer after all. Damn Hollywood and my fertile imagination. But you really can’t blame me, that knife was just too much.

         The hitchhiker slammed the door. I noticed he’d forgotten his newspaper. It was jammed between the passenger seat and the armrest. Probably no big deal, but I felt rather grateful toward him for allowing me to keep my jugular intact. I wanted to do something nice in return.

         “Hey, man, your paper.” I handed it to him through the window. Reaching for it, his arm froze midair. “Look.” It was one strangled word. I dropped my eyes to the newspaper where he pointed. Together, by the illumination of the streetlamp overhead, we gawked at the front page. The face in the photograph was unmistakable. That giant nose gave it away. It was the businessman--the man at the gas station. Only he was not wearing a black suit in the photo, but a bright orange jumpsuit. I read the headline and subheadings: THIRD I-40 SLAYING. Victim a CEO. Police link killings to escaped convict. A caption beneath the photograph asked, “Have you seen this man?” I knew that I had.

THE END

----Thanks for reading my story. Please Rate & Review it. Your feedback is much appreciated. I take suggestions for improvement seriously. My goal is to become the best writer I can be. ----A.F.