Broken Pass

“Whathca doin’, bud?”

The pickup slows to a halt at the side of the road. An organ cactus is caught sprouting up in the headlights, bottom-lit by the beams, as its winding spires become lost in the shadows.

“Jess need ta stretch ma legs.”

The hitchhiker is turning towards the driver, who is already swung halfway out of the cab.

“Suppose, ah could use a piss m’self.” He breaks off into a quick stagger in the opposite direction. A quick zip is followed by a long train of urine. Steam rises off the rocks and dissipates in the night air.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggh.” The hitchhiker believes relief, like many experiences, is more enjoyable if it can be shared, or at least verbalized loudly.

“Havin’ fun o’r there?”

The driver makes his way back to the car but is careful not to glance in the hitchhiker’s direction. He’s still shaking it off with a full body-shiver and a jump.

“Not as much fun as the two of us are gonna have once we get ta Vegas.”

The hitchhiker joins him in the cab. The driver is incredulous. He wants to object, “What? Y’think we’re the bess a buds now that we’ve shared a two hour car’ide?” The hitchhiker does not look like the type to be put down so easily. The driver settles upon a look of caution, and tries to affect the interrogator’s low, feeling scowl.

“Ever been?”

“Ha! Ever been?!”

The driver immediately regrets his attempt at geniality. He knows he’s going to pay for this feigned interest a little further down the road.