Hitchhikers (5 page)

Lila makes a warm blanket, though I envy her
fur. I can only hope Moberly will have something akin to a
Salvation Army or a church thrift store, although if worse comes to
worse I might be able to find some clothes drying on a clothesline
outside, or I could break in and steal something, but I’d rather
not when I’ve got a big wad of money in my pocket. I’d like to be
able to get something real heavy, a real winter coat that’s a
little too big, and a hat too. And gloves. And I can’t forget
underwear.

I guess because I blacked out for so long I’m
not tired now. Lila’s face is my scarf, we’re wrapped up together
and I’m watching the stars. I can’t imagine how she found me after
Pervy Paul drove off with me, or why she would want to keep
following me when I don’t have any food for her and I ditched her
at the first opportunity. I’m just glad she did. She’s dead asleep
now. Her paws are hot and I massage them, imagining all those miles
she traveled on those feet to catch up with me.

When I was a kid I didn’t have many friends.
Our town in Montana was small, and there were maybe 50 kids in my
grade, most of them coming in from ranches sprawled out all over
the place. My father wasn’t a rancher and neither were my uncles.
We all lived close together on the outskirts of the Canadian
forest, and the only other kid near my age was Kayla, who was a
year younger than me. My mom was able to find work, seasonal labor,
because she’d grown up on a ranch and she’d help drive cattle and
with branding and stuff like that. Sometimes I helped her. My dad
never helped. He worked at the local bar in town, serving drinks or
bouncing or even cooking, whenever the manager wasn’t too pissed at
something or other he’d done. He got into a lot of fights, my dad.
If he wasn’t so darn angry maybe I could have bought a friend home,
if I’d had one. But we mostly kept to ourselves, and Kayla was the
closest to a friend I had.

Maybe if I’d had a friend, it wouldn’t have
been so easy to run away and leave everything behind. Maybe I
wouldn’t have all these weird feelings boiling up inside me all
because some stray dog decided it was better to be with me than to
be alone.

I smell like wheat and wet dog. It’s killing
my appetite though, which is a good thing, since it’s almost noon
and there hasn’t been anyplace to get any food.

Lila and I have finally reached a town. La
Plata, established 1855, population not mentioned on the sign. It’s
bigger than the last town, at least there’s a separate gas station
and grocery store. As we get closer, passing buildings and
apartments and warehouses, my stomach starts to rumble with the
scent of food. Pizza and Mexican and Italian. We’re still pretty
far from the cheap restaurants, but I can smell it over the exhaust
fumes and sewage. Hot dogs. I smell hot dogs most.

That would be because there’s an old man in
the parking lot of a strip mall selling hot dogs out of a silver
trailer. Not a trailer big enough for someone to sit inside, out of
the weather, but a cart-like deal. The man is sitting on a stool
reading.

I’m standing in front of him before I even
decide I want a hot dog more than an entire
double-cheese-pepperoni-and-sausage pizza.

“What can I do you for?” he asks, putting his
book aside. It’s On the Road by Jack Kerouac, which I’ve actually
read. I found it lying on a park bench last summer, and I must have
read it five times between that summer and that winter, before I
holed up in the abandoned house and found other things to read.

I look over the four hot dogs roasting on the
grill. “I’ll take all of them,” I say. “Two on buns with ketchup,
mustard, relish… everything except onions. And the other two plain.
For my dog,” I explain.

“Sure thing.”

With practiced hands the man prepares the hot
dogs. He’s not as old as his white hair makes him look from far
away. His hands are big and strong, worn with years of work.

“Anything to drink?”

I order a soda and a water and add two bags
of chips, then pay with bills I’ve peeled off the roll hidden
inside my sweatshirt pocket. I toss one of the plain hot dogs to
Lila and stuff one of the loaded dogs in my mouth.

“Have a nice day,” the man says.

“Thanksh,” I mumble around the food in mouth.
His mouth quirks in a smile that softens his face a bit.

Lila sits at my feet chewing on her hot dogs
while I make a seat out of the curb. Food never tastes so good as
when you’re hungry. My eyes are half-closed in the savoring of it.
I try not to think about the winter coming and the scarcity of
food. It’s the here and the now and hot food in my belly and the
sun on my face.

