Deserted Road

'Dear Lord it's hot!'

The sun pounds down from the cloudless blue expanse above, bouncing off the thick black sludge of the freshly black-topped highway.  On both sides of the road, dark red sand and prickly Joshua trees create a chaotic realm of surreal scenery.  Nothing God created could possibly survive out there, but the land is teeming with life.

There is no breeze.  The air coming through the open windows is as hot as a griddle, making you wonder if you could fry an egg to go with the hot-cakes you could cook on the hood of your truck.

The road stretches out before you, a blackened stab wound on the otherwise unmarred artistic pallet of the desert, the only sign that humans were able to leave in the middle of this desolate, uninhabitable ground.

The only radio stations you can pick up as you drive through nature's oven, are the classic country stations that are broadcast out of God only knows where, on the AM stations.  Nothing to your liking, you shut off the annoying sound, and try to concentrate hard enough not to pass out from the lack of cool air.

Your A/C went out over two hundred miles ago, but due to the isolation of your location, you can't even get a toad to help you fix the damn thing.  So you motor on, trudging up the micro-hills wishing this one was the last, only to top the rise, and see yet another hill...and nothing else.

You feel like the last person on the face of the earth.  There's no one to talk to, no one to keep you from dozing in the unbelievably wicked heat.  You reach for the cooler, even though the block of ice you put in this morning to keep everything cool, has long since melted, leaving your sodas floating in a sticky sea.

Crap.  You forgot to take out the trash before you left on this wild goose chase through no-man's-land.  Now when you get back home, the green funk is going to have overtaken the kitchen, and will battle you for the space it wants to reside in.

What made you think of that?  All the way out here in the center of hell...who knows.  You start to laugh even though the thought of a fuzzy trash can isn't, in the least bit, funny, but as your laughter is sucked out the window into oblivion, you start to hear a noise that you swear wasn't there before.

Leaning forward, you try to listen to the engine of your truck, through the dash.  Fat chance.  The firewall blocks the majority of the noise, and anything left over is eaten up by the tires humming across the asphalt.

It's a 'pinging' noise.  Or is it a 'knock'?  Either way, it can't be good.  You pull the truck over to the piddly assed excuse for a shoulder, and let it sit there for a minute.  The longer you are stationary, the higher the temperature inside the cab goes.

The sound stops after several of the longest minutes you've experienced in your life, and you slowly move back to the lane, continuing on your way again.  Everything seems to be going fine when you're faced with the worst sign you'd ever want to see when destitute like this.

Your 'Check Engine' indicator light brightens, followed closely by the temperature gauge needle attempting to qualify for the Indy 500 as it races up to redline.

'Shit.'

The engine has an auto-shutdown, and lo-and-behold, it kicks in.  Left with only muscle powered steering, you move the truck back to the shoulder, falling off the black-top into the sand.  When the truck finally stops, the only axel left on the road is the rear-most drive axel of your bobtail Kenworth.  This isn't a good situation to be in, even in a populated area.  Out in the boonies, you're completely screwed.

Out of desperation, you reach for the CB radio above your head, praying like a mad-woman that somebody will hear your SOS, but you know it's just a fantasy that your mind likes to tease you with; nobody can get signal out here, it's too far away from the rest of the world.

With shaking hands, you key the mic, then release it, after nothing comes out of your parched throat.  You reach for another soda, slamming it down quickly, then key the mic again, "Break, one-nine...can anybody hear me?"

The little grey button flips out, and you listen.  Nothing.  Trying again, you play with the dials on the CB trying to fine tune the old Cobra p.o.s. so it'll respond better.  But it's a moot point, you're stuck...

"We gotcha, break. Come back?"  a deep voice overshadowed with signal static fills your heart with joy.  You squeal then realize that in your excitement, you've keyed the mic again.  Whoever was on the other end of that invisible lifeline must think you're completely insane!

Trying to remain calm, you give your location...as best as you can, considering all the landmarks are the same, Joshua trees, red dirt, and Lord only knows how many stripes on the highway.

