Thursday, July 07, 2005
Underpass
Here’s a fragment I’ve been thinking about for, oh, it seems like years now… I finally wrote it up in Florida, so it counts as vacation writing. I mean, in case you were keeping track.
The sky was very black; the moon was new and heavy clouds masked the stars. They were far out on I-5, deep in the heart of the central valley, far from any town worth the name, far even from the occasional motel where they’d never stay anyway. The old Vega staggered along, forward into the night, headlights unfocused and wan, engine complaining and occasionally cutting out. The real problem, though, was the radiator. They were only able to make 75 or 100 miles at a shot before the temperature rose too high and steam began to seep from the edges of the hood and in through the cracked plastic dashboard, at which point they had to pull over for an hour or two to cool off. Luckily, it was a chilly night and the engine returned to a safe temperature fairly reliably; they also had a few jugs of antifreeze and plenty of water, so once they were cool enough to pop the radiator cap they could pour in some automotive lemonade and keep the damn thing from blowing up for another hundred miles or so.
It was tedious and stressful, driving like this, but they needed to get south and this was the only way they were able to do it. The harvest would be starting soon in Coachella, and Luis wanted to see his new daughter, too. She had a hearty cry, he’d heard it on the phone, and his girlfriend said Ynez was a very pretty baby; Luis was a family man and it hurt him to have been away for her birth. He hadn’t seen any of his four children born, and each time it had felt to him like a betrayal. Jorge felt no such familial pull; he was a loner and liked his freedom, but he was hungry and he loved money so he was, in his way, equally motivated to coddle the old rustbucket down to the southland. But motivation was beside the point when the sour steam began to crawl around their faces again about thirty miles north of Buttonwillow. It was the middle of nowhere, and time to stop again.
Both men could feel that a serious downpour was imminent - the clouds had been lowering pregnantly for hours, and the air of the typically arid valley had been growing increasingly moist. As the car glided to a shuddering stop, fat drops of rain finally begain to splash heavily on the dusty windshield. With a grind of the starter they coaxed the tired old car a few hundred yards further down the double ribbon of concrete to an underpass where a country road, undistinguished by any name, hove itself up and over the interstate. They crept to a second stop under this slender shelter just as the heavens really opened up and months of drought were gullywashed away. The plains soaked it up thirstily and then began to pool, black water in black puddles on a black night. They shut off the headlights - their only source of illumination, and listened to the storm.
As minutes passed, other traffic did not. It had been some time since they’d been passed by any vehicle, and no one now came up from behind them nor the opposite way on the northbound lanes across the median strip of oleander and garbage and bare dirt turning fast to mud. It was easy to forget, after a while, that the rest of the world even existed.
Sudden lightning disabused them of this fantasy. A single bright flash was followed by several more, a sudden crescendo in the storm. These flashes first implied, and then confirmed, a matter which surprised them both: they were not alone. Off the opposite shoulder, across four empty lanes and that grimy median, was another car - parked, as theirs was, as if it had been left there to recuperate or die. The lightning’s momentary illuminations did not give their night-accomodated eyes a chance to pick up any more details than that, but it was clear that they had company.
Jorge and Luis debate briefly what to do with this information. They were pretty sure the others weren’t locals, or at least not rich ones - no one but migrants and poor folk drove a car that required this kind of shelter. Maybe they were illegals, or criminals hiding out. Maybe they were very hungry, or desparate, or dangerous. Maybe, maybe, maybe. On the other hand, maybe they had lots of food to share, or useful information on washed-out crops or where to find work. Maybe they had more engine coolant, or needed water. Maybe, said Jorge, they were pretty, and eager for virile company. His smile was barely visible in the darkness of the stalled Vega. Whatever the facts turned out to be, it seemed that the potential positives outweighted the possible negatives. Who knew how long they’d be stuck there? They decided one of them would cross the highway and see what he could see. The other would stay behind in case they found they had a maniac for a neighbor.
Jorge volunteered for the mission, still hoping to rescue some senioritas in distress and arousal. Luis stayed back to watch for a muzzle flash, as if he’d be able to do anything about it if he saw one. And so Jorge creaked open his passenger door and stepped out into the night, letting the old Vega fill suddenly with cool air, the crashing sound of rain, and tangible darkness. He carried a bottle of water and a tire iron, in case either was needed, and, partly, for protection.
oh well this one’s too long to put it all in a single post. I’ll finish what I’ve got on monday. Have a good weekend and don’t overheat.