When I’ve devoured everything on my plate, I
put it on the ground and pour some of the water in it for Lila to
drink. Not the world’s best doggy dish, but it serves its
purpose.

The strip mall is small. There’s a
convenience store, a Dollar Store, and a Laundromat. The door of
the Laundromat is propped open and lets out the rolling sounds of
the dryers and the industrial hum of the washing machines. It’s
been ages since my clothes smelled like lemony detergent. It’s been
ages since I had deodorant, too. At least I had a shower yesterday.
Most of the time I can find a gas station bathroom to clean up in,
but a full shower?

Let’s just say it was a long while before I
ended up in the shower in Paul’s hotel room.

None of the stores here look promising, so I
ask the hot dog vendor. “Do you know of any places around here that
sells clothes?”

The man looks up from his book, squinting at
me. “Clothes? Huh. Not much of a shopper myself. There’s a Walmart
up to Kirksville, that’s where I go for pretty much
everything.”

I’ve got no clue where Kirksville is, but if
the town is anywhere near as spread out as this one, it’ll take two
days to get there.

(unless I hitch a ride and I don’t want to do
that)

“Do you know of anyplace closer?” I dig the
toe of my sneaker into a crack in the pavement. “Like a secondhand
store or something?”

“Sorry, son.”

He looks like he’s going to go back to his
book and I turn to walk away, then he says, “I’ve got some extra
clothes at my house, belonged to my boy. I usually head home after
the lunch rush, if you don’t mind waiting. If you’re
interested?”

My senses strain to decide if this offer is
some kind of proposition. “Doesn’t your son need his clothes?”

I bring myself to look at his face and I’m
surprised to see his eyes glassy and far away.

“No, he doesn’t need them anymore.”

I don’t ask anything else about his son.
Instead I look away, scratch my neck. “Yeah, okay.”

Leaving the man to his book, I walk over to
the Dollar Store and browse through their outside display. Lila
follows me, sniffing at the things I pick up.

“Stay,” I tell her, and head inside the
store.

I walk up and down the aisles, taking in all
the cheap things I could actually buy but don’t need. I don’t like
to be weighed down with things when I could black out and wake up
with all those things gone. I do find an aisle with stuff like
socks and underwear and I buy a pack of each.

The end of one aisle has all kinds of pet
care products. I pause, looking over the collars and leashes and
chew toys. There’s a tan-colored collar that would match her fur,
but no matching leash. I pick out a sturdy blue one and then a
small box of dog treats.

“Five twenty-one,” says the bored kid at the
register. He doesn’t look much older than me but he must be, if
he’s working during the school day. Or is it Saturday?

I grab my stuff before he can put them in a
bag and head outside, shoving the underwear and socks into the
front pocket of my sweatshirt. Lila’s sitting beside the hot dog
man, and he’s scratching her ears. Can’t say I’m not a little
jealous, but she jumps up as soon as she sees me.

“I got you a present,” I tell Lila as we walk
back over to the curb.

I give her a doggie treat first, and while
she’s occupied with that I try to put the collar on her.

She yips and jumps away, leaving her treat on
the ground.

“What? It’s just a collar,” I say. “All the
cool dogs are wearing them.”

She watches me warily from a few feet
away.

Never having a dog, I have no idea how to
convince one to do something she doesn’t want to do. I try holding
the collar out to her. “You can sniff it if you want.”

No dice. She stretches her neck out a bit to
get a scent of it but doesn’t move forward.

“Come on. It’s not that bad.”

She stares at me with something like betrayal
in her eyes. The man is watching us now which I try to ignore.

“Fine,” I say, and put the collar and leash
down on the ground beside me, out of her sight.

It’s a few long minutes before she’ll come
back to my side. I try tempting her with treats but she doesn’t
take the bait. Finally she inches back and sits near me, nibbling
at her milkbone.

When she seems calm enough, I drop my hand
down. She doesn’t notice. Then I’m grabbing the collar and wrapping
my arm around her neck and trying to wrangle it on her.

Lila thrashes like crazy, her paws scrabbling
at the air and her throat growling. Her teeth are bared but she’s
not biting at me. “Come… on…” I pant. I can’t get both hands free
to buckle the collar. Finally I let her go and she runs across the
parking lot before stopping to look at me with her ears pinned back
and her tail low.

