as we always do when an irrational moment of
panic passes, what I had been so afraid of in the first place. He was just an elderly carbon-based life-form in an elderly Dodge's pee-smelling ecosystem, looking disappointed that his offer had been refused. Just an old man who couldn't get comfortable in his truss. What in God's name had I been afraid of?
'I thank you for the ride and even more for the offer,' I said. 'But I can go out that way-' I pointed at Pleasant Street. '-and I'll have a ride in no time.' He was quiet for a moment, then sighed and nod-ded. 'Ayuh, that's the best way to go,' he said. 'Stay right out of town, nobody wants to give a fella ride in town, no one wants to slow down and get honked at.' He was right about that; hitchhiking in town, even a small one like Gates Falls, was futile. I guess he had spent some time riding his thumb.
'But, son, are you sure? You know what they say about a bird in the hand.'
I hesitated again. He was right about a bird in the
hand, too. Pleasant Street became Ridge Road a mile
or so west of the blinker, and Ridge Road ran through
fifteen miles of woods before arriving at Route 196 on
the outskirts of Lewiston. It was almost dark, and it's
always harder to get a ride at night-when headlights
pick you out on a country road, you look like an
escapee from Wyndham Boys' Correctional even with
your hair combed and your shirt tucked in. But I
didn't want to ride with the old man anymore. Even
now, when I was safely out of his car, I thought there was something creepy about him-maybe it was just the way his voice seemed full of exclamation points. Besides, I've always been lucky getting rides.
'I'm sure,' I said. 'And thanks again. Really.' 'Any time, son. Any time. My wife . . .' He stopped, and I saw there were tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. I thanked him again, then slammed the door shut before he could say anything else.
I hurried across the street, my shadow appearing and disappearing in the light of the blinker. On the far side I turned and looked back. The Dodge was still there, parked beside Frank's Fountain & Fruits. By the light of the blinker and the streetlight twenty feet or so beyond the car, I could see him sitting slumped over the wheel. The thought came to me that he was dead, that I had killed him with my refusal to let him help.
Then a car came around the corner and the driver
flashed his high beams at the Dodge. This time the
old man dipped his own lights, and that was how I
knew he was still alive. A moment later he pulled
back into the street and piloted the Dodge slowly
around the corner. I watched until he was gone, then
looked up at the moon. It was starting to lose its
orange bloat, but there was still something sinister
about it. It occurred to me that I had never heard of
wishing on the moon before-the evening star, yes, but not the moon. I wished again I could take my own wish back; as the dark drew down and I stood there at the crossroads, it was too easy to think of that story about the monkey's paw.
I walked out Pleasant Street, waving my thumb at cars that went by without even slowing. At first there were shops and houses on both sides of the road, then the sidewalk ended and the trees closed in again, silently retaking the land. Each time the road flooded with light, pushing my shadow out ahead of me, I'd turn around, stick out my thumb, and put what I hoped was a reassuring smile on my face. And each time the oncoming car would swoosh by
