The road that seems to go on forever will, hours from now, endwith the towers of the City on the Coast rising up out of thepallid soil, glistening in the sun or, if after dark, shining likea starry cluster with the lighted windows of a night-time nova. But all I see for now is the flat mighty plain, the telegraphpoles, a few trees standing as if they alone were missed by somemighty reaper, and the road stretching away like a gun sight. WhatI see is a road that narrows to nothing and disappears where itmeets with the curve of the earth and the spread of the sky.
My arms are tired. As I drive I hold the wheel in manydifferent positions to ease the strain. I see the positions of myhands on the wheel as times on a clock. My hands say ten beforetwo. Twenty before four. Five before five. Six thirty. And Iplay word games in my head, challenging myself to find new ways todescribe the passing country that has become so familiar over thepast few months.
I'm on my way from point A to point B in the shortest, mostdirect way: the only way this county offers up from the City of thePlain to the City on the Coast. My ankle is stiff and my leg feelsheavy. I have no cruise control to hold my speed, but even if Ihad I don't think I'd use it. I like to feel the road when Idrive, and I like to feel my car around me, flexing and tremblingwhen I touch a pedal or slip smoothly from one gear to another. Iplay my car like a musical instrument. The road is the music. Theridges and bumps are the bass line sounds, the ends of bars. Thetires thump over them, and the car absorbs the sounds and themotions of the river of tar.
I feel the car, but it's another part of my mind that sees it,not the part that is What I Am. What I Am, rather,is the mind inside the tired body; the mind that looks out throughthe portals of my eyes and observes all that is automatically doneto keep the journey alive. My mind drifts outside the metal box inwhich I sit, and it flies up and away from me, looking down on theblue roof of my vehicle, a roof that catches the light and the skyand the clouds, and reflects it like another universe, a coolingpool, a mirror image of the ether.
Ah, and all the time he sleeps next to me, one arm lying acrosshis waist, the other trailed between his legs. The sunlightthrough the window highlights the forest of heavy, black hair onhis arms, and it moves in the gentle breeze from theair-conditioning. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed. There is a slight gap between his lips, but they are linked with asingle silver thread of saliva. He hasn't shaved for days, and hisface is covered with stubble like a scorched field. His hair isblack, not dark--black like a raven is black-- and it has a depthof sheen that is without an end. It is swept back from hisforehead, leaving a dirty line where it normally falls, a shadow ofdust. With his head at this angle, his chin is a cliff fallingsheer until his apple, which gently rises and falls. Below that,a bunch of hair rises like a wave from his shirt, black and wirylike his arm, an iceberg tip of hair. The shirt is brown andheavy, stained with sweat. The trousers are jeans, worn andpatched. He purrs with each breath.
The telegraph poles which send their regular bars of shadeflying over my passenger make him become an image of a man,flickering like an old movie on an aged projector.
Flick.
The sound of the car echoes back from the poles for aninstant when we pass each one.
Flick.
He's my passenger, picked up from the dusty roadside.
Flick.
When I first saw him he was a speck in the distance, a waveringstalk in the heat-haze. I considered my options. Pick him up, ordrive on to look for another? I felt the empty seat by my side,and my mind raced away down the miles of empty road, with maybe noother hitcher. I saw the stillness and thought of the hours andhours ahead, a desert of lost thoughts and lonely moments,accompanied by nothing more that the empty music and chat from theradio, turned down low for company and nothing else.
My foot moved from accelerator to brake and squeezed gently. Iset the indicator and clocked the metronomic tick tick tickas the car glided into the side of the road.
Before I reached him I leaned down and turned off the radio.
He trotted to the car, long legs, grateful face. He bent downto look into the window and his eyes blazed with the color of asummer lawn.
"How far are you going?" My voice came from deep within thecave of my chest.
"I'm looking to get to the Coast, anywhere on the Coast. Justthe Coast." Smooth, but a rasp catching in the back of histhroat.