Frustrated, I snatch up the collar and leash
and shove them into the pocket of my sweatshirt, even though
they’re too bulky. “What am I supposed to do if the animal control
people come by?” I yell at her. “They’re gonna think you’re a
stray. You wanna go to the pound?”

Of course she doesn’t answer, just looks at
me with her sad eyes.

“If you don’t want to be my dog, you can get
your own damn treats.”

I sit back down, disgusted with her and
disgusted with myself. It’s not like I’m gonna chain her up out in
a hot yard with no water. I’d treat her nice. The leash and stuff
is just for show. How do you explain that to a dog? At the same
time, I feel dumb for wrestling with an animal in a parking lot. I
should’ve left her alone. I know if I was a dog I wouldn’t want
some random kid slapping a collar on me.

I don’t want some cop demanding to know
Is
this your dog? Prove it
and taking her away when I can’t. Looks
like I don’t need a cop to take Lila away. I chased her away all on
my own.

The time drags on while I get more and more
miserable, Lila panting in the shade of a bush on the other side of
the parking lot. I’ve nothing to do but be miserable. Wish I had a
book or something.

Finally the hot dog man starts closing up
shop. He didn’t sell a single hot dog after me. “Do you need any
help?” I call to him.

“Eh, I’ve got it down to a science,” he
says.

I get up and help him anyway. Securing the
tubs of condiments and fastening the flaps on the sides. The cart
is attached to his truck by a trailer hitch.

“That about does it.” He shuffles to the
driver’s side door. “Hop on in.”

With a look back at Lila, I open the
passenger door.

“You gonna bring along that dog of
yours?”

“I – I don’t know.”

“She can hop on in back,” he says.

I look at Lila. Part of me doesn’t want to
try calling her over, in case she decides not to come. That would
just about kill me.

I whistle softly.

Her ears perk up and she steps forward.

With a slap of my leg I whisper, “Come on,
girl.”

She comes.

Lila’s panting in my ear. The old man, who
tells me his name is Robert but I can call him Bobby, won’t let her
sit in the front with me. Even though she’s got the little backseat
to herself, she’s got her paws up on the back of my seat and is
pressing her head between my head and the open window.

The buildings fall away and we are back out
in open country again. Not for long, and not as wide open as
before. Bobby drives down a bunch of random little roads, passing
houses that get smaller and shittier as we go. Dust flying
everywhere, lawns that are more scorched dirt than grass.

Bobby pulls into a dirt area that I guess is
a driveway. His house is actually a trailer baking in the sun. It’s
kind of a cross between a house and a trailer. It’s got an awning
pulled out with a screen draped down from it, and inside the screen
area sits a lawn chair next to a little table, making it look like
a porch. There’s some plants in there too.

The truck bounces to a stop and I wait until
Bobby gets out before climbing out of the passenger side, Lila
jumping to the ground beside me. She dances out of my reach, still
nervous after the collar incident. It isn’t until now that I stop
to think that I’m gonna have to walk my way out of here, unless
Bobby’s heading back for an imaginary dinnertime rush.

You’re so stupid.

“Home sweet home,” Bobby says, parting the
screen curtain and holding it aside for me and Lila to walk
through. “Bobby Junior’s clothes are in a box in the spare bedroom,
if you want to come in and sit a spell.”

I bob my head.

“The dog can stay out here. Not much space
for a dog in here.”

“Stay,” I tell Lila unnecessarily. She’s
already found a spot to lie down.

What if he’s got chainsaws and hunting knives
hung up on his walls, an operating table in his kitchen?

I step up into the old-people-smelling living
room of the trailer.

What makes you think you can trust him?

“Shut up,” I growl at myself. Bobby’s already
down the hall so I don’t think he can hear me. I thought he was
joking about the spare bedroom but it’s a pretty big trailer,
almost like a little house. Cluttered. There are dirty clothes on
the couch, the tables full of dirty dishes and wrappers. Messy. My
nose wrinkles at the undercurrent of moldy crusted food and musty
newspapers. I think I can even smell how long it’s been since he
vacuumed this worn carpet here.