AVERAGE RAINFALL

AVERAGE RAINFALL

By Drake Patterson





Russell stared out of the window. What else could he do? He read the paper front to back, figured out his finances on the back of a napkin, caught up on all the local gossip with Nancy. And now he was on what—his fifth cup of coffee?

Nothing out there but parking lot and heat.

Trails of jet exhaust streaked the cloudless Nevada sky, as if an offensive had been launched and he was the last to know. There was no music. Usually, the din of the place was muted by some worn out country songs playing on an eternal loop; just enough to lay a thin coat of white noise over the place. But not today.

“More coffee, handsome?”  She was balancing three plates on one arm and holding the coffee pot with the other.

“What the hell,” Russell said.

Nancy filled his cup and her skirt brushed against his arm, just enough to let him know that if he ever had the cojones to make a move, she’d be one willing participant.

Two women sat in a booth near the door. He’d been hearing fragments of their conversation since they came in. Bits and pieces came into play. Words, half-sentences, unfinished thoughts. Someone was troubled. One was older, the consoling type. But by her tone, he figured she was a bit hard-edged. Definitely a divorcee.  And of course, the expert on men.

The troubled one was younger—a hint of innocence still left.  She had ordered the strawberry waffles.  There was a problem.  Broken relationship…broken promises... maybe even some broken bones.

“Drop the son-of a bitch like a bag of garbage,” said the hard-edged one.

The troubled one was now crying. Russell leaned back to hear more. They must have sensed his eavesdropping and lowered their voices.

Fine with me.

He probably would have heard too much. He may have even felt a pang of sympathy, a desire to help. Where would that get him? Trouble, always trouble.

A semi pulled into the gravel parking lot stirring up dust. The truck was all chrome and threw a blinding light into his eyes.  A stray calico cat ran across the path of the truck, nearly getting crushed before tearing off sideways into the weeds.  Must be a regular . He knew right where to park. Probably banging Nancy.  He had considered it a few times. The only thing that held him back was a light mustache. Not the worst …but he couldn’t seem to get past it.

The guy in the semi was on his phone, sitting in his cab and picking his teeth in the rear view. Nancy looked out and adjusted her skirt and fixed her hair.

“You’re impossible Yaz!”, said the hard-edged one.

The trucker came into the place wearing a black cowboy hat, sunglasses and walking as if one leg had been damaged in a rodeo fall or one boot heel was slightly lower than the other. The women lowered their voices again. Russell picked up the paper and re-read the front page. Maybe he could find something new. Something he may have overlooked. There.  Average rainfall calculations. The whole area way below the norm. Drought. Dust. The threat of major fire. Biblical.  Man, these hacks can sure stir it up with their global warming stuff.

He saw something flash by in his peripheral vision.  A woman. She walked by the window to her SUV.  California plates.  She opened the passenger door and bent over to retrieve something from the front seat.  Big ass.  Packed tight in some jeans. Bigger than he would prefer but not so big he couldn’t see himself running his hands around it a few times. She stood up, clutching a pack of Marlboros. She banged one out and lit it. The first hit came out like a fissure in a steam pipe. Russell knew she knew. She knew he was looking right at her ass. She suddenly lost confidence in it and turned her back to the truck. She looked at Russell. He nodded. She gave very little in return. Russell picked the paper back up and pretended to read. The woman stepped on her cigarette and twisted it into the gravel with her boot and came back into the diner.

The trucker sat at the counter. He had his hair slicked back with grease and wearing a pressed denim shirt. His hat was next to him on the counter. Nancy took his order. He said something and she laughed.  She walked away, stabbed a ticket in the kitchen window, and looked back over her shoulder and smiled.

“You’ll never change Landon.”

“Got that right,” said the trucker. “This cowboy’s about to come unhooked.”

Landon, huh?  What kind of name is that?  Russell thought of the name a few moments and after swirling it around, like some folks do with wine, he decided it wasn’t such a bad name after all.

The girls were at it again. Their voices were muffled but it was clear they had reached an impasse. Neither would budge. The hard-edged one stood up to pay the check.

