Woke up in the cab of my pickup. I was parked on the side of a two-lane levee road, the sky a smear of gray and charcoal, the perfect complement to the landscape. I’d slept in my bra; must have been exhausted after yesterday’s haul. I couldn’t remember. That was nothing new.
I got out and unlocked the box in the bed of the truck. It was filled with the cargo. I guess I’d met with the boss at some point after I’d made the previous day’s delivery. Or he’d found my truck and loaded it himself while I slept. What did it matter? I checked my phone. He’d texted me the address at 3:07 am . I had everything I required.
I got back into the truck; I noticed something stuck under the windshield wiper. I got back out to check it. I pulled back the wiper blade and removed it; it appeared to be a tuft of bloody hair with a small piece of flesh attached. Maybe I’d hit an animal. I tossed it into the water and got behind the wheel.
Turned on the GPS to figure out where I was. I was eager to get away from the delta. Cities were better; in cities you could disappear. The only thing these rural areas offered was exposure, and exposure was just a less negative word for danger. This was so obvious as to assume the mantle of truth; yet people chose to make their lives here, managed to find love and security in such naturally hostile conditions. I couldn’t work it out. I started the engine and pulled onto the road.
Much as the thought distressed me, I was going to have to stop for food. I didn’t know the last time I’d eaten. I rarely had any interest in the subject; it was only in those moments – like now – when my body betrayed me, asserting priority over my objective, that I acknowledged the existence of such needs. A sign announced the distance to the next town: 31 miles. The winding road made real speed impossible, but I was always capable of patience when I was driving. When I was driving, I recognized that I was alive.
Others equated driving with a sense of freedom, but that wasn’t a feeling I’d ever related to. Driving was purpose – the purpose. Freedom was a nebulous concept certain people took comfort in, but it was beyond me. I’d accepted what many of those in my country struggled to disprove: you follow orders. You follow orders or you starve. This position left no room for anxiety or self-recrimination. The avoidance of penury and death being universal aims, the amount of resistance one encountered to this philosophy struck me as nonsensical.
I braked as I took the exit, a steep descent, the town being a lower elevation than the river and main road. It was reminiscent of everywhere I’d been in this environment, which is to say nowhere – a single paved road running through a commercial area consisting of a gas station, diner, bar, and small grocery store, all preserved 19th-century storefronts; beyond this, dirt and gravel roads led to dilapidated houses displaying large flags from the porches and farms that appeared to have suffered seasons of neglect, watched over by barns with misspelled Bible quotations painted on the roofs. I pulled up in front of the diner. Despite the air of desuetude, the parking meters were fully operational.
I pulled the .380 out of my purse and shoved it in my pocket. I didn’t know why I did it. It was almost instinctual. No point contemplating it. I trusted there was a reason.
The restaurant was busier than I’d expected of a town that size. I was greeted with stares from the patrons, stares that lasted longer than propriety dictated. The stares contained the usual element of lechery, mixed with palpable suspicion, or possibly resentment/rage. There seemed to be no other women in the establishment. Had I been here before? Did they know me? I scanned the faces. Almost all had visible scars or other disfigurements. But nothing familiar. I walked to the counter and ordered.
I seated myself on a stool at the counter while I waited for my food. Two men a few seats down whispered to each other. I checked my phone. There was a new text from a name I couldn’t place. It was in a foreign language. I deleted it.
The server roughly dropped my bag of food in front of me and hurried away. I wondered if it was meant to be an aggressive gesture. I decided it wasn’t my concern.
I got up to leave and saw the two men who had been whispering were standing in front of the door. Not blocking it, exactly, but making the process of exiting the building difficult without coming into physical contact with one of them. They watched me; I maintained my stride. Immediately before I was planning to bump into him, the one on the left stepped out of the way and I walked out the door without incident. He grunted something as I passed.
Back on the road, less than a mile out of town. Hitchhiker. Young woman. 20s. 30s? I stopped. Why? It didn’t make sense. Driving was meant to be solitary. With other people, you had to give yourself up. It made things unpleasant. She ran to the door and bounced into the passenger seat.
The road spiraled out in front of us. I glanced at her. There was a long cut on her thigh. Covered in gauze, but the jagged, crusted edges were visible. It looked fresh. She was gazing at me with an intensity that bordered on unnerving. I offered a weak smile.
“Do you know…” she began, before modifying the thought to “What’s your name?”
I thought for a moment. “Linda”, I finally decided.
“Oh, Linda”, she smirked. A private joke. “Well, we’re going to be riding together, might as well get to know each other. Want to try to guess my name?”
I’d known it would be this way. I’d known, and I’d still picked her up. Nothing to be done about it now.
“Names are unimportant.” Not merely true, but the only possibility I could see of a fruitful end to this line of questioning.
“Oh, I know. Just some arbitrary noises with no real relation to anything, right? Still, if you had to guess…”
I looked at her and said nothing. She attempted to affect a sulky demeanor, then abruptly abandoned it and pressed on.
“Okay, here’s one: have you ever been in love?” She waited. I understood she would not be deterred. We would play this game to its conclusion. She let the silence settle. Then: “Do you think you could love me, Linda?”
The question was absurd. How could I be expected to answer?
She went on. “I mean, now I’m deformed…” She rubbed the bandage. I shifted my focus to the road. She shifted her focus, as well. “What’s in the box back there?”
“That’s not your business.” Her questions were beginning to disturb me. Were they intended to be pointed, or was I reading too much into them? I worked on calming myself. A deep breath, a minute release of dopamine. “It’s none of my business, either. I just deliver things. I’m a driver. A small cog.”
“So you just deliver things, huh? And you don’t even know what they are? Are you sure you know what your job is, Linda?” This time she spat out my name, an accusation. “Doesn’t sound like it.”
I was becoming agitated. She wasn’t interested in making conversation for the sake of passing the time; she wasn’t asking questions, she was making statements, statements calculated to get to me, but I couldn’t figure it out.
I inadvertently sighed. “No offense, but I should really concentrate on driving. Visibility’s not great, and this road is twisty –“
“Fuck the road!” Her voice had suddenly taken on a feral quality. It made me feel immediately claustrophobic. “What do you do, Linda? Who are you?”
A wave of dizziness accompanied this assault. The world began to lose coherence, and everything took on a red tint. Her ferocity had been wholly unexpected and had the effect of leaving me unmoored. “I follow orders”, I managed.
She erupted into joyless laughter. “Oh, yeah, that must be it. Hey, Linda, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” She lunged at me, reaching for my pants. I swerved, hard, knocking her against the passenger door. I stepped on the gas, and opened the window. The air rushed past my head, carrying the odor of toxins.
“What do you want?” I said - too loud - unable to keep the notes of panic out of my voice.
“What do you want?” she shouted back. Defiance now. It had the character of a negation. The road telescoped before me. I increased the speed. We were going too fast. Too fast. It was the only way.
“Linda, slow down!” Another vocal modulation, this time stretched to panic. She’d navigated extremes of emotion within seconds. It was almost admirable. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I upset you, but seriously, you need to slow down!” Her eyes pleading. She glanced out the window and began to scream, pummeling my shoulder with her fists.
My eyes watered. I considered my purpose, gave the gun in my pocket a reassuring pat, and slammed my foot down on the pedal.
Great story.