By Emi Gruender
There was nothing around for miles. Flat plains and wire-strung fences and blue sky and one road, stretching from horizon to horizon. A young woman sat on the side of the road in the blazing sun, hand cupped over her eyes. There wasn’t much she could see, anyway. Heat rising from the cracked asphalt created heat waves in the distance, making the straight road wobble in her eyes.
She sighed, shucked off her sweatshirt, and sat down on her backpack. Quite honestly, she wasn’t sure how she got here. Since she left Winthrop (pop. 400) a couple days ago, she was sure that she would hitch a ride eventually. But as car after car passed her outstretched thumb, she figured it wouldn’t be too outlandish to walk. So she walked.
The sidewalk turned from gravel into dirt, as the “CLOSED FOREVER” signs started to appear in decrepit shop windows, as ivy started to peek through the cracks in the concrete. She walked until her feet ached, until she was sure that she was the only living thing for miles around. And then she sat.
Where did she think she was even going, anyway? Her last drop of water had run out over two hours ago, her lips cracked and dry. She licked them pointlessly. Even just sitting here, she could feel her skin scalding, her rubber soles melting under the relentless sun. There was nowhere else to turn.
The minutes in complete silence turned into hours. Her skin reddened and peeled, sweat pooled in her underarms, a headache plagued her synapses.
Oh my god, she thought. I’m going to die here.
Suddenly, there was a rumble in the distance. Exhausted, she raised her head towards the sound and squinted at the little red dot in the distance. A mirage, she thought, until the sound got louder. Until a dilapidated, rusting truck pulled up beside her, with peeling paint in a color that must have been red, at some point. Out stepped a pair of worn leather boots, dusty jeans, a red flannel and a beard. A very, very long beard, one that stretched to the waistband of his jeans, one so scraggly that you’d be sure he’d lost food in there at one point or another.
The girl shrunk back, intimidated. The burly man extended a calloused hand.
“You need a ride?”
Hesitating, she took his hand as he pulled her to her feet. Warily, she looked him up and down. Hitchhiking was a dangerous sport, and being picked up by a strange, very large man in a truck didn’t usually have the best track record. Certain death on the side of the road, or probable death at the hands of a driver. She weighed her options.
“Yeah, that would be great,” she said slowly. “Where are you going?”
The man paused, and scratched at his beard.
“I’m not quite sure,” he finally said, turning bright brown eyes down to her. “How about you? Do you know where you’re going?”
The young woman was taken aback. She hadn’t thought about that before.
“No, I don’t think I do. Just away, I guess. Somewhere that isn’t where I was before.”
His eyes sparkled, like her answer pleased him.
“If you pay me, I’ll give you a ride. Wherever you decide to go. ”
He started to lumber back around the front of his car, climbing into the driver’s seat. Alert, the young woman rifled around through her bag. She reached into her wallet, her hand emerged holding a measly sum of three cents.
“I can’t pay you,” she called after him, pennies biting into the meat of her palm. Would he leave her there? What would she do?
He fixed her with a stare, his chocolate brown eyes piercing deep within her soul. With a start, she realized she hadn’t asked his name.
“Money? What kind of payment is that?” he replied.
Her stomach dropped, and she took a step back, horrified.
“If you think–” she snarled.
With a wave of his bear-like hand, he dismissed her horror.
“No, no.” he protested, shaking his head. The idea clearly disgusted him.
“Well, then, how am I supposed to pay you? I don’t have any money.”
“Well,” he mused, scratching the beard under his chin, “how about this: I’ll give you a ride for your story.”
The hitchhiker paused. “My… story?”
“Sure. Where are ya coming from, where are you going? And most importantly– why?”
The young woman shifted her feet. There had to be a catch in there somewhere. But as minutes passed and the sunburn on her cheeks worsened, she made her decision.
The inside of the car was even hotter than the outdoors. There was no radio in the dashboard, and a handheld crank for the window in the door. The hitchhiker’s bare thighs stuck to the cracked leather seats. She shifted uncomfortably. As the mysterious man jammed a weird-looking key into the ignition, the archaic engine roared to life, jolting the two passengers forward.
“Let’s start simple,” the man said over the engine. “What’s your name?”
“Perdita.” She answered after a pause. “And you?”
He didn’t answer, his eyes on the road. Was he ignoring the question?
“What brings you out here to the middle of nowhere?”
Perdita was silent for a second. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re leaving?” A hint of laughter crept into his voice.
“Yes, I’m leaving.” Perdita snapped, feeling slighted. “Back in Winthrop, I knew every face, every voice, and every person that I could. I got good grades and I played by the rules but even then I was– I mean, I am still someone inconsequential.”
“What’s wrong with that?” the man asked, genuinely curious.
“What’s wrong is that I need to do something extraordinary. I need to be someone, I need to build something that will outlive me when I’m dead.”
He was silent for a second.
“Why?”
“Why?” She repeated, incredulous. “Doesn’t everybody want to leave a mark? Doesn’t everybody want to be remembered? I want my life to be worth something, not just live and die without making some sort of change.”
Suddenly she was aware of how hard she was breathing, how red her face was. She put her hand on her heart, heaving. Her brain felt as if it was on fire, like she could talk for ages about something she didn’t realize she cared so much about.
There was a pang in her heart. What was she going to do if she didn’t do something extraordinary? Who would she be? Now, as she was sitting in the car with a complete and utter stranger, not having done a single extraordinary thing, who did she think she was?
Who am I? She thought. Who am I, if my actions don’t constitute my worth? Who am I, if I never end up doing something worthwhile? Who am I, disregarding everything else?
“I just want to do something extraordinary,” she said quietly, the fire in her heart suddenly small.
“Extraordinary acts don’t make an extraordinary life,” he said quietly. “You decide your worth.”
The engine rolled to a stop. Surprised, Perdita looked up. They had only been driving for about five minutes. Was he going to just dump her on the side of the road to fend for herself?
To her complete and utter confusion, the road in front of them stuttered, then ceased to exist, the plains stretching out unbothered into the distance. There were two signs on either side of the road, each corresponding to a small trail, only wide enough for one traveler. The one on the right was a sign she had seen countless times before, a friendly sign bearing the message “Welcome to Winthrop, pop. 400.”
On the left stood a green-and-white sign, identical to the ones on the American interstate. It bore the cryptic words “Somewhere Else, pop. ?”
A choice.
Speechless, Perdita opened up the car door and stumbled towards the fork, her backpack bouncing against her back.
“What is this?” she wondered aloud, her eyes catching on a small stone slab in between the two paths. Turning back to the strange man and his truck, she called to him, “Have you ever seen this before?”
But when she turned back, there was no one there. Not a truck, not the driver…nothing. Like he had never been there in the first place. Only the plains and the cracked road stretched out into the distance, neverending. Bewildered, Perdita spun back around.
“Hello?” She shouted, hands cupped around her mouth. “Hello?!”
Nothing. There was silence and flatness and her. Alone.
She crept closer to the stone slab in between the trails, her heart jumping into her throat.
There was only one word on the rock, engraved in rough handwriting.
Here lies
Hitchdriver.
One little red toy truck, rusted and worn, sat on top, in lieu of flowers.
A gravestone.
As Perdita looked up toward the horizon, beyond the two ominous signs, she saw towns far, far away.
The horizon was not empty anymore.