Nancy suddenly appeared at the cash register. “Was everything ok?” She only moved that fast for a man.

“Fine…fine,” said the hard-edged one. She handed her a bill without looking at the check and Nancy counted out change and handed it to her in a neat stack.

“Everything ok over there?,” Nancy said.

“Yeah…why wouldn’t it be?” 

Nancy gave a lame shrug.  The hard-edged one returned to the table.

“This is your last chance Yaz and I mean it!”

Nancy stood at the counter, her head tilted like a satellite dish or a dog that hears a gun shot in the distance.

She wants to get the dirt so she can talk about something besides the weather.

Russell heard more choked-backed tears. The hard-edged one left. She marched passed his window again and hopped into her truck. She fired it up and spit gravel in the air, peeling out of the place. She slammed on her breaks just as she came to the road.

Is she was waiting? Giving Yaz one last chance?  She stepped on it, trying to squeal her tires but failing to do so.

The diner suddenly became peaceful, as if someone confirmed a bomb scare was just a prank.  Everyone  relaxed. The country music came back on, as if on cue. That Nancy, doesn’t miss a beat.

Then the thought came to Russell, the same thought that came everyday at this time.

Now what?

He picked up his check and made way to the register.  Nancy took his money without making eye contact. Probably didn’t want to break the spell.  Landon gave him the once over. He knew she had spoken of him. Wonder what the hell she said about me.

“Thanks Nancy. See you tomorrow,” Russell said. He dropped a couple bills for a tip. More than he usually left.

“We sure will,” she said. 

We?  Russell walked slowly by the table where the drama had taken place.  He was right. She was young.  Eighteen maybe. Thin as hell. The remnants of some cheap blonde dye wilted in her hair and black roots taking over. She had a small tattoo just below her ear—a butterfly? She looked up. Make-up was smudged on her face from crying—like a bruise.  Russell smiled and tipped his hat. She looked down to the table where the contents of her purse lay emptied. She moved pieces around, looking for something.  Pills probably.

The sun knew he was out, like some loan shark waiting for a payoff and Russell was way past due.  He lowered his cap. What was he wearing? He pulled it off. Oh yeah John Deere. What a joke. He didn’t know shit about tractors or anything else John Deere might produce but he saw a dude the other day wearing one.  He liked the look. He knew he couldn’t pass for twenty but at least he wouldn’t look like some middle aged man who has giving up on everything. He could feel the heat of the gravel seeping up through his boots. There was nowhere to go. He headed back to his room, knowing damn well there was nothing there but loneliness and porn by the hour.

Russell woke up in his boots. This is how cowboys die. He laughed and found his watch. Three pm. He had slept for what?  Four hours?  The air conditioner was moaning and the room was cold. Instead of turning it off, he pulled the blanket over and rolled inside of it like a pig in a blanket. Pig in a blanket? Is that what they call a cop in bed? He’d have to tell that joke sometime. Say he’d heard it somewhere. If they laughed…well then he might take some credit for it.  He coughed.

That damn air conditioner is gonna to make me sick.

He drank some water from a plastic cup on his nightstand—the only cup he owned. It was warm as piss with a hint of aluminum foil.

Russell got up finally and clicked the AC off. It sounded like an airplane engine conking out.  He took his boots off and sat on the bed, rubbing his feet. Man, are they sore. He walked for miles the day before. The thought of going back out there filled him with dread and he unconsciously reached for a glass, the one he kept half full of whiskey for occasions like these.

He assumed his truck would not be fixed. Yesterday, all those hours in the hot sun, all he accomplished was finding out it was a broken tie rod and a new one would be delivered.

“These things take time,” the mechanic said. “We’re a far reach from normal civilization.”

Russell knew he had to go to the front desk if he wanted to check for messages. The problem was:  He didn’t have the cash handy to pay for the day and he knew the old bat at the counter would inquire about that. He’d have to go to town and find an ATM .  His wife had always hounded him about getting a cell phone.

“Join the human race,” she’d say.

