Cold by Terry Sanville

Nobody hitchhikes anymore. That went out in the ’60s when Nam vets and the hippies with their thumbs out could be found along any West Coast highway. But hitchhiking in January? Even some stoned freak knew better. Besides, it’s 2024 and I’m almost 80. This is stupid, really stupid. Maybe I can blame my poor judgment on dementia. But then, if I can understand what dementia is all about, I probably don’t have it.

I’ve already bit my tongue; I taste blood. I can’t feel the ends of my fingers. I’m such an idiot.

Morris huddles on the back of the flatbed truck, his spine pressed against the cab wall of the old GMC as it bounces along the highway under a gray sky with snow flurries. He clutches the rope that helps him cling to the swaying chassis. Southern Oregon’s pine forest flashes past, its near-black trees a blur against the snow-covered ground.

The driver had been wary at the truck stop, clasping a leather mailbag against his side. “Why should I give you a lift? I don’t need some geezer riding shotgun. Besides it’s against company policy.”

Morris smiled. “I know all about company policy. Those elitist S.O.B.s in their gray suits and climate-controlled offices write it down for the rest of us to obey. They don’t know jack about what it’s like out here in the real world.”

“If I’m caught, I could get fired.”

“Hey look, buddy. Nobody’s going to fire you.”

“You’re just saying that ’cause you wanna ride. Why don’t you grab a bus or something? You’re too old for this shit.”

“I’ve got nothing, friend, really . . . nothing. But I’ve made plenty of other friends on the way here from LA.”

“How long have you been on the road?”

Morris grinned. “About ten days, more or less. Spent a couple tough nights in Eureka when this storm first hit.”

“Yeah, they say it’ll last through Sunday.”

Morris had groaned. “So will you give a fella down on his luck a ride or not?”

“Yes, but you gotta ride on back. That way, if anybody complains, I can claim you hopped on at the truck stop and I didn’t see you.”

“But the cold?”

“I’m only going to Cave Junction. You won’t freeze before then.”

“Lovely thought.”

“Come on, let’s get moving.”

***

My heart’s racing and I’m huffin’ and puffin’ like the Big Bad Wolf. Thank God the ole ticker is in good shape. At least the clinic doctors think so. I wonder if they have clinics in Seattle. It’s been sixty years since I hitchhiked up there to see Ray. He’s the last one I know that’s above ground. Wonder if he’ll be glad to see me? His girlfriend back then was something else, blonde hair down to her ass, nicely shaped . . . and smart. I always thought she was too smart for Ray, but I was envious before I met Sheila. I spent sixty wonderful years with her, yeah, they were great, couldn’t ask for better. But her heart wasn’t as strong as mine and now . . . What the hell am I doing out here? Who’s driving this truck? Things are going by way too fast.

The howl from the GMC’s differential reminds him of his old cat begging for food. He curls up tighter against the cab wall and stares at his shaking gloved hands. They seem to belong to someone else, refuse to obey his commands. The driver swerves hard, probably to avoid hitting something. His hands are so cold that he can’t clench his fists and hold onto the rope. The truck slues sideways. It heaves Morris across its rough plank bed and sends him tumbling off.

Morris flies through the air, lands on the highway’s snow-covered bank and rolls downhill. The momentum carries him to the forest’s edge, face up, his heart thundering. He manages to rise on his elbows and stare at the road, empty of traffic, the truck disappearing through the trees. He’s alone.

He drags himself under the forest canopy and props himself against a huge pine, one of the few old growth trees in a field of young ones. His legs are screaming pins and needles and his hands can’t feel if anything is broken. Blood drips from somewhere onto the snow but not for long. He watches the occasional car flash past, sucks in a deep breath and clutches his chest as a stabbing pain rips through him. Shoving a frozen hand inside his eiderdown jacket, Morris presses it cautiously against his ribs. The pain returns.

Damn, must have busted something or maybe bruised it. At least my heart and breathing have stopped racing. I should crawl back to the highway and flag someone down. But that’s so much work. Maybe I’ll just rest here and wait for that idiot trucker to come looking for me. But then, he may be glad I’m gone. He seemed like a regular Joe, probably with wife, kids and a mortgage. Yeah, I can understand how keeping his job might be more important than helping me. But still, if he’d let me ride up front with him, we’d be in Cave Junction by now and he’d be done with me and I with him. Maybe he already knows, one of those freaks with a sixth sense. Probably doesn’t matter now.

