Bottled Water—Oh, and Some Directions, Please.

I had asked for the bottled water minutes before I entered into a staring contest with this old woman, face so wrinkled it looks like the creases of a crumpled page. I don’t think she’s blinked since I spoke to her, and the intensity of her gaze only feeds my assumption that she’s never blinked in her life.

I hold my ground.

“So…” I shuffle my feet, then readjust my crooked skirt, dirt spotted at the hem. “…about that water…”

She raises a pencil-thin eyebrow. “What about it?”

I blink. “Can I have some?”

Her nose wrinkles in disapproval. I realize I forgot my manners, so I add a hasty “please” before I feel she might murder me with her death stare. I show some teeth with a smile so counterfeit, I’m afraid I was going to get charged with facial-expressive fraud.

I exit the gas station, kicking up dust as I pass the sandy path under my feet. The sun beams down on my face with the intensity of a light from an interrogation room. I down the half the bottle where I stand. The drips rolling past my chin are a cool relief to my baking flesh.

“Hey, kiddo,” says Pop. He smacks me on the shoulder, gently pushing me to the other side. “Get the directions?”

I almost choke on my water as I mentally palm myself in the forehead. That was the one thing I was asked to do when we split up and visited respective shops, and all I had to show for my endeavors was a half-gone bottle and a new record for holding a stare. Unfortunately, these two things aren’t moving us or our truck home anytime soon.

“I…uh, forgot. I’m sorry,” I give my sorry feet an equally shameful stare, tilting my head down at the dirt.

Pop sighs. He the hood of the pickup a hearty pat. “I’ll just go on in, then.”

“Nonono!” I lunge forward and yank him by the wrist. “Let’s try a different place.”

To this, he just pulls the corner of his mouth to one side and gives out one of his famous nasal huffs of laughter. “Still anxious ‘bout talkin’ to strangers, eh?”

“I already talked,” I lower my eyebrows, motioning with the bottle as I give it a little shake. “I just forgot the directions.”

He shakes his head. “Kay, lemme go on in and have a look-see for m’self.”

“Pop…” I pull my shoulders to my ears and my hands to my chin.

“Don’t you backtalk,” he wags his thick finger in my face. “The way I see it is you can either come with me or go ask some other folks, a’right?”

The way I see it is this: I can either face that judgmental woman again or go through the same, excruciating endeavor of acquainting myself with other strangers.

A couple low creaks, followed by a light jingle, brings me back to reality. Seeing as Pop has already journeyed within the gas station with-or-without-me style, I realize that I, steeped in bitterness, have no desire to follow him.

My nose whistles as I release a sigh. I’m twice as indecisive as I am anxious, so I suppose I have to thank Pop for virtually making up my mind for me.

“‘Making friends with strangers’ it is, then.”

That seemed wishful thinking. If they’re anything like that old woman, it would be more of them making a fiend out of me.

I pass a man, crouched over a patch of grass behind a fence—which, in this town, must be a rarity (the grass, not the fence). He’s clad in what were probably once dark navy-blue overalls, now faded from the sun. Despite the shadow cast from his straw hat, a smile beams forth. I take this as invitation enough to introduce myself. Maybe ask for some more water? …Oh! And ask for directions.

I rest my elbows on the fence. This gesture seems way too comfortable for acquaintance-making, so I quickly tuck my hands behind me as if it never happened.

I barely articulate an “excuse me” before his pleasant demeanor is corroded in what seems pure bitterness, his glare now directed at me.

“Excuse me!” he snarls back. “In sunlight, you standin’! Flowers wilt!”

I blink. They…what?

After he less-than-courteously gestures at the long shadow I’m casting over his garden, I articulate a loose apology and step to my right.  

“In town, why you is? Thievery?” he speaks like he’s running on five cups of strong coffee.

“I…uh…just some directions, please.” I don’t know if he even understands me.

He stands up, only about as tall as my shoulder. He huffs, head tipped back. “New-comer, you?”

I feel like he’s speaking something reminiscent of English, but…not enough. I let my eyes dart around this way and that like a loose ping-pong ball.

“Just some directions,” I reiterate. “Please.”