Maybe that’s why he refused to get one. Not the joining part, but the part where anything she said, he was bound to do the opposite. He also knew, that with a cell, would come responsibilities.  For instance, when someone called, he’d be responsible to answer it.

He made some coffee with yesterday’s grounds. Again, if he only went to the desk, they would surely give him a fresh packet of Folgers but he wasn’t yet prepared to lie. Lying was a thing one did best at night.  Trying to do it in the day was like playing poker with a priest.  He sat at his desk, the one all cheap chain motels provide.  Do people write love letters here?

The pot hissed and spit out coffee the color of rust.  He poured some in his plastic cup and tore open a packet of powdered cream and shook it in. He didn’t have a spoon so he took out his jack knife and swirled it in. Tastes like fish.  Two days ago he was fishing in lower Idaho and had used the knife to fillet a trout. The creamer sat in lumps, like glaciers in a puddle.  He poured the coffee down the toilet.  He put his boots back on. He splashed some cold water in his face. He looked in the mirror and thought maybe things would change if he shaved.  But then, he decided against it.  Maybe if he kept up this cowboy look, no one would bother him.  He went outside. There it was again—that relentless heat. The sun that seemed to be following him around like a dog he could no longer afford to feed.  He wished it would rain.

He went behind the hotel to avoid the lady at the desk.  Trash was everywhere. A metal fence was half collapsed and overtaken by weeds.  Tall weeds. Angry weeds.  Something went tearing through the brush. Russell jumped. Probably a stray cat.

He heard some going at it the other night. A real brawl. From the sounds of it, one of them took a beaten.  Or did I dream it? Even with the leather boots, Russell decided not to go through the weeded lot. Never know what’s lurking in there.  He went past the front desk with his head down as if he were walking against the wind.

“Hey mister!”, a voice called out.

Russell pretended not to hear.  He heard flip-flops slapping on the pavement.  “ Mister…mister…” He turned around, feigning innocence. It wasn’t the old bat at all. It was Yaz. She stood there with a gymbag on her shoulder.

“Sorry sir…I was wondering if I could catch a ride into town”.

Sure—why not?

“Truck’s in the shop,” he said instead. 

“Oh.”

She didn’t believe him.  She dropped the bag off her shoulder and let it fall to the pavement.  It sounded like clothes, a few books, and maybe something made of wood. She unzipped the bag and pulled out a tattered djemebe drum and set it on the ground to retrieve a pack of generic cigarettes. She offered one to Russell.

“No thanks,” he said.

“You quit, huh?” She put one in her mouth, firing it up. She took a good drag and blew it straight up in the air. She lowered her eyes until they made contact. “Not me.” She bent down and did a couple taps on the drum and put it back in her bag. “Ever been to Burning Man? It’s a trip.”

Russell waited. Normally he would jump right in. Take the bait and run with it.  Not think twice about repercussions and take it to wherever it landed. But for some reason, he just stood there. Sweat rolled down his back. A breeze came up but it was hotter than the air.

“They’re all booked up,” she said, nodding back to the motel. She took another drag. “Or…maybe that old bag just doesn’t want me staying there.”

That’s likely.

“Where you heading?”  Russell said and regretted it as soon as it left his lips. She lit up some. She almost smiled. 

He really looked at her. Her eyes were red, either from drugs or all the crying she did at the diner.  Dark eyes. She had a metal loop through her lip, a purple scarf. She felt his attention and took off the scarf and rolled it up and stuffed in the back pocket of her tight jeans. The tattoo…A dragonfly. She was very thin. Maybe malnourished. Maybe a speed freak. Probably both.

“I got to report….”  She looked back at him, suddenly alarmed.  She picked up her bag and hefted it over her shoulder. She was about to flick her cigarette across the lot but thought twice and put it back in her mouth.  “Damn these things got expensive. Six dollars a pack…you’re lucky you quit when you did.”

There was something incredibly sensual about the whole scene—the wind blowing her bushy hair in her eyes, the neediness, the hotel behind them. It was as if all the pieces had, for once, finally fit. It would be as easy as breaking spring ice with his boot. But then what?

