Running to nowhere

By the time I got to Phoenix I was scared. I had first noticed him standing at the side of the road in Henderson, just south of Vegas. That had been a little past midday. The relentless desert sun must have been painful on his skin, the way he was dressed in unrelieved black, from his Stetson to the guitar case leaning against his thigh, like a faithful pup. He glared at me.

I shook off his stare and drove on when the light changed. Wanting to get off the Interstate, I took 852 south and hooked up with the 93. He was at every intersection and half-forgotten sunbaked village. He stood at the side of the road and watched me pass at Kingman, Wickieup, Nothing, Santa Claus, Bagdad, and Wickenburg.

I dreaded any sign that told me a town, or a junction was coming up. My hands would tighten on the wheel, my jaw would grind, what little breath I had would disappear. And every time I’d look in my rearview mirror there wouldn’t be anyone there. Just empty land, sage brush, and a stunted cactus or two.

~*~

When I got the news this morning, I did what I always do. I ran. I ran away when Johnny dumped me in ninth grade. Granted, I didn’t get far. Dad caught up with me at the Walgreens’ soda counter. I ran away when my brother died in Iraq. That time I was gone a lot longer. I ran away when I flunked out of college. I never went home again, was too ashamed, couldn’t look myself in the mirror, couldn’t imagine my parents wanting to look at me.

I lived, barely, off a series of part-time and minimum wage jobs, till Joe talked me into working for him. I knew what I was getting into, or at least I thought I did. I’d been around the block a time or two, hadn’t I? Nobody can understand what it's like, not until you’ve done it. The work he made me do was bad enough; to get me through it, he gave me crack. To keep me working, he got me hooked. It took years before I lost all of me. Curled up in a gutter, my brain numb, my body on fire. All I remember was praying. Praying for death. But I got Father Paul instead.

He took me to a detox center. After an eternity in hell, they transferred me to a treatment center where I was force-fed endless bottles of water, large quantities of food and coffee and near constant painful group and individual sessions.

What are you running from? Don’t you know that you will always bring yourself along when you run? Stop running. Look at yourself.

But I couldn’t. I was too afraid, too ashamed. I felt not worthy of attention, even from a mirror. When I got out, I stopped at that little church on Cherry Avenue and thanked Father Paul for saving my life. He smiled at me.

“Don’t waste what you have left, my child.” But I walked away. I ran, not being able to accept his acceptance, I guess.

I managed to avoid Joe and found a few part-time jobs; slept in my car. I worked three shifts at an all-night liquor store and gas station. Did two shifts cleaning offices. And then I got shot.

I’m not sure why he did it. I was stepping away from the register. I had told the owner that I wouldn't stop anyone from taking the measly fifty bucks in the till. His little store wasn't worth my life. But I guess the punk didn’t know that.

That night I lost my job and one lung. The state picked up the tab for my surgery and a few days of recovery. This morning, before he signed my discharge papers, the doctor stood next to my bed and looked longingly at the door.

“You have one lung left,” His eyes darted toward me and back at the door. “But it’s in stage IV.” He stepped away from the bed.

“I’ll give you the name of an oncologist, but …”

He was about to escape through that door when I asked him. “How long?”

He shrugged and shook his head.

Father Paul was waiting for me in the lobby. He made one offer for me to spend tonight, Christmas Eve and Christmas, at the shelter but I turned him down. He didn’t ask more questions and drove me to the all-night place where my old VW was still huddled under the single tree in the lot. I asked him for gas money. He handed me everything in his wallet, I gave him back half and watched him away.

I walked into the all-night store, grabbed a bottle of tequila off the shelf, flipped off the owner, filled up the tank and drove away without paying. He owed me that much and more.

*~*

The sun was low when I pulled off the road at Wittmann. Not wanting to deal with Phoenix traffic, I planned to skirt the town on the 303, but I needed fuel and food if I hoped to make it past Tucson into Mexico tonight. I wasn't sure why Mexico sounded like a better place to die than Tucson. It just did.

The small gas station looked like a leftover from the fifties with a flaking Ni Hi sign fading into the siding. A forgotten Gulf sign leaned against the side of the building, the Marathon logo looked oddly bright and out of place.

After I filled up, I went into the diner next door. A lop-sided Christmas tree and a row of well-fed behinds, wrapped in faded denim, perched on vinyl counter stools greeted me. The men, as if rehearsed, looked over their shoulder, nodded and turned back to their beer.

I slid into the last booth and ordered a burger, fries and coke, thought I didn't really feel like eating. Then I fished the tequila bottle from my satchel and took a couple of deep slugs to kill the pain from the stitches and whatever else was hurting. When I opened my eyes after I let the shudder run through my body, he was sitting across from me.

“Shit!” I reared back and coughed, choking on the last trickle of tequila. “Who are you? Why are you following me? How do you keep getting ahead of me? How …?” I ran out of breath.

“I was surprised to see you in Henderson.” His deep voice tugged on my stiches. His wry smile dried my mouth. His black eyes drained what little fight I had left.

“I’m on my way to Nogales” he added with a shrug. “Where I am supposed to meet you.”

A second shudder ran through me, but this one was much colder than the burn from the tequila. I clenched both hands around the bottle and shook my head in denial. But I knew. I knew who he was the other times I was him. Sitting next to me in the gutter, the dark shadow in the door just before I got shot, and the other day, lurking in the hospital hallway.

“I can keep trailing you, or we can travel together. Do you want company for Christmas Eve? Someone to talk to for the night?”

I drank from the bottle again. The waitress raised her painted-on eyebrows when I sighed, blinked away a tear and nodded at the empty seat across from me.

“Yes, please.”