Road Trip

by Dan Taylor

  Before now, I was more than happy to be married to Grace Hancock, formerly Grace Black, a hip, late-twenties, sexy-as-hell former waitress. After this latest finding, I’m over the moon. I’ve found marriage’s Kryptonite.

  I say, “You’re the best, honey.”

  “And so are you, Jacob.”

  We drive for a while, until Grace says, “And this is my husband, Jake… You’re right. It sounded totally weird out loud.”

  2.

  If you were expecting Winnie Pooh to break down just before we passed through Pants, or just after, forcing us to go there anyway, you’re wrong. Hell, even I was expecting it. I don’t know that much about motor vehicles, but looking at this one’s exterior, which looks right off the set of The Brady Bunch, it’s a breakdown in some shitty town waiting to happen. I had all my fingers and toes crossed as we went through the shit-splat that is Pants, Oklahoma.

  One of the reasons I married Grace is she’s got the biggest heart. This one time, she made me give a bum in Hollywood a fifty-dollar bill, because she thought his beard was scraggly and sparse in comparison to the other bums’ she’s seen. She said, and I quote, “Aww, look at that poor guy. Being a homeless person’s difficult enough, but he can’t even pull off the look. How much have you got on you, Jake?”

  I looked in my wallet. And said, “A ten… No, a five.”

  “You’re the worst liar. Hand it over.”

  Feeling like I’d got one over on her, I handed over the ten-dollar bill.

  “Not that, the fifty you keep in there.”

  “How do know about that?”

  “You told me about it on one of our dates. It’s bribe money, for dangerous driving.”

  I sighed and then handed it over. Not that I’m mean, but if you give a bum a fifty-dollar bill, I’m not naïve enough to think he’s going to ration out the money for his week’s food.

  Anyway, back to the big heart story. She looked at it—no, inspected it—and then handed it back to me.

  “Come to your senses?” I asked.

  “No, I was just checking it wasn’t counterfeit. Can you go and hand it to him. I don’t want his hand to touch my hand.”

  “I don’t know, Grace. I don’t think this fifty will make him feel better about his shitty beard genetics. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s pretty low on his list of priorities.”

  “If you go over there and hand it to him, I’ll think about doing that thing you’ve been wanting me to do.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  Thinking back on it, I didn’t hear the word ‘thinking’ and had just focused on ‘that thing you’ve been wanting me to do.’

  I walked over to the bum, feeling like a prize ass. I didn’t want to get too close to him, as Grace and I were on a date and I didn’t want to have to go back to the apartment and shower, so I kept a safe distance and presented it to him. I realized, as I was extending my arm out to him, and leaning forward, like a nobleman presenting his hand to be kissed by a peasant, that I looked like I thought he’d never seen money before, never mind ever had any.

  With a bored, distant look in his eyes, and kinda smiling, he took it and mumbled something.

  My response? “The trouble’s all mine.”

  Jeez, I suck at charity. For some reason, I feel embarrassed for myself and the recipient.

  Anyway, back to now, our honeymoon road trip.

  We’re safely passed Pants and still heading east on Route 66, and we’re discussing whether cable’s a deal breaker for the next motel we come across, when Grace spots a dude standing by the side of the road up ahead.

  “Ooo, exciting, a hitchhiker,” Grace says.

  “Nice. Let’s play a game. We guess his ethnicity, and when we whizz past him, we can glance at him, and whoever’s right gets to go into the motel first, having arrived safe and sound, as the other one collects ice from the ice machine. How does that sound?”

  She punches me on the arm. “Sometimes I think you mean the hateful things you say.”

  “You know me. I’d help the guy out, but we’re on our honeymoon. I wanted it to be just the two of us. Like all the time.”

  “Wouldn’t you feel good about it, even just a little bit?”

  “Grinning like an idiot and making small talk with a complete stranger as he glances at your breasts now and again? I’d feel amazing.”

  “Just stop, and if we happen to be heading to or through the place he’s after, we’ll give him a ride. If not, we’ll say sorry and be on our way. Sound good?”