“Well. Best of luck to ya.”  There…smartest thing he did all day. Now just tip your hat and walk away.  But then he did something really foolish.  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a five and handed it to her.

“What’s this?,” she said.

“A little something…a burger…smokes…I don’t know.”

She was about to say something, probably a speech about not being a charity case.

She took the bill without a word. She put it in her jeans pocket. She stared at him a little too long. He knew what that look meant.  He did an about face and made tracks to the diner with his head down again, but this time the wind was actually blowing.

Hours later, Russell found himself inside the cool interior of High Desert Lanes. He put on his bowling shoes, admiring the certain style. He thought they would make stylish shoes but was sure some hipster was walking around with them on now.  The bowling lanes were fuller than he expected. It was midday. Such violence.

Doesn’t anybody work? Unfortunately, they probably don’t.  Two lanes down, a hefty couple were at it. The man was bald and hurled the ball half way down the lane before it landed. The ball crashed into the pins with ferocity. His girlfriend smiled. Is that how he gives it to her every night?

On the next lane over, there was a man with two young girls.  A young black girl  went up to bowl and Russell noticed that however old she is…she sure has a sweet little ass. The man caught him looking and Russell immediately went back to tying his shoes. He suddenly wanted a cold beer.

How the hell did he end up here? Well, after he got away from that Yaz chick, he had made tracks for the diner but the place was full of grey hairs. The early bird crowd.  The eighteen wheeler was gone.  By the time he got to the door, his heart wasn’t in it. He decided he would head into town and check on his truck, although he knew without a doubt that Arnold or Arnie or whatever he liked to be called had not received the part. He doubted seriously if he’d even ordered it.  Arnie had him by the balls and he knew it.

Russell had walked along the highway that led into town.  On any other day, it might have been a pleasant walk. But he was growing anxious about this truck business and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since that greasy bacon and cold toast he shoveled down at the diner. Trying to navigate his way through life without a belly full of Jim Beam, was a daunting task for sure. 

“On your left,” someone shouted.

It startled Russell and he turned to see a group of cyclists humping past with their thousand dollar bikes and their day-glow sportswear. They were a serious bunch. A couple tight muscled girls in the mix were sweating and scowling and probably working a little harder than the rest, as not to be outdone. They went past weaving, struggling and shouting orders, adding a wave of tension to an already uneasy day.  Idiots.

A small stream ran alongside the road, down the bank, camouflaged by some gangly weeds. Russell had the inclination to strip down and take a poor man’s bath but like all waterways in this country, it was probably more waste than water. He picked up a rock and threw it as high as he could and it came down with a hollow splash , as if the small river opened up its mouth and swallowed it whole.

An hour later he had hit the town.  His feet hurt again.  A bronze statue of some pioneer guarded the main street and he sat on the base and took his boots off. A few pigeons gave him a dirty look and sauntered off.  He rubbed his feet. He was thirsty as hell. What do you drink when you can’t have beer?  A cold ice tea sounded good. Unsweetened with lemon.

He looked down the street. He saw awnings of various colors, a jewelry store, a boutique that sold styles from the fifties. And a bar.  To get out of this sun and sit a dark cool bar sucking on some cheap draft beers, play a little darts, eat a burger.  But then…what?  He’d stumble home with an empty wallet, cursing God and somehow the cops would show up and everything he had worked for up to this point would get swallowed up like the rock he threw in the stream.

So here he was. A good wholesome diversion.  Kill some time and take out some frustration on the pins.  The girls were having fun, high-fiving whenever they got a strike or a spare. The old man was drinking a beer. Surely, one must be his daughter.  How does a man bring a child, a girl no less, into this world and protect her? How can he go through the day, hour by hour, knowing his own flesh is not there behind him as he holds a sawed-off shotgun prepared to shoot any man who could come within distance of her? How does a man sleep knowing what evils lurk in this world and that his daughter is not protected from sun up to sun down?

The man must have sensed Russell thoughts. He looked at Russell and raised his beer.

“Hey,” Russell said.  “Looks like these girls know how to play.”