"Hang loose, on our way."  the voice responds, and again, you are overwhelmed by the desire to just kiss someone!

As an after thought, you key up again, and ask the mystery savior if they can bring a tow truck, and a six pack.

"Already covered.  Be there shortly."

You sit back, not knowing how long it will take this angel to come out of heaven and rescue you like the maiden left before the dragon.  As long as there's a beer involved, however, you're of a mind to battle ten dragons, and shoot the knight that was supposed to fix this truck, but forgot to...again.

The silence is deafening.  The only sound you can hear is your blood as it boils through your body.  Sweat beads up all over, and drizzles into the most uncomfortable spots as you wait.  There's no relief from the heat.  Even the shade is hot.

'Fuck it.'

You climb out of the truck, a towel slung over your arm and a bottle of Banana Boat in hand, you move across the top of the fuel tank and onto the catwalk behind the sleeper.

'May as well take advantage of it...'

The tanning lotion is slightly cooler, for the moment, giving your torched skin a margin of relief as you slather your upper body, now clad only in a lycra push-up bra.  Legs come next, long slow strokes, up under the edges of your shorts, to even out the solution so you don't end up looking like a zebra when it's all over.  You wad up the discarded shirt, using it as a cushion for your skull against the diamond cut of the walk.

Time slides by at a snails pace as you lay there baking, waiting for that beer, but as you roll over to bake your back, you realize you can't baste it beforehand.  Giving yourself a mental kick, you drop back down and stare at the sky, wishing it would rain, or something.

"I can help you with that..." A deep drawl whispers over you and you jump, not realizing anyone else was within a million miles of you.

From behind mirrored-lens sunglasses you look up to see him.  The voice is the same as that of the mystery savior, and all you can do is grab your shirt and hold it in front of you.  The heat of your flesh isn't going to let the sun take all the blame as you sit there on the metal catwalk looking like a complete idiot, in your bra.

Waving a hand at him, you try to find a voice to tell him to go away, but again, your throat resembles a raisin...left in the sun to wither and crack.  He gets your drift though, and turns away while you dress yourself again.

The T-shirt sticks to your skin, thanks to the tanning lotion, and you curse under your breath as you drop from the edge of the catwalk.  The owner of that deep honey-thick voice is leaning against the door of your truck, his long legs braced -- one against the step and the other holding up his massive frame.  His arms are folded across an expanse of chest as wide as a Texas prairie, and his head is tilted up, settled against the door, his face a serene mask.

One of your eyebrows raises slightly as you take in this scene.  Who is this guy?  Where'd he come from?  Finally, the decision is made that it's sunstroke.  You're completely delusional, and there's really nobody here with you.  Nobody standing six feet away looking like a soothing waterfall in the center of hellfire.  Nah, it's all just your deep-fried imagination talking.  Until he turns around and looks at you, then your whole body feels well-done as he pushes off the side of the truck slowly and walks to the front.

Out of sheer curiosity, you follow him, wondering what he's about to do.  As you round the front bumper, you're stopped dead in your tracks as he reaches up with one arm and pulls open the front apron to reveal the motor; something you couldn't do if your life depended on it.  Doing a double take on the pythons attached to this body, you can only wish you didn't have to do some bullshit acrobatic moves just to shift that piece of fiberglass.  He makes it look so easy, it turns your stomach just thinking about it.

During the blinking fit you're having behind the cover of your shades, this mystery man walks to the passenger side of the engine compartment and peers in, then a shrill whistle breaks the silence.  A couple of crows off in the distance yell at the noise, complaining at being woke up from their afternoon slumber in a Saguaro cactus.

You hear something from the back of your rig and turn to see what's going on.  Your eyes widen to the breaking point as you see yet another mountain o' man walking up the drivers' side toward you.

This one is different, he's got an impatient gate to him, something tells you to move, just before he starts resembling a locomotive on full steam and mows you down.  Finding yourself standing in the middle of the road would normally be a very disheartening thing, but as you watch the pair lurking over your engine, you feel so much safer knowing you're out here and they are in there.