I plunged into a fragrant mist of ginger lilys growing beside the road in muddy ditches. Dodging potholes and sleeping hounds, I made my way down cracked and crumbling backroads. Long neglected oyster boats dotted the neighborhood, surrounded by weeds and discarded debris. Chickens roamed freely.
A lone man limped his way to a convenience store, looking wistfully at the bay across the highway. He left with a pack of cigarettes and a quart of malt liquor in a brown paper bag. He looked at me sorrowfully as I passed by. I stopped to offer him a ride, which he gratefully accepted. Throwing my handbag and a few groceries into the back seat, he slid in front. I noticed his leathery skin and hollow eyes. There was a deep sadness about him.
He was gaunt and tall, with a head full of sparse, greasy black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He told me his name was Spider. We made small talk to fill up the silence. A pickup truck roared by, the sound punctuated by constant barking of several pitbulls in the truck bed. Suddenly, it veered off, almost taking down a mailbox or two. “That’s Homer. He ain’t got good sense and he’s probably drunk.” Spider explained.
“I hope he makes it home!” I put in.
“That’s a long shot,” was the response. We rode on.
Halfway there, we were flagged down by a bloody, dirty woman who was unsteady on her feet, slipping back down into the ditch several times before she got back up. “Get out and help her!” I yelled.
“Best you try it,” he replied. So I did. The moment I reached her and tried to take her hand, she bit me! “Just trying to help,” I muttered. This situation was beyond my capabilities as a good samaritan, so I decided to retreat. But when I tried to get back in the car, she ran after me, screaming.
“Best get outa here fast!” My concerned passenger suggested. So I did.
Until the brick hit my back window, not shattering it, but almost. “That’s it! I’m calling the police!” I shouted.
“Do you like your tires?” he asked.
“What does that mean?” I pressed in bewilderment.
“Calling the cops always gets your tires cut. Hope they ain’t new ones,” he explained.
“Forget that!” I thought to myself. And we went on down the road.
After a while, it dawned on me that I didn’t know where we were going. My passenger appeared to have fallen asleep, so I hesitated to wake and ask him. He had begun to snore loudly and was twitching like my dog does when it is dreaming about chasing something. But I couldn’t keep driving around until he came to.
So, I pulled off the road and gently (I thought) shook him. Bam! He had me by the neck and was mumbling something about Viet Cong. “Hey! It’s me and I ain’t Cong!” I managed to croak!
“Where am I?” he inquired drunkenly.
“I’m trying to get you home. So where do you live?” I pressed.
“I don’t, but you can let me off down here by the store,” he replied. Since that was where I had picked him up, it was easy.
He went into the store and came out with another paper bag. As he stumbled across the parking lot, he spotted me pulling off. “Hey! How about that ride you promised me!” he yelled. He was still shouting and waving as I squealed out of there in a cloud of dust.