Morris leans his head back against the rough tree bark and sticks out his tongue. The snow is falling thick and wet and he longs for something to cool his parched throat. He fumbles in his jacket for his pocket flask. It’s missing, probably lost somewhere in the snow bank. He closes his eyes against the bitter wet wind; his head nods and he snaps awake.

I’d better not sleep, but the pain . . . the pain’s getting bad . . . but that’s good, I can still feel something. I can still think, figure things out. I’d better get moving. I’ll roll onto my back and try and push myself along. There, now I just got to turn toward the highway. Damn, the sun’s going down. The snow is soaking up all the noise. It’s so quiet.

 Like the night Sheila and I went camping at Manzanita Lake in Mt. Lassen Park. It was early November, but being from upstate New York we figured everything in California was sunshine and roses. When the sun went down, the waning light turned the volcano rose-colored. They call it alpenglow. We should have guessed the weather since most of the peak was hidden in snow pack.  But the sky was clear and when the stars came out they looked like polished diamonds. I remember zipping our sleeping bags together, the best Sears and Roebuck had to offer, and making love until we lay exhausted and shuddering in each other’s arms. All I could think about was how long would it be until we could do it some more. Yeah, the stamina and strength of youth – now I’m not sure I can make it to the road. But I’ve stopped shivering and I’m breathing slow and easy. A good thing, right?

We slept like the dead that night and woke to a quiet dawn, no wind noise, no sounds from traffic or other campers, no nothing – like the world had ended. I could see my breath inside the tent, just like I can now. I dressed in a hurry and untied the tent flap. Outside, the ground was covered with new snow; the tent sagged from its weight. It wasn’t much deeper than it is here . . . where is here, and where the hell is that truck driver? I’m getting so tired of thinking about him. So much for possibilities, plans, and payoffs. I want to dream some more about Sheila and our days camping below the volcano.

I’m going to rest for a while, maybe take a little nap before pulling for the highway. No, better not. I know where that leads. If I know it, why don’t I do something about it? But sleep will fix it, will fix everything. Fuck Seattle.

 This blackness feels warm. How did it get dark so quickly? I have no pain, but then, I have nothing . . . maybe not even life. I’ve had enough of it. Maybe becoming one with the ground is for the best.

There’s a thudding in my temples, a rhythm that I should recognize but don’t. It’s like heavy footfalls in sand that carry someone onward to whatever is there. The sound slows. I push myself forward with my legs – I still have legs. Whatever I’m laying on hardens. I can’t open my eyes. They’re stuck shut. Either that or there’s no light anymore.

I feel like I’m floating, but it’s a bumpy ride, like I’m being carried over rough ground. There’s a loud sound. I try opening my eyes again and see pinpoints of light. Is it the stars? Am I in the tunnel? Where’s that bright light everybody talks about?

***

Elmer pulls the decrepit GMC flatbed into Molly’s all-night café on the outskirts of Cave Junction and climbs out. The place is mostly deserted. He needs fresh coffee before checking in at the lumberyard. The crap in his thermos is still hot but so bitter that he can barely swallow it. He shoulders the leather mailbag from the seat next to him and walks toward the truck bed and freezes. The old man is gone.

“Hey buddy, you get off already?” he yells. The snow soaks up the sound.

He studies the parking lot. There are no footprints in the snow leading from the truck. Elmer shakes with a chill not caused by the cold. Shit, that poor guy fell off somewhere, and I bet I know where. Could be lying in the ditch, bleeding. I better go get him. If I call the cops, my boss will get the full story and I’ll be canned. I’m so fucking stupid. Shoulda just told him no!

Elmer gets back into the truck and mashes the starter. The motor catches on the third try. He roars out of the parking lot and heads south, the truck’s high beams clicked on, moving fast along the empty highway. He stares through the windshield, looking for the deer carcass that had caused him to almost lose control of the truck. Spying it, he pulls onto the shoulder, leaves the truck running, and crosses the road on foot. He scans the snow bank and forest’s edge with his flashlight. Through a break in the clouds, the glow from a full moon helps. The flashlight beam freezes on a dark mass lying at the base of the highway bank.