The girls suddenly became self-conscious and moved toward the man. “Usually not,” he said smiling.  “They bet me if they beat me I have to take them to the next Taylor Swift show.”

The girls smiled. “And were kicking his butt!” said the daughter. “C’mon Dad. It’s your turn.” The girls laughed and pulled the man by his hands until he stood.

“Well…time to show y’all how it’s done,” he said, grabbing his ball. He teetered some. The girls sat down and sipped their cokes. The black girl gave Russell the once over. He knew without a doubt, that this girl knew the ways of men and wouldn’t be able to explain it to her friend for years to come. The man had a mean hook. A strike. If the pins were made of lesser material, they would have turned to powder.  He swaggered back and picked up his beer.

“Daddy…we’re just warming up.”  The man swatted her playfully on the ass. Russell realized the man was slightly drunk. Probably his day with the kids. No wedding ring.

“Hey gotta piss,” the man said and took the stairs with one step.

“Dad!” The other girl laughed. The daughter shook her head in disgust but was clearly pleased.

“You gonna bowl?,” said the friend. With the old man gone, she had the courage of a wolverine.

“Thinking about it.”

Russell jumped out of his seat and went to find a ball. The girls laughed. He turned and they went back to their game. Russell took his time weighing each ball. He tried several but the finger holes weren’t quite right. Finally, he chose a streaked neon green ball that looked like planet earth if earth was only green. Sixteen pounds. Not perfect, but if he ever settled down and got serious about life he would surely join a bowling league and get a ball fitted just perfect for his hands.  When he came back the black girl was sitting. No sign of the daughter. She took another sip of coke and gave Russell a sly smile.

Russell walked up the lane and let his first shot go, cocksure. He barely clipped the two end pins. He knew he just lost what little magic he had in the eyes of the black girl. She looked behind her and the daughter came walking down.

“He’s not there,” the daughter said.

“Well it’s his turn”, said the friend. She sat down, as if she were an inflatable lawn ornament and  someone had pulled the plug. She sucked what was left of her coke from underneath the ice. It made her look years younger. The girls looked pleadingly at Russell. He knew this was not the first time Dad went MIA.

“Do you want me to go see if he’s….?”  ( What…still pissing?!) The girls nodded.  Russell put the ball in the rack and walked up the carpeted stairs with hundreds of cigarette burns from days passed.

The bathroom door had a hole in it, exposing cheap plywood. A sign read MENS , written on a piece of paper and taped to the door.  He went inside. It smelled like vomit. There were lockers lined up on one side of the wall. He looked into the stall. No one was in there.

He went back outside. He saw a room and walked down and looked in and it was a game room with a pinball machine and a few other games with guns attached.  A young Hispanic kid turned around fast just as he was handing something to an older boy. Russell acted like he was looking beyond them; past their shoulders to the dark end of the room. But nothing was entirely dark because the machines flashed strange lights on the back wall. At the end of the hallway was an exit door. He walked down and opened the door. There were three to four people huddled around the door smoking and talking bowling scores. They all looked at Russell. A secret convention and he was intruding. He shut the door and came back in.

He knew where the Dad was. 

He saluted the girls and gave them the sign that everything was AOK. They just wanted to go home now.  He walked straight into the bar. A guy was playing pool with one hand and holding his cell phone with the other. “Fuck you…fuck you…you know that’s bullshit…” he said into the phone. Russell saw the Dad at the bar.   

“Hey,” Russell said as neutrally as he could but a few jagged shards broke through.

The man turned red-eyed and nodded his head and finished his drink, swirling a few ice cubes around to get every drop. The man stared at Russell for a beat. Russell was ready. What better place to unload it all than on this drunken asshole.

“Hey baby,” the man slurred a bit. “How ‘bout one more?”  The girl behind the bar was no baby and she gave Russell a perturbed look as if asking for his permission to serve him.

“Hey man…your girls are wondering where you are.” The man tilted his head forward and scrunched his eyes as if trying to recall where he might know him from. “Your daughter’s worried.”