He leant with an arm on the window frame, and I saw the blackforest of hair for the first time, and I said, "Please, get in andI'll take you." He threw a small bag into the back seat. It hadhis name written on it in thick red ink. He took his place next tome, became my passenger, and we moved away from the curb. Thetires kicked up dust and in my mirror I saw it settle on hisfootprints, wiping out the ground's memory of him.
"Been waiting long?" I asked.
"About three hours" he told me. "My last ride put me downthere. He was taking the next exit, but I wanted to stay on themain stretch." He laughed. "There isn't a lot of traffic on thisroad."
"No," I replied. "It is a quiet, lonely place."
There was silence and he looked out of the window. It was thesame landscape that he had been standing in for the last threehours, yet his expression was of one who had never seen it before. He studied the sky and the tumbled down houses that we flew past. He ran his hand through his black, black hair.
"It must get tiring and lonely driving by yourself."
"Yes, it does get lonely."
The countryside rushed up to us and then slipped by. In mymirror I saw it being sucked backwards into the past. I increasedmy speed to prevent the car from being caught by the pull of wherewe had just been.
"What brings you to this stretch of road?"
The question was benign and bland, asked for the sake ofsomething to say. He didn't even look at me to ask it. I glancedat him to see his profile.
"I have to do this journey a lot," I answered,non-committal.
"Business?"
I made a sound that could be either positive or negative. Hewas either too disinterested or too polite to ask again, or heheard what he wanted to hear. I helped him out.
"I've been away to a meeting, and I have to get back tonight asmy son is being christened tomorrow. I don't want to miss it."
"No! Congratulations. How old is he?"
"Two," I said. "It's late getting done, but we've had problemswith him and we never got around to it."
"Health?" he inquired.
I nodded. "Meningitis."
"That's bad. What's your son's name?" he asked.
"I don't know yet for sure," I said. He frowned, confused. Ilaughed. "You're thinking, how can a kid be two years old and nothave a proper name, aren't you?"
"Well it seems sort of strange. What have you called him upuntil now?"
"Lucky," I told him. "Lucky to be born and lucky to survive.He'll still be called Lucky, but he must have a proper name too. Ihaven't finally decided yet, but I think that it'll beChristopher."
"That's my name," cried my passenger.
I looked at him and smiled.
"It's my name too," I said. "He'll be Chris Junior."
My passenger seemed overcome by some feeling or other. He shookhis head and kept saying "wow" and "cool".
"And where have you come from?" I asked. "You're young. Areyou on a break from school? Why are you heading to the Coast?"
"Work," he said. "Except I don't have any yet. I'm going tosee if I can get a job by the Ocean. I've wanted to do that for along time. I've always lived where it's hot and dry. I want to seethe water for a change. When I feel sand between my toes I want itto be beach not desert. I want to be able to see the water."
I nodded. Checking both forward and back I could see no othercars.
He fidgeted with his fingers and I watched the muscles of hisforearms move in waves.
"I just decided that I wanted a break for a while. I live onthe edge of the desert. Left there a week ago. Rides haven't comemy way very much. I'm glad you stopped. This is going to be thebest ride I've had."
I drove and I watched the road, except that when I saw him turnhis head, I looked at his arms and the nape of his neck. I saw thewisps of hair crowd into the hollow at the base of his skull, thebulge of his neck muscles, tight.
"Just you?" I asked him.
"I'm sorry?"
"Just you to look after? You just packed up and left?"
"Yes," he said, but the way that he said it makes me think thathe is lying.
"I miss my family a lot when I'm traveling," I told him. "Itwas really bad when Lucky was very sick, but we needed the moneyfor the medical bills."
"It must've been hard."
We both fell silent for a few minutes. I could smell his skin. I wanted to look at him again, but I had to keep my eyes on theroad for now. He kept shifting in his seat, trying to getcomfortable. He indicated the radio with his finger.
"Mind if I put some music on?"
"Sorry," I said. "The radio doesn't work at all."
