It takes a person like Gertrude Miller, it turns out.
“Where you headed?” she asked after the other four got in the back and I climbed in shotgun.
I’d been designated “driver-dealer-wither” by a rather hasty consensus decision, with the caveat that Thursday be ready to step in if the driver was a creep or just a bro looking to bro down. Gertrude Miller wasn’t either of those things. She was a white woman, probably fifty, with a vacant look in her eyes and a cold but somehow genuine smile on her face. She had that tired look of a woman who’d done service-class work her entire life, and the self-confidence of the same.
“Out to Glacier,” I said. “You?”
It’s good practice to ask where a ride is going. Probably more important when you’ve got reason to be skeptical—like when I’m hitching alone and a man picks me up. If they can’t give a clear answer, I don’t get in their car.
“Pendleton,” she said. “That’ll get you close to Glacier, but I’m afraid the sun’ll be down before we get there.”
“That’s fine,” I said, “we’ll figure it out from there. Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime,” she said. “Know why I picked you up?”
Probably: Jesus told her to pick us up. Or maybe I reminded her of her daughter or her granddaughter. Or she was worried about me in the company I kept.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“God told me to,” she said. “There’re some young folks who look just like y’all in Pendleton. They run the library, ever since the county gave up on it, and they still run it for free. Never would have thought I’d make friends with someone with a face tattoo, no I didn’t, but these kids are alright. Figured you’re alright too.”
The smile dropped off her face for a moment as she squinted at the road ahead.
“Plus,” she went on, “I’ve already died once. Ain’t got nothing left to fear.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. Instead, she put the radio on, pop country filled the car, and we drove back off into the sunset.
TWO
Staring out a windshield again at the low sun. I wasn’t in my body, but just above it. Or was I in the driver’s seat again?
I wasn’t. I was in the passenger seat of a stranger’s car. Not a stranger. Gertrude.
Maybe I was concussed. What did the doctor ask me, when I was a kid and I hit my head super hard on the playground? What year is it? What’s my name? Count backward from one hundred by sevens. One hundred.
Ninety-three.
I should have just pulled over earlier, as soon as I’d been tired. Why hadn’t I?
Eighty-six.
It had felt good, driving. I’d felt useful. No, it hadn’t been for other people. Driving west, away from Iowa, I’d felt in control of my own life and destiny. That’s half of why I travel.
Seventy-nine.
I hadn’t felt in control for months. It wasn’t the magic-and-demons thing. It was Clay’s death. He’d been such a, I don’t know . . . not a cornerstone. A keystone. His existence, somewhere in the world, had been keeping me together. He was gone, and ever since I hadn’t felt like I was in control. Maybe it wasn’t him specifically; maybe I would have felt that way if any of my close friends had died. Did I have close friends anymore?
Seventy-two.
Traveling with others is always a trade-off. Being close with other people is always a trade-off. Do we give up pieces of our autonomy to be with others? Is it worth it?
Eighty-five.
No, that wasn’t right. Fifty-five? What number was I on?
I couldn’t be concussed, for the simple reason that I didn’t want to be and I wasn’t sure there was anything to do about it even if I was. I probably couldn’t count backward from one hundred by sevens if I was fine.
It was fine. I was fine. I could breathe.
Thankfully, blissfully, the sun made its way below the horizon and stopped reminding me of that time I flipped a car and almost killed everyone.
I even let myself doze off.
* * *
It was about a three-hour drive, and we discussed our plans as best we could in someone else’s car. We’d try the library. If the folks there were as similar to us as Gertrude figured, then they’d put us up at least for the night. Anarchists stick together. Well, except when we get at mad at one another over small details.
Also I guess I kind of fed an anarchist to a deer a couple days ago but that’s beside the point. It was collective self-defense. He was trying to get the deer to eat my friends.
No matter. We’d try the library, then see what we could do about getting a new vehicle.
Pendleton goes from rural road to downtown in less than a block, which is kind of impressive. Nothing, nothing, pasture, nothing, trees, nothing, then a speed trap and a tourist trap right in a row—the latter even had a concrete tyrannosaurus out front, that kind of awesome place you don’t see much of until you get to the part of the country people write road trip movies about.
Then a Western-style tourist downtown, complete with boardwalk and old-timey-looking lampposts.
“This town has seen better days,” I said, as we drove past a broken chunk of wooden fence that lined the boardwalk.
“Ain’t no jobs now that the tourists are gone.”
“Why are the tourists gone?”
“Budget cuts,” Gertrude said. “I don’t know the whole ways of it, but a lot of public land went private and there’s not so much outdoor recreation like there was. It was okay for a while, there was still work for the gas companies. But I guess this area wasn’t so good after all, so all the jobs are a couple too many hours east of here and no