Something snapped him to. He put some money on the bar and got off the stool. Russell let him lead in case the guy got some sudden urge to blindside him. The man walked purposefully as if measuring his steps.  Russell realized he was drunker than he thought.  They walked out to the lanes and the girls gave a nervous smile.

“It’s your turn Daddy.”

“I know, I know, the goddam world’s up my ass.”  The man grabbed Russell’s neon green ball by mistake.

Fun over.

Russell did his part and now it was time to go. He took off his shoes. The man was now trying his best to bowl , swaying, trying to keep balance.  The ball dropped on the lane with a thud.

“Oops…fuckin thing,” the man said.

The daughter put her hand over mouth and let out a cry and ran to the bathroom. Her friend followed. The man was walking down the lane trying to retrieve the dropped ball, which was now rolling down the gutter.  Russell handed in his shoes and stuffed his feet in his boots and got the hell out before he’d start smashing things or became the drunk down at the bar flirting with the overweight bartender, drinking old beer and trying to get in her pants and not wanting to but having to because what else are you gonna do on a broke ass lonely night in a town like this?

He ended up in some park. The sun was low. Dinner time for most. He could smell meat and onions cooking close by. He sat on a cement bench and watched the brackish water sputter out of a rusted faucet inside an old fountain.  Broken mosaic. A few pennies were scattered along the bottom and some cigarette butts were swirling around like fallen logs in a river.  He pulled some boiled eggs out of a bag. He remembered to salt and pepper them but forgot all about the hot sauce.  He also had something called Summer sausage.  He certainly did not want to hold it up to the light and read the ingredients.  He had crackers too.

A cat emerged from beneath a bush. Black with yellow eyes that did not shine. It was crouched, like a panther, but in a submissive way.  Another stray. Am I in some horror movie?

He broke off a piece of sausage and tossed it to the cat. The cat did not attack it as he hoped, but ate gingerly around the edges until it was gone. The cat sat up and licked its paws.  There was something so dull and listless about the cat. Crust in its eyes, staring blankly ahead.

“YAH!”  The cat tore off through the leaves. Russell thought maybe this was a cruel act but then thought maybe it wasn’t. There were enough beggars in the world.

Can’t help them all.

Overall, it wasn’t a bad meal. At first he felt like a homeless man with a brown bag but as he ate he felt somehow blessed, as if he was most fortunate to have food when he knew for sure there were people in this world without. The park was surrounded by old buildings. Some were shut with For Rent signs in the windows. A dark-skinned man with a black mustache, wearing a dirty white apron, was sweeping in front of a small restaurant. He saw Russell and was about to avoid contact but saw him tearing into his eggs and gave him a friendly nod. Russell forgot to get something to drink and the egg yolks had made his mouth dry but he was just too worn out to go back to the store.  He saw a water faucet. It was bent to the side and the cement base anchoring it down was half way out of the ground. He pushed the button and water drooled out.  He bent down and had to practically lick the faucet to get some, knowing damn well that someone probably did this before him.

He finished his dinner and wiped his face with the crumpled paper bag. He rolled it up into a tight ball and threw it toward a garbage can on the far side. It went in.

“Swoosh,” he said.  No one was there to see it.

“Nice shot.”

He was wrong. Yaz came walking up behind him, bag over her shoulder and sat down on the bench beside him. She put a cigarette in her mouth and offered one to Russell. “Oh right…you quit,” she said.

Russell was not entirely put off by seeing her.  She looked cleaned up since he saw her last. The make-up wasn’t smeared, her hair smelled like clean laundry.  She smoked for a bit, saying nothing. The man with the broom looked over again and went inside. He didn’t bother to scoop up his pile. Maybe later.

He picked a piece of cracker off his shirt and ate it. The sun was now behind the mountains, casting a dark red glow, taking some of the sting out of the day.

“I have no idea how the hell I ended up in this place,” Russell said. 

“Yeah,” Yaz leaned back, taking long contemplative drags on her smoke, like an old wizard. “I just wing it,” she said.

