Broken Side View

         As the hot summer wind swept up the sides of a run-down Ford T, its windshield tinted by a thin smear of clinging dust, and its cloth roof frayed and tattered, the driver raised a rag to his brow and wiped away the afternoon sweat. His black suit, which was nothing more than a second hand article stolen off the rack of a small department store, was tugged and loosened for comfort. Like everything else across the bleak terrain, his suit was covered by a fine layer of brown dust, a unwelcome gift from the steady dust bowl gusts.
    On down the dirt road, which snaked through brown, sun-burnt cornfields that wilted from an everlasting dry spell, the man watched a wild dog pant its way across a lonely intersection. He raised an eyebrow as he compared his existance in the world to that feral creature, trekking the empty back roads in search of something finer, but never really persuaded, even after myriad thoughtful blessings from good feelings, that he would ever find it. And with a weathered face, wrinkled back by struggled breathing, the dog eyed the man's brown-stained Ford. It looked on for a short while, perhaps expecting the man to oblige himself as its new master, or maybe toss a crumb his way. But when the man did nothing but stare back with the same soulful expression, the dog turned and continued steadily in the direction it was headed until it disappeared into the vast thicket of dying crops.
    The man shook his head, wondering how far he would walk, could walk, like that wayward mutt, until his limbs, too sore to carry the weight, buckled and bowed until he dropped. Such thinking turned him back to days past when he was much better to look upon, and not encumbered by such destitution; he always made certain his presence was sharp, clean, and proper like. Now his eyes were drawn and saggy, like the overworked withers of an old horse, and his sun-bronzed skin was made raw by untold days spent cooking under a merciless sun that burned him like salt water poured on a whipped back. No, he thought, as he tipped his straw pork pie hat to one side, another item stolen on his life's journey across America, those brighter days are as long spent as the last drop of oil in the overheated engine of his Ford.   
    There was no going back, he thought. He'd stolen one too many cars, one too many wallets, one too many pistols, one too many sacks of money. And for what? It had been such a long, hard road he'd been on that he couldn't, for the life of him, remember what brought on the urge to start such a dead end lifestyle.
    What was left to do?
    The man reached into his left pant's pocket and retrieved a handful of oily bullets, and from his right pocket, a pistol he stole from a pawn broker some miles back when haunting through the last town on a barren state road. One by one he loaded the bullets into the pistol cylinder. The smell of the gun oil made his empty stomach churn, but it was not nearly as dizzying as the hard earthen smell outside the frayed interior of his automobile.
    With the last round in the chamber, the man gave the cylinder a good spin then slapped it shut. He took up his sweat rag again and dabbed it round his neck and along the sides of his face, his eyes gazing languidly through the brown windshield at the fields without. He cradled the pistol like a newborn in his hands; cut and bruised hands that rested on his lap, thumbs massaging the hammer and trigger of the dull black pistol. There was a lone locust somewhere, buzzing emphatically, and the sound of it grated the man's nerves. When the sound of the locust stopped, though, he sighed thankfully, knowing that what he was about to do wouldn't be burdened by the racket of some damn insect. The familiar silence of a dry, summer's day tranquility returned.
    The man tipped his pork pie hat forward, to shield his eyes from the peaked sun, opened the door, and stepped out into the sultry heat. He winced briefly up at the sun, and wondered how something so damn far away could make life so miserable close by. But that was the last of his road-worn worries. This time, he thought, as he walked in front of his dead Ford, this time he was really going to do it. No more fighting the urge, no more coaxing himself into thinking that it would get better over the next hill, the next mile. No, he was going to bring this long stretch of misery to an end.
    Kill the son that of a bitch, he thought, with a smile on his face.
    With his breath held and eyes squinted, like a cannoneer about to set the ignitor, the man raised up the pistol, pointed it at the face of the Ford, grit his teeth, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil was strong. Bullets blazed, hitting the radiator, windshield, front left tire, roof, steering wheel, and backseat. And even when the last round was spent, the man continued clicking an empty chamber until the sound itself brought him back to his senses.
    He stood there a moment, quiet, slowly becoming amused by the damage he'd done. Then, when a sudden and violent plume of steam began spitting from the car, the man started laughing. What else could he do? He certainly couldn't think of a better sight to behold, well, possibly he could, but this would certainly do for now. And so he stood there, baking in the sun, hands on his knees to hold him up, laughing till it hurt.
    When the humor finally subsided, and the man straightened himself some, he stuffed the pistol in his pants and, with a slight stagger in his step, started down the road. Still hearing the steamy hiss of the Ford behind him, as though the machine was hurling curses at him, the man stufffed his hands in the lint-filled pockets of his dusty slacks, and whistled a cheery tune.
    All there was to do now was wait for the rainy season. And like all things natural, it would come in its own time.