Manix

“You goin’ far?”

The hitchhiker says nothing.

“Ain’nosey. Only reas’n ah’sk is you don’ seem ta be carryn’ much.”

The hitchhiker doesn’t move. His stare remains fixed into the distance. Minutes go by –made of halting, interminable seconds- and the driver can’t make out so much as a breath from his new companion. He turns with what could be taken as an annoyed look on his face, but he might just be checking to see if the old boy is still alive.

Silent type: the driver thinks about how although he’s been working as a ranch hand for nearly a year, ever since that junk yard incident in Fresno, he has never bought in to the whole cowboy mystique. The driver always figured it was all for the movies, and emulated by little boys and grown pansies who want to seem tough. But the silence that seems to be sucking all the air out of the pickup truck is doing quite a number on him. He would cough, or sigh, or otherwise make some notion of his presence felt, but he can’t muster the wind from his lungs.

A few beads of sweat break out on the driver’s forehead. He goes to wipe them but his forearm’s stuck in his lap. They dance around in hesitation before gathering into a single stream and running down to the side of his neck.

“This’s scrushiating,” he chides to himself. The driver’s about to crack a window or pull over, when the hitchhiker hums out a low rattle.

“I’ve been down Death Valley. Workin th’ducts.” He has a country singer’s baritone, rhythmic and dependable. It could prove enjoyable, even, if there wasn’t a trace of doubt quivering on the down syllable, “Val-ee”.