Something about that statement appealed to Russell.  Hasn’t he been doing that—winging it? For years. Everyone seemed to have a pretty clear picture. His was fuzzy. It was too daunting to look too far ahead.  Sometimes, before falling asleep, he would be amazed with the fact that he had made it this far.

“This town’s a bad dream,” he said.

She laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head and smoking some more. Russell felt as if he had known this girl much longer than fifteen minutes. “I can feel your rhythms coming up through this bench.”

Russell took this as a compliment at first, but after further thought, guessed it was a line she used frequently, like choosing from a pocketful of pens. You always pick the one that works.

But he had to admit, there was something sinister and lovely about her. 

“That was my sister, the one at the diner. She wants me to come home.”  She wasn’t laughing now. Her body seemed to fill with black ink. “Talk about bad dreams…”

That was enough. He didn’t need to hear anymore.  There would be nothing happy about this story. And then he would be obliged to share his. And what could he tell her? About the failed marriage? About the house in Fairbanks where they lived and like a glacier calving, significant chunks of their love crashed into the cold sea until there was nothing left to warm them? About the countless times he submerged into the warm vapors of whiskey and beer?  The fights over …(what?)..he couldn’t even remember?  The accusations; not about infidelity but about the Failed Promise,  where instead of growing closer they grew further and further away  like two icebergs floating in different directions and no idea how to change their course? About the sunless winters and the summers without night? About how there was no fight at all the last time; he just quietly packed his bag and took the truck when she was at work at the college and he decided not to leave a note or stop by her work to tell her? How one night in the tent in the Yukons he was awakened to the baying of wolves and cried such hot tears he saw bright red and purple behind his eyes? How he never really believed the truck would make it and yet he was completely taken by surprise when it finally gave up on him? And then what could he tell her from there; that he has no idea if he will return or not, that his only goal is to make it to the Grand Canyon and hike down until he touches bottom and find some God the Indians might have prayed to?  And then what? Wait for a vision? In truth; he had no idea what kind of story to tell her. He knew only this: I’m so fucking tired.

They walked together, sometimes side by side and other times with her ahead.  He didn’t want to lead.  He just wanted to watch the firefly’s phosphorescent glow, hear the lonely fogs call out, the dogs barking in the distance.  They said little.  He was glad there wouldn’t be questions. He had no idea how to answer them anyway.  She seemed resigned to something. Not to the fact they would spend the night in the same room but, for now, in spite of everything that could possibly go bad, at least for now, the adding and subtracting was over.

He always made sure she was inside him; away from the road when a car passed. It was dark now. Headlights on bright and blinding them when they passed. About the fourth car to do this, he flipped them off. The car braked. Bring it.

Russell clenched his fists and took steps toward the car hoping there was more than one of them. Whoever was in there, decided against it. They drove on. She took his hand. He unclenched his fists and let her fingers slide in. Something about the human touch, it was so much more than skin and bone and cartilage and blood.  Her fingers were cold. Is she asking for guidance or warmth?  He could only provide one.

His feet hurt again.  If he knew he was going to be doing so much walking, he would never have worn the cowboy boots. Why did he wear them? Something about identity…the road..the desert….

When they got to the hotel he made her wait behind it. “Watch out for strays. They’ll eat you alive.” She laughed. Not a nervous laugh at all. Perhaps she’d seen more threatening things in her life than a few hungry cats.  She lit a cigarette to keep her company.

Russell walked into the office.  Empty. He smelled something exotic, ethnic, full of grease and yellow spice. He rang the bell. A short Indian man came out. Russell heard children playing. The smell escaped before he could shut the door.  Such small black eyes. I would never trust this man on the battlefield . The type to run or pretend to be shot.

“Yeah…looks like it’s gonna be one more night,” said Russell.

“Room sixteen…ok…ok…forty-five plus tax.” Never saw the man in my life but he knows what room I’m in. Again…don’t trust these people.

Russell handed him his credit card.

“Sorry…no,” the man said with a tight smile. “Cash only.”

“Is there a problem with my card? I got a big limit, you know?”  He didn’t.

The man continued to smile. He looked down. Is there a gun down there?

“Cash, please,” said the man. 

