The Drifter

Hope, Montana, population 488. He pulled up at the diner in the center of the sleepy town, stiff limbed and thirsty, and nearly out of gas. Jethro didn’t rightly recall where he’d come from that day, somewhere out West he supposed, but thinking on it puzzled him and made him uneasy, like he'd forgotten something important, or lost someone close.

It was late, the eatery was nearly empty. Jethro sat at a booth, gulped ice water, picked up the menu and watched the waitress argue over the bill with a brown-haired woman sat in a corner booth. In a little while, the woman left the booth and stepped out into the night, wearing grubby daisy dukes and a torn white T-shirt. Maybe he'd driven past her on the highway, or a street corner, maybe there’s a woman like her in every small town?

He ordered a burger and fries. “What’s with the woman?” he asked the waitress.

“Oh, that's the sorry-assed town drifter. Dresses like a tramp, don't you think?" she said, "ends up here most nights."

Jethro looked out the window at the parking lot. The woman had vanished. He finished the burger, paid the bill, and slipped outside into a cool, moonless night. A different town, the same cosmos.

“Hey Mister, can you help me out? Can I hitch a ride, please?”

Jethro clicked the key fob and opened the car door, lighting up the dashboard. The woman, younger than him, was standing on the far side of the car, in a needy kind of way. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a ride, and I can’t spare any change”, he said, “You need to go find somewhere safe”. 

“I ain’t got nothin’ to pay my way, but I can be companionable.” 

A drugged out, nothing-to-lose drifter was a temptation loaded with too much risk; “I’m sorry, I can't help you," he said, with more than a bit of regret.

The woman bowed her head and nodded. “No, of course, I understand. I’m sorry for wasting your time”, she said, walking away.

Jethro felt the momentary thrill of adventure wither and die. He was trapped in an endless, useless journey, a scramble of hours and distance, minutes, and speed. He got in the car, selected the small town of Whitehart on the GPS system. 180 miles, three hours, ten gallons. He’d count things down, then start again.

The headlights picked out the would-be hitchhiker in the dark. Jethro watched her jog toward the passenger-side door, which he reached over and opened. “I’m headed East, to Whitehart.”

“East is good,” she said, closing the door, "my name is Gabby". She smelled of cinnamon.

“My time isn’t so valuable that you could waste it”, said Jethro. It sounded like a pick-up line. "I mean, I’m in no hurry.” The hitchhiker made him nervous.

She seemed amused, “So, I guess that means that I don’t care where we go and you don’t care how long it takes to get there,” she said.

“We're quite a combination,” said Jethro, uneasy at her smarts. She seemed like a good person, maybe just down on her luck.

“What’s your name, Mister?” said Gabby. She flashed a crooked smile. 

They approached a gas station at the edge of town, and he pulled up to a gas pump. “My name is Jethro, you’d better come with me into the store”. He didn’t want her nosing through his unattended belongings.

“Can’t I just wait outside?” she said, “this place creeps me out”. A man stood at the window of the convenience store, watching them from behind the counter. 

“Come, I’ll buy you something to eat” he said, waving Gabby out of the car.

“You saw me in the diner?”

Jethro swiped plastic and pumped gas, then walked with her into the store. The man behind the counter was dressed in black, with the words "SOUL MAN" emblazoned across his shirt. Jethro picked out two bottles of soda, grabbed a shrink-wrap sandwich and chips, indicating that they were for Gabby. She looked young and vulnerable beneath fluorescent light, and her ragged clothing revealed as much as it concealed.  Jethro pulled a hoodie from the clothes rack and gave it to her, then spilled the sodas and snacks onto the counter in front of Soul Man and threw in a pack of Big Red gum.

“Back with the Drifter, and so soon?” said Soul Man, who was leering at Gabby.

Jethro didn’t know what he meant by “so soon” and didn't care to find out. “Please put that sweatshirt on,” he said to Gabby. It was big and bulky but did a decent job of covering her up.

A display case held rows of identical black lotto cards embossed with the scratch-off words "Town of Hope" in a wacky font.

“They’re local. Instant pay-off”, said Soul Man, “are you going to try your luck?”.

“Why not? Add one to the bill”, said Jethro. A goodwill gesture: it might hurry the transaction along and get them out of the store, away from this horrible man.

Gabby shifted impatiently.

“The lottery card is free,” said Soul Man placing a card in front of Jethro, “and maybe lady luck will be on your side”. 

“Well here goes nothing,” said Jethro. He scratched at the card with a quarter, revealing a prank message, which he read out loud. “YOU LOSE. HOPE". 

Soul Man was deadpan, “Oh, that’s bad, man, very bad.” he said, grim and mean-eyed. The reek of his breath hit Jethro like fetid gas from a sewer drain, "you gotta pay the forfeit". 

“Yeah. Right. Funny” said Jethro, in on the warped joke. “Here, why don't you take the girl?”

“No problem, man, I’ll take this piece of ass," said Soul Man without mirth.

Gabby edged toward the exit and Jethro felt the first flush of fear.

“That’s ridiculous and not at all funny.” Jethro slapped a $50 bill on the counter, grabbed the sodas and snacks. “Keep the change”. Playing it casual though his heart was pounding, Jethro followed Gabbie toward the exit.

“Not so fast, big guy”, said Soul Man, who towered over Jethro, “It’s you or the little lady; it's all part of the deal”. 

"Quick, let's get out of here", said Jethro. Gabby was struggling with the exit-door.

“Give me the fucking hitchhiker” growled Soul Man, who emerged from behind the counter like a riled-up scrapyard dog.  