  I’m not sure Grace fully understands hitchhiking etiquette, which could mean trouble. I’m pretty sure if you stop, that’s a legally binding non-verbal contract with the hitchhiker that we can help him out, so I think of a way to get out of this. “Jesus, what’s happening? I’ve got a leg cramp and I can’t take my foot off the gas pedal.”

  “Stop kidding around, Jake.”

  “I’m not kidding—argh!—around.”

  “That settles it.”

  Grace reaches over, turns off the ignition, and then takes the keys. Then she says, “This is important for you. It’s high time you stopped thinking bad about people you’ve never met.”

  I shrug. It seems like a good a response as any.

  Probably looking ridiculous, if ostensibly beginning braking fifty yards away from a hitchhiker looks ridiculous, we slowly roll towards him.

  It’s a white guy, if you were wondering. An unkempt white guy. And yep, that’s a fanny pack he’s wearing. An early-nineties-style fanny pack.

  Instead of just getting into the back, he comes running over to the driver’s-side window, I assume to discuss the possibility of us giving him a ride.

  Maybe Grace knows more about hitchhiking than I gave her credit for.

  Before I roll down the window, Grace says, “Be nice to him. I like him.”

  I put on a fake smile and then roll down the window.

  He smiles back, says, “Hey there. Great that you folks stopped.”

  “The trouble’s all mine.”

  “Where you guys headed?”

  “I don’t know yet. I haven’t consulted the map. What town comes after Pants?”

  Before he can reply, Grace leans over, and says, talking right over my shoulder, “We’re headed that way,” and points in the forward-facing direction, the direction we were headed before stopping.

  Then our prospective hitchhiker says, “Well what do you know? That’s the same direction I’m headed.”

  “Cool,” Grace says.

  “Should I hop in the back, then?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He smiles again, but wider this time, showing us teeth that look like Sugar Puffs, and then disappears from our view.

  I roll up the window.

  Then Grace says, “Isn’t this exciting?”

  “It’s something.”

  A second later he gets in, using the door to enter the living area.

  Grace tells him to make himself comfortable on the sofa.

  He hesitates taking a seat, looks at the sofa cushions, and then asks, “There a seatbelt?”

  I say, “Don’t worry, chief. This big old bird can only go a shade over fifty, and braking isn’t her strong point.”

  “Oh, that’s cool.”

  Before setting off, I say, “I should probably tell you, the next motel we come to is as far as we’re going. That cool with you?”

  He thinks a second, then says, “That would be Motel 66. And that’s okey-dokey with me.”

  I glance at Grace and mouth “okey-dokey.” She digs an elbow into my side.

  “Well then, that settles it,” I say, and then, remembering Grace has the keys, I hold my hand out for them.

  We drive in silence for a minute or so. I expected Grace to handle the small talk side of things, as I did the driving, but she’s not saying a word. Only snatching glances of him in the rearview mirror.

  I’m doing the same, not because I’m a people watch
er like Grace, but because he reminds me of someone.

  Before I can place him, Grace says, “This motel, it have cable?”

  The way he reacts to her asking him a question, like he forgot for a second we were in the same vehicle as him, gives me pause for thought.

  Then he’s back to acting normal again, for want of a better term.

  He says, “I wouldn’t know. Never stayed in the place. I’m from around here.”

  “Where would that be, chief?” I ask.

  “Pants.”

  “Oklahoma?”

  “’Course.”

  As I contemplate whether that’s a red flag or not, that we’re heading away from the place he’s from, it comes to me: He looks like a forty-something Dustin Hoffman, if his acting career had never taken off, and he’d never learned how to brush his teeth or that clothes require washing from time to time.

  Grace goes to say something, but I interrupt her, say, “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you headed, chief?”

  “Oh, no place special. Just fancied a drive in this fine weather.”

  The only response that comes to mind is, “Okey-dokey.”

  I take out my phone and subtly text Grace, “This guy’s likely a serial killer.”

