I lean forward and cup my hands around my eyes so I can confirm something.
Yes—the tank is nearly three-quarters full. I’m guessing that the truck could idle all night with the lights on. Then, when the sun rises, they’ll go away to hide in a basement somewhere. I’ll be able to waltz outside and take my time locking the hubs and extracting the truck from the ditch. Hell, I could probably stroll inside and use the phone.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.
That’s right—the phone is dead. I have to keep my wits. Let’s not forget the hard lessons I’ve learned.
I settle into the seat and try to relax. I might need my strength.
(The waiting is the hardest part.)
The waiting is the hardest part.
I have the radio on very low. Every few seconds, I turn it all the way down so I can listen for sounds of movement outside the truck. Then, I turn it back up. Focusing on the lyrics is the only way that I’m staying awake, and I desperately want to stay awake. In the middle of the night, eyes closed, windows up, with the gentle vibration of the engine, staying awake is a nearly impossible task.
Tom Petty reminds me one last time that the waiting is the hardest part and then he’s on to another tale. Now he’s telling me that I wreck him. I don’t think he’s talking to me.
When I was a kid, my mom really liked to listen to Anne Murray. Mom had a scratched up record from the seventies that she would put on when she took a bath. In South Carolina, the stereo was in the living room and it was my job to flip the album while she soaked. Through the slightly-open door, I would hear the occasional slosh of water and see the flickering candlelight.
I never understood the lyrics. Some of the songs seemed to talk about empowerment, but always with the backdrop of a supporting man. A woman could stand on her own as long as the ground was stabilized by a good, strong, man first. I never thought of my mom as weak. If she could have seen herself the way that I saw her, I’m sure she would have understood that a weak person couldn’t have done the things that she did.
Maybe Anne Murray was the same way.
I guess I inherited some of Mom’s learned helplessness. I learned to ride my bike by pushing off with my feet and then holding them to the sides while I coasted around. I would only rest my feet on the pedals when my legs got too tired. I didn’t realize that I was already doing all the hard parts of riding a bike—balancing and steering. Still convinced that I didn’t really know how to ride, I would stay home when the other kids rode to the store or down to the creek.
The girl next door, Shelby, chastised me one day.
She said, “You think you’re too good to ride bikes with us. You’re stuck up.”
I blushed, looked down, and scuffed my foot on the pavement. I really liked Shelby. I finally admitted to her that I didn’t know how to ride.
“Yes you do, liar. I see you ride all the time on the dirt road behind the apartments.”
I explained that all I could do was coast.
“Pedaling is the easy part. You just push down.”
She showed me in about three seconds. The first time I tried, I pushed down with both feet at the same time and lifted myself off the seat. When I fell over, Shelby laughed at me and my scraped arm.
“One at a time, dummy.”
The second time was like magic. Pedaling was almost easier than coasting. Something about the extra torque stabilized the bike even more. Shelby and I were riding down to the store a few minutes later and I rode so fast that I thought I might take flight.
I had taught myself the hardest parts and it was only my lack of confidence that had stood in my way. Shelby hadn’t really helped me, she just pointed out that I didn’t need anyone’s help. I wonder if Mom ever came to that same realization. If she did, she never told me. Until she died, she still seemed to be looking for someone to take care of her. She wanted someone to make sure the ground was firm so that she could stand up straight and proud.
They would never play Anne Murray on the Mountain of Pure Rock.
I turn the radio down again and listen to the idling engine.
When I turn it back up, it’s Pink Floyd. Airy and smooth melodies are not what I need right now.
I hear a tapping on the roof of the truck and I snap off the radio and hold my breath. With my hands cupped over my eyes, I sneak a peek directly forward to verify that the headlights are still on. The tapping isn’t as consistent as before. It sounds like random plunks against the metal.
A second later, I realize why.
“Rain,” I whisper, chancing another peek. Sure enough, there are drops on the windshield.
I should have guessed. After all, that’s why I had made sure to put the truck windows up before I went to bed. There had been the chance of rain.
I wonder if they’re still out there in the rain. I wonder if they’re getting wet, waiting just beyond the circle of light cast by my headlights.
I turn up the radio a little and the DJ tells me that we have Bad Company, Candlebox, and Soundgarden coming up after the break. He doesn’t mention the time. I wonder if his voice is prerecorded. The clock on the dash is stuck at three.
I have no idea how