He leaned back with his eyes closed, making it clear that he waseither very tired, or that he didn't want to talk any more. I lethim drift off to sleep. He turned away from me and his head restedagainst the window. His hair like pitch. Beyond him, thetelegraph poles passed, ticking off the yards, miles, moments.
Flick.
I look more closely at his legs now that he's asleep.
Flick.
His legs are long, thick at the top. Like the rest of himvery muscular.
Flick.
I look at his crotch and I try to imagine what his cocklooks like. Flick.
I'd like to see him naked, to be able to look at him. Iwonder what the hair on his arm feels like? If I kissed him on themouth would his breath be sweet or stale? Who was the last personthat he had sex with, and where did he leave them? Maybe he stillhas a lover and he promised them that he would return to them. I'll wager that he doesn't. In any case, there'll be someone atthe Coast and he'll forget his promise.
Stirring in his sleep, he crosses his arms and turns sideways inthe seat to face me. He opens his eyes for a moment and smiles.Then the eyelids slide closed like shutters and he speaksquietly.
"I should be talking to you to keep you awake. I'm not beinggood company."
"You're fine," I tell him. "It's okay to sleep. You must betired."
I want to reach out and touch him, feel the warmth of his skin,but I don't. I move my hands on the wheel. They saynine-fifteen.
The sun is sinking in the sky like a huge basketball fallingslowly into a hoop. The stray rays shoot upwards and catch thewispy clouds high, high above the horizon. They lie suspended onthe eggshell blue of the sky like scarlet silks thrown carelesslyby. As the light fails, the droning engine of the car seemslouder, as it always does after dark. He sleeps again, but hismouth is closed, and his arms are in shadow. The light doesn'tchase through the hairs anymore.
We fly by a sign lit by the headlights I have had to turn on. Our journey holds the promise of nearing an end; the remainingmiles mean something and are no longer merely an abstract figure. I consider waking him, but once I do I won't be able to watch himanymore. In hours I have learned every crease in his face, thescar on the back of his hand. I see that one of his eyes isslightly higher than the other, and that the fur on his handsstretches up to the second joint of his fingers.
He stirs and pulls himself upright in the seat. His hair isunruly and he pulls at it and strokes it into some sort of order.I would like to do that for him.
"How are we doing?" he inquires.
"Should be there within the hour," I tell him.
"Great," he says. "I'll be able to have a look around and graba drink before I have to get a place to stay the night."
"You have nowhere to stay?"
"No, I'll find something easily enough."
I consider the possibilities, but it's too late. I can't goback now. In my head, I hear my own voice asking him to come andstay with me, but I know that he'd refuse and I don't want to hearhim do that. So I won't ask. And he'd ask me more about my familyand I'd have to explain their absence. I have to let it go.
"Yes, it should be easy enough to find somewhere."
He hums quietly. I turn my driving mirror so that I can see himand not the road behind. I smile with satisfaction, no longerneeding to turn my head. He still drifts in and out of sleep, andthe boundary seems blurred. I watch him more than I watch the roadahead. I know the road and will see it again, but he will be gone. Having him here, and watching him sleep is like drinking him, andI don't want to miss a drop. I feel like a vampire drawing out hislife and reveling in it. I'm dreading the moment when the car willstop and he'll get out, lift his bag, wave, and disappear forever. I want to taste his skin, run my tongue over his flesh and feel therasp of his beard on my lips.
As we approach the City there is traffic. The beams from othercars show the smeared glass of the windshield, and beyond them Isee drivers hunched over their wheels, eyes strained, faces tired. The road that I follow will take us to the boardwalk and there Iwill leave him.
My hands on the wheel say four forty.
The City rises up and we scurry into the warren, the labyrinthof roads that cut through the buildings like cheese-wire. I slowmy speed, slave to the signals, but I'm grateful for them holdingme back, giving me the gift of time. He is awake again, for goodnow. His elbow rests on the window frame and his right indexfinger rests between his lips. The neon of the bars and shopschanges the color of his skin: different shades, different shapes. Sometimes he feels my eyes on him and he turns to me. I switch mygaze to a point beyond him and comment on something, anything, thatI can see.