  Did I say subtle?

  A second later, her phone beeps, and I’m pretty sure it’s on the highest volume setting.

  “Oh goodie! A text message. Maybe it’s Mom,” Grace says.

  She reads the message.

  And I, knowing that Grace isn’t the most discreet person in the world at times, ask, “What did she have to say, your mom?”

  I glance at Grace, who’s looking at me bug eyed. Not knowing what to say.

  Then she says, “Luck. Wishes us luck… for our first night in a motel room as a married couple.”

  “Really? She didn’t just wish us luck for our trip in general, which is appropriate and which she’d know about?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s what it says. I read it wrong the first time.”

  Smooth.

  But we needn’t have bothered with the theatrics, as our hitchhiker, whom I glance at in the rearview, doesn’t seem to be fully aware of his surroundings, never mind that we’re discussing whether he’s a serial killer via text message. If I were to hazard a guess, and I generally like to, I’d say our hitchhiker is fucked-up. Not Chris Tucker style, but Charlie Manson.

  Carrying on our theatrics, Grace says, “Let me just text her back. Say—”

  “Thanks is always a good one. But just let me put my phone on silent before you do. I hate it when it beeps, distracting me from my driving, which I don’t expect it to anytime soon, but still…”

  A couple seconds later I receive Grace’s reply: “I hate to say it, but I think you might be right.”

  Me: “Why do you hate to say it…? Never mind. And shit! If you think it, now I’m really wortoed.”

  Grace: “Wortoed?”

  Me: “That’s single-hand texting for worried.”

  Grace: “Let me just check something.”

  While I concentrate on driving, Grace stares at our now-kinda-unwelcome guest for a good ten seconds in the rearview. I can only see her in my peripheral vision, but I’m pretty sure she’s got a creepy smile frozen on her face. Just in case he comes out of whatever trance he’s in and catches her staring at him. Smart.

  Then she texts, “Nope, he didn’t blink the whole time I looked at him.”

  Me: “Is that baf?”

  Grace: “‘Baf’ or neutral.”

  Me: “Let’s assume bad. How do we get rid of him?”

  Grace: “Let him out at the motel we promised to drive him to?”

  Me: “The one we’re going to stay st?”

  Grace: “Maybe we can drive to the next one after we’ve dropped him off?”

  Me: “Good plan. Or we could just pretend we’ve arribed at the motel and let him out, and then drive to the motel? Do you think he’d notice we weren’t there?”

  Grace: “There are no windows back there, only behind him. How would he know?”

  Me: “He might be able to—I don’t know—look through the giant windshield I’m looking through to drive this thing.”

  Grace: “Good point. But still, let’s chance it.”

  Me: “You make small talk, to distract him, and then I’ll pull over, let him know the bad news. Hell, I’ll push him out if I have to.” I glance at him in the rearview. Whatever drug he’s on, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying it. Not if looking at Winnie Pooh’s bathroom door like he wants to rape it is any indication.

  I send the second part of the text message: “Or you know, ask him nicely.”

  We put our phones away.

  And then Grace turns and looks at him, resting her arm on the seat’s headrest, and makes her best possible attempt to engage him in natural-sounding small talk. “Hey, guy, you prefer dipping your chips into nacho-style cheese dip or guacamole?”

  Without even thinking about it, even though he didn’t look like he heard her, and without looking at her, he says, “Both.”

  “Nice. Does it taste good?”

  Before he can reply, I jump in and take the reins. Looks like I might have to play quarterback and receiver on this one. “I didn’t catch your name, chief?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  Silence a couple seconds. Long seconds.

  And then I say, “Wanna tell me it, maybe?”

  “Cutter. Braylon.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cutter. I’m Jeff, and this my wife… Julie.”

  “Braylon’s my first name, if you wanted to be polite.”

  “My bad.”

  It’s probably worth noting at this point that he hasn’t looked in our direction for the duration of our conversation, if we could call it that. And that bathroom-door-raping look on his face? Yep, it’s still on there.

