The slew of the country roads made him smile every time. He lost himself in these outside places, lost hamlets and villages dotted the American landscape, and at times he felt as if it were his sole responsibility to rediscover them. A loose receipt flittered around the car’s cabin and he played with the windows, up and down, changing the flow of roaring hot air, racing across the rolling hills, through the verdant forests and between the fertile farm fields. The torrid air was heavy with water, stank of manure and fiery diesel.
One cigarette left, he reached for it as he slewed into another curve. Grasping the pack, he leaned back and put the last smoke between his lips, holding it there, tasting it, as he pushed the buttons on the radio obsessively. Country and Classic Rock crowded each other on these peripheral airwaves, in valleys and behind hills sometimes mixing together, overlapping.
Settling on something akin to Cheap Trick, he pushed in the car cigarette lighter, thankful for the small things, he smiled knowing that these ancient thunderous cars at least had the ability to make fire.
The cigarette was mostly of no consequence. A taste, quickened pulse, a dryness in his throat. Streams of white looked as if they were being torn from his mouth and nostrils as he flew across the landscape. He pretended he was Paul Revere, believed he was Phillipides, marathon runner of Athenian fame, he was in a brittle trance, cheetah and comet, at once with purpose and mindless.
The smoke faded, chewed itself away and its corpse out the window.
More speed, the sun, the sun, waves of heat, tides of reality warping temperature, pulsed up from the road in half-visible ripples. Faster yet, and music, and the joy in this young man’s heart was undeniable. He felt he flew towards destiny, unrepentant, the universe’s locus for kinetic fantasy.
He reached for the pack, found it empty. He glanced to the half-empty, warm can of coke in the drink holder, back to the road, the dash, the road, the check engine light.
The light was not new. It had evolved from source of paranoia and frustration to a friendly reminder. Time to let the beast rest, let the steel flame-eater cool its burning heart. All horses needed to drink.
He brought himself up, out from his auto-pilot trance and took in the terrain.
“The map is not the terrain…” he said aloud as he looked for signs of civilization. Brother to Theseus that he was, civilization was any spot with strong drink and shelter from the rain.
Not too much later he saw the spot. Civilization was a collection of loosely affiliated cross roads. Paths cut into reality by men with ambition. At each crossroad, there was always a marker, some stalk of signage to remind one that yes, though long lost to distance and woeful wilderness, they still were real.
“In the desert you can remember your name…” he muttered as he slowed the car, the steel extension.
He pushed the wheel around, guided the slowing car from the melting blacktop, felt the change of speed in his stomach, the vibrations from the gravel and dirt parking lot in his bones.
Fully stopped, he left the windows wide open and popped the hood. He gingerly lifted the heavy plate of steel, and propped it up. He gave it a casual inspection, eyes stopping on hard mechanical shape he recognized but did not understand. Wires and tubes, blades and oils, it all looked like it always looked. That was something.
He turned to head into the small corner store that made up this splash of civilization, he needed another coke and more smokes, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Walking, no, flowing towards him was a leggy woman with caramel skin and sandy hair tied on top of her head. She wore a tank top, each step a direct challenge to his decorum. He removed his sunglasses and squinted, then decided eye-contact might be too much for him, and put the shades back on.
“Hi.” She smiled at him. “Car trouble?”
“What? Ah, no. Uh, just givin’ it some air.” His natural dialect was relaxed, a slangish, lazy way of communicating. It made him sound uneducated, a cultivated habit. People expect less of the ingnorant.
She nodded. “I see that. Why?”
“Well, the light comes on.” He said. She kept walking towards him until she stood a foot away. She was almost his height and looked right into his eyes.
“The bad light?”
“Check engine.”
She nodded. “Oh, sorry. I’m a little forward.” She stuck out her hand, “Cassia.”
“Cassia.” He repeated. “Uh, Jack.” Halloween Jack Soiree, he said to himself, in his funny voice that made him smile. She smiled too and for a split second, he wondered if he’d said it aloud.
She stood too close. He could feel the heat of her skin above and beyond the stifling summer sun. She pulled a cigarette, the symbol of patience and openness, a sure sign of sharing, in that certain world, lit only by grim and dim yellow bulbs and neon lights. It made him thirsty.
“Here.” She pushed the cigarette in his direction. He took it, confused. She nodded towards the crushed and empty pack of camels in his hand. “You’re out.”
He put the cigarette to his lips and stuck his hands in his pockets, searching for a lighter, which wasn’t there. He used the precious piece of retro technology, the car-lighter, while he was driving.
She deftly produced a lighter, touched the flame to the tip of the smoke and backed away. He breathed deep.
“You’re thirsty. I was headin’ cross the street. Interested?”
He nodded dumbly as he turned his head in the direction she indicated. There sat a squat broawn building. A screen door rocked gently in its hinges, occasionally building up the nerve to bang sharply. A faded neon sign sputtered in the window, decrying the presence of some obscure local flavor. Music seeped out of the door, low and steady, it seemed to creep across the road, like a snake.
He looked away, felt his satisfaction with life fade, felt a strange hunger, felt weak.