Everyone in the City seems busy. They all have something to do,somewhere to go and they try to rush to it. In the time capsule ofmy car I hear his soft breathing, punctuated occasionally by athroat-clearing cough. I'm breathing his air, so at least there issomething of him that I am absorbing.
A long stop-and-go stretch, and suddenly there is the Ocean. Ships sit on the horizon, as if teetering on the edge of a hugewaterfall. Closer to shore a few yachts pitch gently on the softswell, signaling frantically with their tiny flashing pin-pricklights.
"Here would be fine," he says.
The moment I wanted to hold on to must pass. I feel as if Ihave been holding my breath for hours, and now I must let it go. I indicate and pull over, squeezing the brake slowly, drawing outthe moment with everything that I have at my command. Finally, Ican avoid it no longer. I stop the car. My hands on the wheelmeet at midnight and I lean forward onto them.
"Here we are. The end of the road."
"I don't know how to thank you, Christopher," he says. "I havenothing that I can offer you in return."
I want him, just for a moment. I want to hold him, to be ableto touch whatever part of his body I choose. I want to kiss hiseyes and suck his fingers. I want to rub my hands up the length ofhis legs and let my touch rest on his crotch. I want to feel himquiver under me.
"No," I say. "There's nothing. It doesn't matter."
He stretches out his hand to me. I look at it and see the whitepalm awaiting mine. I take his skin and I feel the pressureexchange as we shake. It feels like fire deep inside me. I amflushed and ashamed. No longer can I look at him, so I turn myeyes away and look out into the night.
"Good luck," I say.
"Thanks." He smiles. "I hope that all goes well withChristopher Junior."
Lifting his bag from the back seat, he opens the door and getsout. I can't look at him. If I see those clear, green eyes again,I fear I shall vomit. He closes the door. I press the pedal andthe car moves away. From the periphery of my vision I see himwave. On the road I finally look into the rear view mirror, and hehas gone. Slamming the wheel in frustration I speed all the wayhome.
This is what I do every day: I drive through the dust to theCity on the Plain and then I drive back to the Coast again. Eachpassenger gets a new world, a version of what I made of my life,and what my life has made me, because no one would want the truth. Last week, I told a man that I was going home for my father'sfuneral. The week before that I told a hitcher that I was headingfor my sister's graduation. They don't question whether what Itell them is the truth. While I have someone in the car I canbelieve what I say and be happy. So, for a few hours today I onceagain had a family. But my name is not Christopher, and I have noson.
The severance pay will soon be gone, and the gas I need to drivemy car will be beyond me, but for now I can be anybody, and thepeople who ride with me, they don't care. For those few hours Ican be respectable and useful. I don't have to be my disgusting,hateful self.
My apartment, when I get there, is cold and empty. The dustlies thick. Newspapers litter the floor, half-eaten food growsdifferent life-forms and reinvents colors. Paper peels from thewalls in a room whose only decorations are the cobwebs that trailfrom the corners of the ceiling. In the darkness of the alcovelies what passes for a bed, a mattress stark and bare. I have noother furniture. I am tired, and I lie down.
Where is Christopher now, and who is he with? I wish that hewas here with me, but I have nothing to give him any longer. Hetook the ride and it was all I had to offer.
I'm sorry for the man who I set down on the boardwalk, becausefor the next few hours I will use those things about him that Isaw, those things of his life that I stole, to satisfy myself. I'msorry for soiling him, his image, his life, but I can't helpmyself. I close my eyes and lie back on my bed, my fingersbecoming his for a few seconds, and I pretend that I am not alone. He opens my belt and unzips my fly. His fingers slide up over mychest and tenderly toy with me. I gasp as his hand snakes downinto my pants and takes hold of me. My hands say nothing away fromthe wheel, but I say Christopher's name over and over until itbecomes a mantra.
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