  What I’d give to see his breakfast cereal smile. It’d sure stop my hands from shaking.

  Get yourself together, Hancock.

  What was that vow again? The one about protecting? Is there one? Jesus, I should’ve really listened to those things harder.

  Anyway, I’m married, goddamnit, and my wife deserves to feel, for most of our honeymoon, if not the entirety of it, like she isn’t in danger of being chopped up into small pieces by a man with bad oral hygiene.

  Whether it’s a vow or not.

  So I say, “Look at that. We’ve arrived at the motel. Time to say cheerio, Braylon,” and then pull over into the side of the highway.

  He snaps out of his trance and, as I predicted, looks around at our ‘destination’ through the windshield.

  Then he says, “This doesn’t look like the motel.”

  “It sure is. There’s a sign over there. It reads ‘Motel 66.’ Big letters. You can’t see it from where you’re sitting. Bye now. And enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  He frowns. “It says Motel 66?”

  “Yep. Looks like a nice motel. What do you think, Grace?”

  “Cozy. Definitely cozy.”

  Our passenger takes a deep breath, and smiles for the first time since we let him into Winnie Pooh, which might’ve been a good thing, if it weren’t accompanied by a headshake. And then he says, “Well that’s funny, Jeff and Julie, because there ain’t no Motel 66 on this road.”

  3.

  “There isn’t?” I ask.

  “Nope. So how can we be there?” he says, still smiling.

  I think fast. “Silly me. Let me just take a second to look at that sign again.” I lean forward, squinting my eyes, and then say, “It definitely says motel, but the typeface beneath it, denoting which specific motel it is, is in an illegible, squiggly font—at least from this distance.”

  Then Grace adds, “I can’t read it either. It’s all squiggly. Could say anything.”

  Braylon’s eyes—if that’s his name, which seems unlikely now—flits from me to Grace, and then back again. Then he bursts out laughing, his gut maki
ng his fanny pack move up and down. I stare at it in horror for a second, and then turn to Grace.

  She shrugs. Again, as good a response as any.

  When he’s stopped laughing, Braylon says—fuck it, I refuse to refer to him by that name, which doesn’t sound like a name at all. Our lunatic hitchhiker says, “I’m just messing with ya’ll. If you wanted me to get out, ya’ll should’ve just said. I don’t like to outstay my welcome. In fact…” He rifles in his fanny pack, pulls out a ten-dollar bill, and presents it to us. “This should cover the trouble.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ve only driven you about three miles,” I say.

  Is it rude to stare at someone’s money? In this case it feels so, not because we haven’t earned the money he’s trying to give us—it barely covers Grace’s emotional damages, let alone mine—but because, had I not just seen him take it out of his fanny pack, I would be sure he’d pulled it out of his ass. Literally.

  That ten-dollar bill has been saved for a rainy day for a long time.

  “I insist,” Braylon says.

  Those people who can’t smile without looking like they want to murder your whole family? This guy’s one of those.

  And why is he expecting us to trust his renewed friendly demeanor when he’s just tricked us into driving to a motel that doesn’t exist?

  This guy’s a whole field of red flags.

  It’s time to get rid of him, in a hygiene-conscious way. “If you want to give it to us, you can put in on the floor and then go, if you’d like?” I say.

  “Don’t be silly yourself. I’ll just come up front and give it to you.”

  He gets up off the sofa.

  “Don’t.”

  “I aint gonna bite.”

  “I know that. I’d just feel a whole lot more comfortable if you didn’t come within arm’s reach.”

  He turns his attention to Grace. “What about you, missy? You mind me coming up there to give you the money?”

  “I kinda do,” Grace says.

  “Well I guess I’ll be going, then.” He tips an imaginary hat at us, “Jeff, Julie,” and then leaves, but not before he lays the ten-dollar bill on the sofa.

  Grace and I sit there a second, staring into space, wondering what the hell just happened.

  Until I say, “I’m sure glad I didn’t think bad of that person I hadn’t met.”