Jethro threw his weight against the door and tumbled onto the forecourt with Gabby.

“We’re leaving, asshole”, said Jethro, breathless, who rushed to the car pulling Gabby with him. He shoved the key in the ignition, stamped the accelerator, the tires screeched, the gas nozzle tore from the vehicle, flailed like a poisoned snake on the forecourt, and the car fish-tailed through gravel and dust onto U.S. Route 2.

Soul Man shrank in the rearview mirror and disappeared completely behind a curve in the road. It took a while for Jethro to calm down. 

“What a goddam Jerk!” said Jethro. “I’m calling the cops when we get to Whitehart". 

“You did good,” said Gabby. She was checking the wing mirror.

What did he shout when we were leaving?” said Jethro.

“That he’d be waiting for us.”

They sped away from the town and the blacktop unfurled in front of them into the Montana night. On the GPS screen, the little red triangle crawled slowly away from Hope, and the further they were from Hope the better Jethro felt.

Twenty-five miles, a mile-a-minute, one gallon... Soul Man... Hope...

"You did good, but I've got a bad feeling about this", said Gabbie.

"Why's that?" said Jethro.

"I feel like I've been through this before".

The bad feeling was infectious. He turned on the radio. "Too late to turn back,” said Jethro.

She gave him another crooked smile. An Eagles song was playing, she sang along in a sweet voice. A Dylan song, too. She was the Hitchhiker from central casting.

“When I said I was a good companion. I didn’t mean it like it sounded”, said Gabby.

He didn’t mind how it sounded, after all, he picked her up.

“When I told Soul Man that he could take you… I didn’t think we were dealing with a psycho”, said Jethro.

“I guess we need to say what we mean, mean what we say?” said Gabby, choking out a laugh.

They listened to more old half-forgotten songs, putting miles between them and the strange, fucked up, small town weirdo in Hope. Jethro counted the miles.

They'd be in Whitehart soon enough, but when Jethro scrolled forward on the GPS display, the destination was a lot further away than he expected. Gabbie picked up on his concern.

“You should have paid the debt and given me to the man," she said.

“You’re kidding right?” said Jethro.

“What if it was the only way out?” she replied, “for you”.

Jethro liked this woman, her voice, her crooked smile, the choked laugh. He checked for Whitehart on the GPS again, he checked the fuel level too. 

“Where are you headed… after Whitehart?” said Gabby.

“Haven’t given it much thought. I’ll decide tomorrow.”

“I don’t get it, are you running away from someone?”

The people and places he’d left behind caused a dull ache in his heart. Best to keep moving on. " Running away, running to, I'm not entirely sure anymore." He handed her a stick of cinnamon gum. 

The road dipped and rose, the radio hissed and cackled. The little red GPS triangle hadn’t moved in at least an hour. They were pitching and rolling in the grasslands, but stuck between Hope and Whitehart, like a ship at sea, rudderless and dismasted. He tapped at the fuel gauge; the tank was nearly empty.  Jethro stopped the car in the middle of the empty highway.

“I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere” he said, looking at Gabby. There were tiny creases around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

“Like I said, I’ve got a bad feeling about this” she said.

They got out of the car, and sat on the hood, which was warm from the heat of the engine. A star-strewn sky dimly lit the scrubby prairies, stretching out in most every direction, though a shimmer of light revealed the presence of a town over the crest of a nearby hill, further along the highway. “It must be Whitehart”, said Jethro.

“Must be,” said Gabby, but she didn’t sound convinced. 

They drove by lonesome trailer homes, abandoned vehicles, trashy front yards, a dilapidated water tower. Whitehart was just another hardscrabble rural town, strung along a lonesome highway.

Jethro’s heart sunk as the town sign flashed into view: Welcome to Hope, Montana, Population 488. 

The post office, the general store, and the diner, again, still open.

“We’re nearly out of gas”, said Jethro, "we'll have to fill up at the gas station. Fuck!" 

"It's me, I’m bad news", said Gabby.

Jethro dimmed the lights, drew the car to a halt in a shadowy area across the road from the gas station and idled the motor, and felt the tug of evil. Soul Man was a silhouette figure at the window waiting for them, watching them, willing them onwards.

“Let me go in and settle the wager with him”, said Gabby, "he won't do anything to me". She released her seat belt.

For a brief instant, it sounded like a good idea. “No, I can’t let you do that,” said Jethro. “I’m going to drive back a little way, find somewhere quiet and wait until dawn or until Soul Man checks out from his shift”.

Gabby protested but Jethro did a sharp U-turn and drove back through Hope. He parked on a vacant plot on the edge of town, cut the motor, pushed back against the headrest.

"I'm taking you East, I promise", said Jethro.

Gabby gave him a crooked smile, closed her eyes.

Jethro shut his eyes too, only for a moment, but a wave of exhaustion washed over him, and he blanked out.

He woke, joints aching, parched and ill at ease, like he'd lost his wallet, his phone, something important. It was dark, moonless and it took him a few minutes to get his bearings; one town looked much like another in this part of the country, especially at night.  He turned on the ignition and the car headlights shone on a road-side sign: Welcome to Hope, Montana.

Jethro stopped at a quiet diner. A glassful of ice water felt good on his parched tongue. Over at a corner booth, a waitress was arguing with a brown-haired woman dressed in grimy jean-shorts and a ragged old T-shirt. A certain type of woman – a drifter - the kind you see hanging out at a street corner or hitching a lift. The kind of woman best left in your dreams.