He wags a finger at my face so angrily, I’m afraid he’s going to shove it straight up my nose. Dirt that once clung to his rubber gloves flies in accordance with his words, which are speeding twice as fast as they were before as he spews out phrases of utter nonsense. Nonsense though it is, I gather that this is a “get off my lawn” style reprimand; as such, I apologize and pardon myself.

Well, try to pardon myself.

No sooner do I hear the gate squeak behind me than does his grimy, gloved hand wrap itself around my wrist. Even when I’ve turned myself around, his grip doesn’t stop—nor does his mouth. It runs and runs, like a broken faucet. The more I stare at him, the more my stomach twists itself in a knot. The more my lungs are paralyzed. The more my fingers tap against my side.  

The corner of my eye tells me another soul is approaching. I hold my breath, hoping it’s Pop. Air rushes from my lungs in disappointment when I see it’s only a woman. Oh well, any person, Pop or not, was invited to come help me. Almost winning a staring contest is one thing. But almost winning an argument in which the opponent is incoherent...any hope of winning this by myself is, again, wishful thinking.  

“Miss!” I wave her down. “What did I do? Who is this?”

“No! Who are you?” she barks, hands on her hips.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised with her choice of response to my questions.

“Bottle!” shouts the squat man. “You have it, why?”

“Do you want this?” I articulate slowly as I carefully hold it in the air, parking on every word, as if it’s a piece of long-sought wisdom.

Hoping that this is what they desire, I place it in front of me, making a barrier between myself and the two of them. I step back. I wait. And I realize that wishful thinking strikes again.

They explode in what seems grand irritation, shaking fists at me like each clutches a maraca. I suppose the only thing they want is me away from them.

It’s that thought that numbs my soul, and I stop caring.

One breath. One kick. One bottle, flying through the air; and two startled strangers watching as it soared overhead and landed on the man’s tile rooftop.

They stand distracted, and I take this as my cue to exit stage right. As they—and a few others who had seen the commotion—huddle underneath the man’s roof, I make my escape, kicking up dust with each footfall. It stings as it collects in my eyes. Bitter thoughts flood my head. I grit my teeth, angry that Pop left me alone. Each swing of my fists pumps new fuel into that fire. Soon I feel tears rushing past my cheeks. When I see him….

Apparently, that was sooner than I thought. I collide into his plush belly, ricocheting off like a rubber ball against a wall. I nearly take him down with me.

“What in tarnation, kiddo?” he reaches down and picks me up.

“I…”

“Hey, what’s the matter? You been cryin’?”

His large, calloused hand nearly covers my face, but it gently scoots the tears out from under my eyes.

“I…” is all I can say. I rush up to him. I’m still cross with him, but the rest of me says otherwise as I wrap him in a hug so massive that I can almost touch my fingertips around him. I burry my face in his cotton shirt and sniffle.

“I love you, Pop.”

He’s quiet as he pats my small back—confused, no doubt. He finally lets out a soft, “It’s alright, kiddo.”

“I just want to get out of here,” I sigh.

He pats me again, guides me to the rusted pickup. I notice how much tan clay is caked on the rim of each wheel. And then I think:

Why are we getting in the truck?

“Wait, are we heading home?” I hesitate as he opens the passenger door.

“I’d say so, seeing as I just snagged some simple directions from that old gal inside,” he grins, shooting a thumb over his shoulder.

I hop in, fasten the safety belt. The metal is hot, so I click it in quickly. Once Pop rounds the front of the vehicle and hops in, I press him for the rest of the story.  

“H—how?” I blink. “How’d you get the directions?”

Pop snags a toothpick from the dashboard and starts gnawing on it. “Won a starin’ contest. Never broke eye contact, and she caved.”

I relax in my seat, nearly chuckling. Pop fires up the engine, and hot AC blasts in our faces. The air blows away most of the awful memories of this dismal place.

“Hey, kiddo, by the way…” Pop says, arm stretched over the back of my seat as he looks out the back window to reverse the truck. He grins, “I love you, too.”

That blew away all the other awful memories.

I smile, sink in the tattered seat, rest my head against the door, and let the hum of the engine lull me to sleep.