He drops downslope toward it. The wet snow soaks his jeans. The wind is blowing flurries in his face. Elmer reaches the old man and gives him a gentle shove. No response. He tries taking the guy’s pulse but his un-gloved hands are shaking violently. Scooping up the man, he charges back up the bank, his chest heaving, the cold burning his throat. Once at the truck, he props the hitchhiker in the passenger seat and straps him in with the seatbelt.

The truck’s heater has been working full blast and Elmer peels off his jacket leaving only an oil-stained T-shirt to cover his belly. Reaching in back of the seat he pulls out a musty Army blanket and tucks it around the old man. Taking the passenger’s gloves off he rubs the hands that look blue in the flashlight beam. The guy groans. Come on, man, wake the hell up. You can do this.

***

Morris opens his eyes. His whole body shudders. He clamps down hard, trying to stop it.  Slowly, the heat calms him and he pushes the blanket back and rubs his hands together. The truck driver smiles nervously and hands him a plastic cup of something that is warm to the touch.

“I thought you were a goner,” the driver said.

“I thought you had left me to die.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t know you’d fallen off until I got to town.”

Morris fingers his left side. One of the ribs is tender. But the pain has backed off and is bearable.

“So, are you gonna let me ride inside or do I have to climb on back again?”

“Relax, old timer. Just stay put. We’re fifteen minutes outside of town. I’ll buy you some supper at Molly’s. Looks like you could use it.”

“Thanks for coming back for me.  Some folks might have just kept going.”

“Yeah, well, putting you out there in the cold was a mistake and I’m sorry.  Letting you croak would just be another wrong.”

Morris grinned. “And two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

As they bounce along the highway, Morris’s body slowly warms and relaxes. He eyes the leather mailbag pressed against the driver’s side.

“You’ve been making a delivery?” he asks.

“Yeah, to a building site just south of Blue Creek. Some rich bastard is building a MacMansion back in the woods and we’re the closest lumberyard. Pretty area.”

The town’s lights glow before them. Silence settles in. As they approach a roadside café, Morris reaches inside his jacket and pulls out his Army-issue .45 automatic, its grip stained dark from years of use.

“Don’t stop, just keep driving.” Morris places the gun’s barrel against the driver’s temple.

The driver sucks in a deep breath, his eyes wide.  “What . . . what the hell.  I said I was sorry for . . . “

“It’s not that, stupid. What’s in the bag?”

“Just . . . just some cash . . . the customer pays in cash . . . less paperwork for the taxman. Please mister, I’m really sorry.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Morris can smell urine in the truck’s stuffy cab. “Just keep driving through town . . . and don’t make any funny moves.”

Only the bars and cafes seem to show any signs of life. The snowfall has picked up and it’s beginning to cover the highway. They motor north without speaking, leaving Cave Junction behind.

“Click on your high beams,” Morris orders. He stares through the windshield at a barely visible track that disappears into the thick forest.

“Slow down and turn here.”

“What are you gonna—”

“Shut up and turn.”

“All right, all right. Just keep your finger off the trigger. Please, mister.”

The track is barely passable, not being used in years, probably an old logging road. The GMC bumps along, pressing deeper and deeper into the blackness.

“This is far enough. Stop,” Morris orders.

Removing the gun from the driver’s head he reaches for the mailbag. The driver grasps the door handle and bolts from the truck. Morris shoots twice through the open doorway, catching the man in the back. He falls to the ground and pulls himself into the trees. Morris grabs the flashlight and gets out of the truck, being careful not to twist his ribs. He waits until the man is well concealed in the forest undergrowth, then follows him and puts a third bullet through the back of his skull.

He climbs back into the truck and inspects the mailbag’s contents. Five grand! Not bad. Who the hell pays that much money in cash? Stupid, man, stupid.

Groaning, he backs the truck around and returns to the highway. The snow is coming down heavy now, covering his tracks. He heads north, looking for another logging road to ditch the truck near a town where he might catch a bus, then a plane to Portland or Seattle, then abroad. All the while an old Doors song from the early seventies, Riders on the Storm, rattles around in Morris’s brain. He smiles to himself. Yeah, two wrongs don’t make a right . . . but maybe three do. That’s cold, man. Cold.

Terry Sanville

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay – Red flatbed truck in the snow.