50
by Brett Eugene Ralph_Archive
[Here's something I wrote up years ago for the literary magazine at the college where I teach. It's pretty overwritten at times, but it captures one of my weirdest non-kerble's mom encounters.]
The trunk was up and he materialized from behind it, waving his arms and jogging towards the shoulder. The car had been backed in, perpendicular to the road; it butted up against barbed wire, bordering an undeveloped expanse.
“Car break down?” I asked.
It was a red Mercedes, pretty good shape for a mid-80’s model. The Illinois plate on the front of the car was wired at one corner with a paper clip. He didn’t move quickly but constantly—it seemed impossible for him to stand still—and he kept looking past me, down the road.
“Oh, it’ll run,” he said.
I waited for him to elaborate. He said no more, though he seemed to want to, his troubled eyes straining against dark skin. He seemed disoriented but relatively harmless; I decided I would try to help him. “Do you want me to drive you somewhere?” I asked. “Is there someplace I can take you?”
“What about the car?” Suddenly he had become agitated. “I can’t just leave it here!” And then softer, his voice breaking up: “This is my wife’s car, man.”
He leaned heavily on the hood with both hands. Although he made no sound, I knew that he was weeping. I watched a truck pass slowly, a little boy in the passenger seat staring open-mouthed after us.
Sniffling a little, he asked if he was still in Kentucky. “I need to get to Chatanooga tonight,” he said. I told him it was about three hours away. He only had a couple of dollars left, he said, and was almost out of gas. “But I’m not asking you for money—” he added quickly, “don’t get me wrong. I just don’t know what to do!” Real confusion knitted his features and I expected the tears to return.
“Look,” I said, “I’m on my way into town; I’ll be glad to give you a ride somewhere—”
He interrupted me, his voice rising: “But what about the car?” I told him I couldn’t give him any money and wouldn’t drive his car, but I’d be glad to give him a lift into Hopkinsville. He paused and thought about this for a moment. Before I realized it, he was in motion, disappearing behind the open trunk. It loomed like a red door: For the first time I considered what that trunk might hold. As countless slow-motion scenes unfolded, I scanned the highway and wondered who might stop to help.
“Tell me something,” he said, giving the trunk a lazy slam and shuffling back towards me, “Is there a jail in this town?” I nodded cautiously and he continued: “I think it’s time for me to turn myself in—this has gone on long enough.” He seemed to take immediate strength from this realization while I felt sick with fear, certain I did not want this man in the car with me. “Can I follow you to town?” he said, quietly. “Will you show me the way to the jail?”
The ride to town was interminable. He kept speeding up and slowing down, and he weaved all over the road. I kept expecting him to veer off into a ditch. A part of me would have been relieved if he’d done so; for I was free, now, to play out in my mind all the possible scenarios that had left him on the lam and in such a disturbing condition. Not one chain of events I imagined offered any reassurances.
By the time we reached the parking lot of the Christian County Jail, I’d decided not to leave my vehicle; I pulled sideways across two spaces and waved him up alongside me. He began to gesticulate wildly; I had to motion for him to roll down the window so I could hear what he was saying.
“What am I supposed to do now?” His voice was tired but shot through with what I recognized as terror.
“Just park your car and go in.”
“But what do I say to them?”
“Just say what you got to say; tell them what you did.” I felt myself on the brink of knowing things you only hear about, but can’t quite believe—things you never imagine you’ll see swimming in another man’s eyes. “What did you do, anyway?” I asked him.
He averted his face and gripped the wheel with both hands. “Man,” he muttered, “I don’t know what all I done.”
I had nothing to say to that but assumed it was my responsibility to say something. I was the one who’d stopped, the one who’d brought him here. “Just go on in,” I told him. “They’ll know what to do.”
“But what about the car?”
“Look,” I said, “this is a jail; no one’s gonna mess with your car.”
“Yeah,” he said, seeming to agree. “But what if I have to leave it here for a long time.”
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw him tentatively back the Mercedes into a space. It had occurred to me, only moments before, that he might have sought the jail out for reasons other than those he’d given me. I prayed I was wrong, even as I pictured him enter the building and produce a pistol from his Members Only jacket
At some point, not long after I’d pulled over, a van slowed as it passed us. We both fell silent, regarding it; suddenly he took off, scrambling wildly, waving his arms. “Hey!” he cried, “Hey!” as he trailed after it down the highway.
He stopped as it disappeared over the hill and, head low, slowly returned. “Sorry,” he said, still breathing hard, “That woman looked familiar.” He moved towards me, closer than I would’ve liked. I made myself look him in the face. He shut his eyes and slowly shook his head. “I’m just so tired of all this.” He raised his arms and let them go limp. “You know what I mean?” he said, looking at me suddenly, “I’m ready for this to be over.” His confession hung between us like a crime we’d committed together. This was before I’d seen his tears, before I imagined what he might have done. I just took in the man before me, and what I saw was a child in the supermarket separated from its mother, lost and utterly exhausted. The way you get behind the wheel, the days turned inside out, as night hums along, whispering its secrets. Those are the times a man craves company, some human contact, even that of a total stranger. Any voice inside your head besides your own.
