Mind Games

Title: Desert Mind Games - word count 883

Consider the thumb. Thumbs up, thumbs down, rule of thumb, Tom Thumb, thumb protectors, all thumbs, green thumb, opposable thumbs, thumb wrestling, thumbing. Thumbs are useful and, in fact, a necessity to human achievement and societal development. Just imagine a world without the thumb. Reflect on the artist, the pro wrestler and the emperor. What would they do without the thumb. How would the artist judge perspective without a thumb to hold to his subject. How would the pro wrestler break a half-nelson without a thumb in an opponents eye, and yes, how would the emperor show his displeasure without the gesture of a thumb pointing to the ground. Of course many a hapless gladiator would prefer a Nero without thumbs, but then without thumbs the gladiator would find it difficult to wield a gladius.

Standing on the edge of a two-lane blacktop some 30 miles east of Winslow, Arizona I contemplate the metaphysics of my right thumb. What is the ultimate nature of reality and what is the thumb's place in this, or any, universe? My right thumb, at this moment, is held at arm's length, pointed at a right angle from my curled fingers, wavering in the heated air of the midday high desert summer.

A mile or so down the road a cloud of dust signals the approach of a vehicle. My spirits lift. A ride in a truck cab or the cabin of a car, air-condition, after my five-hour vigil, would answer a four-hour payer. Even a ride in the back of a flat-bed ford would be a godsend.

The glare of the white-hot sun reflecting from the chrome of the car, I can now see it is a car, causes involuntary blinking of my dry dust encrusted eyes. I lift my left hand to shade my eyes from the glare. My right thumb, still hanging in the air, signals for the car to stop. The approach of the car pulls my attention from thoughts of my thumb to thoughts of the ethics of the person behind the wheel. Does his life encompass the Christian ethic of the golden rule, or could he be a social Darwinist? Will she have a fear of strangers stemming from the latest radio report of a serial killer lurking somewhere along old highway 66 or, could this be the serial killer searching for his next victim.

A single bead of sweat forms near my right temple. For a moment the moisture cools that one, small spot and is gone. More moisture gathers and, failing its attempt to overcome gravity, trickles down my cheek, jaw, neck, and at last is absorbed by the grimy white cotton of my T-shirt.

In my mind visions of cool glasses of water compete with thoughts of blood pooling on a black plastic trash bags covering a passenger seat and floor board.

My blood, or that of the driver?

The car is slowing now. Its brown color an illusion caused by its coating of dust. Betrayed by several spots not covered by dust I see that the car is blood-red. The windshield, dusty and bug splattered, allows me to see only a vague shadow behind the wheel.

More beads of moisture form high on my forehead and trickle down my face. The salty sweat stings my eyes causing me to blink more rapidly. My vision blurs. My heart beats faster. My breath comes, short and shallow.

Another 100 yards before the car reaches me.

The smell of blood fills my imagination. The taste of it in my mind causes my throat to constrict. I use the back of my left hand to wipe the sweat away from my lips. The taste remains. Fifty yards away the car veers to the right and the passenger side wheels roll from the blacktop to the dirt shoulder, throwing up new waves of dust. The car is almost upon me.

I blink to clear my eyes.

Sweat streams from my head and neck soaking my T-shirt. My right hand, thumb still extended, throbs with the effort to hold it away from my body.

The shaking begins at the end of the clenched fingers, now white in the creases where the nails dig into the palm. The spasm travels through the wrist, the elbow, and to the muscles in my upper arm. Fear fills my mind. My arm drops as the dust, rolling forward, and the heat, radiating from the car's hood, envelop me. The strap of my bag finds my hand and I start to turn away from the car. One step down the embankment toward the flat desert. One step to the safety of the scrub brush and sand.

“Need a lift?” echo muffled words from inside the car.

“Sure do” comes the answer, unbidden from my dry, cracked lips.

I close the car door and, sinking into the seat, relax. The cool air flowing from the vent begins to evaporate the moisture soaking my body. As the car pulls back on the two-lane blacktop I consider the acceleration of the vehicle. Acceleration, defined as the rate of change of velocity. A vector quantity with dimension of length divided by the square of time.

Should I compute it in meters per second or miles per hour?