Man, he wanted to punch him in the face and see a few teeth come out. He wanted to reach over and grab his greasy hair and pull him over the counter and kick him until he cried. He reached into his coat and got out his wallet and counted out the cash. Not much left.

“Thank you, Sir.” The Indian man gave him his change. “Will you be staying longer?” It was obvious he was hoping he wouldn’t be.  Russell decided right then and there that he wouldn’t.

It was if someone was attempting to break in or a flock of birds were rising up in the room. He awoke. The window was open and the curtain was slapping against the AC unit.  A breeze came in and bounced around the room, passing over his face. Rain. It smelled like new bullets. Yaz had pulled the majority of the blankets her way. Somehow she had managed to confiscate his pillow as well, holding it like a lover or a flotation device in the middle of a frigid sea.

Her foot was on his leg, still connected after their first attempt. It was clunky, like two people dancing for the first time and stepping on each other’s feet. But eventually they found a groove. It came and went and came back again. It was two converging tributaries, but each one a different color and turning their river into an odd shade of orange.

He got out of bed.  Yaz shifted, now that the warmth of his body was removed.  He took a long piss, remembering to lift the seat now that a woman was aboard.  He wrapped a towel around his waist and went to shut the window. The rain was now landing in pregnant drops, splattering on the ground like squashed bugs.  The leaves in the trees were nervous, shaking, like a crowd of people all talking at once( or maybe laughing). Then the real rain came. It was as if a seam in the clouds had been ripped open and out spilled all its content.  It was terrifying at first, like some angry God unleashing its wrath on Man.

It was then he knew what he would do. 

He would abandon the truck, the pilgrimage to the desert. He would get enough for a bus ticket. Two.  And maybe just a little bit more. He knew where to get it. They would know it was him . But they would be gone. Long gone.  Texas. Some small little beach town full of drunk rednecks and fishermen. Get a job on some oil rig. Done some of that up on Prudhoe Bay. Good pay.  No one would know them. They could make up whatever story they wanted. They could even change their names.

The rain came in through the screen, testing his resolve.  He heard laughter.  Nancy and that trucker…What’s his name?  Oh yeah Landon.  They went past the window, trying to outrun the rain.  Nancy let go of his hand and slowed down to catch rain with her tongue. Landon was carrying the remnants of a six pack. Cans.  She looked over and saw Russell standing in the window in his towel. She smiled. Landon came back and grabbed her hand. He looked too. He gave Russell the victory smile, the smile that said “I’ve got her and you don’t.”  He put his cowboy hat on her head and pulled her away, her wet clothes now sculpting her body like paper machete. Not bad..but that mustache. Thank God their room was at the far end of the motel. He heard their door slam shut.

Yaz stirred. “Something interesting out there?”

“It’s raining,” he said in a voice he didn’t recognize. It made him shiver some. He shut the window. She was behind him. She wrapped her hands around his chest and her small breasts pressed against his back, her nipples just under his shoulder blades like the pressure points from a trained acupuncturist. 

“You’re so warm,” she said.

Russell took her hands. Bony things. Cold as mountain river.  He rubbed them.  The rain was a deluge, the gravel parking lot already in a minor flood stage. It was comforting.  She kissed behind his neck. She bit him.  He decided they would go back to bed and make love or whatever it is they had been doing earlier. And this time it would surely last longer. 

When she fell back asleep, he would get up to do what needed to be done. He had brought his gun for protection, not knowing then, that he would become the type of person he brought it to protect himself against. They would leave before sun up.  Will this rain let up? He would give Yaz his jacket to wear. He would carry the bags. But not now…later. These moments so few, so …

But when he turned around to hold her she was already on her knees and she untied the towel and let it fall and …it was…it was…so much more than anyone could ever hope for. He could see it now…not as far away as….so much closer than ever before..actual…almost within touch.  A bridge. A shiny metal bridge, that may or may not be over a body of water. A strong bridge; designed well and he could see it in all its magnificence covering a great span; anchored into the earth with industrial-sized bolts; not entirely straight but sturdy enough to hold even them.