I thank Respieto who provided some wonderful comments and suggestions on an earlier draft. Also, I thank all my friends on the playground whose encouragement and friendship keep me writing and playing. This is a work of fiction and contains sexually explicit scenes. If the laws in your area prohibit you from reading this, please respect those laws. This work is copywrited by Lakesailer_mi.
It had been the worst year of my life. I was angry at the world, at everyone I worked with, at everyone I lived with, and, I realize now, I was angriest at myself. Frustrations with relationships that were not what I had planned. Anger at an organization which failed again and again in spite of my warnings and direction. People who relied on me, but never paid attention. People who took all I gave, and only demanded more. I had begun to hate people. To despise them in their weaknesses and pettiness. I also felt the feeling was mutual, that most people, including those closest to me, had come to despise me as well. It had all become too much and one day I reached my limit. Packing a small backpack with a variety of clothes and items, I just left.
It is a testament to the self centeredness of the world that no one noticed, no one tried to stop me. I simply walked out of the world I had built and entered an invisible world. I walked along roads, some busy, some deserted. Occasionally, especially at first, I would get rides with truck drivers or other travelers. They would ask "where are you headed"?
My answer was always a nod down the road and a simple "there."
Sometimes they would try to engage me in conversation. I soon learned to turn the conversation toward them, asking questions like "where are you from? " and "where are you going?" Probing and letting them talk. My answers were non-answers; short, clipped, and probably off putting. Looking back, I notice that the rides got shorter and shorter with people making excuses to get off the highway just a few stops later. Looking back, I also realize I was getting fewer and fewer offers for rides. My appearance must have been off-putting and I may have smelled bad. I was, after all, a homeless man.
Some months later I walked into a rest stop at just about dusk. Rest stops were part of the reason why I stayed on the major highways, rather than venture off onto smaller roads. Smaller roads usually afforded easier walking, and I was nearly always walking by this time, but it was difficult to find places as hospitable as a highway rest stop. There was always a bathroom and water at a rest stop. Saving money I had found - you would be stunned at the amount of money simply lying on the side of a road - I could usually afford some snack or small amount of food from the vending machine. If I hung around long enough, I usually got the remnants of some family's rest stop lunch, often retrieved from the trash as they pulled back onto the road. The best part of a rest stop was that I could usually find an out of sight corner to rest and sleep.
Sleeping and bathing are the two most difficult aspects of being homeless. While water and public rest rooms are available in myriad places, and food can be scavenged from a society so rich it discards 'left overs' that would feed families in other parts of the world, finding a place to sleep safely was a challenge. Rain or snow was uncomfortable, but not really dangerous. There were other homeless, some clearly much less sane than I. There were the crazy people who were a part of society and looked for ways to hurt those outside it, and worst of all, there were well meaning people and police. All of these people, for their different reasons, would destroy my sleep unless I found a place to hide. Rest stops often afforded that luxury.
It had grown dark while I used the rest room and found some food. The rest stop was deserted by dark, the road being far from most towns and not really on the way to or from anywhere. Not far from the parking lot I found a place, behind a picnic table and under a bush where I could hide for the night. Patrolling police and the occasional rest stop patron would not see me or venture into this area in the dark. It wasn't particularly late, but I settled in and had begun to doze off when I heard a car coming into the parking lot. Normally I would have ignored it but this car did not sound right. The loud flap-flap and the sound of metal grating on pavement was unmistakable: this car had a flat. Not just a flat, but probably a complete blow out and likely some miles back. The driver had continued to drive on it, well past what was prudent, and was finally limping into this rest stop.
I heard the car door slam and a woman's voice screamed through sobs "Jesus Motherfucking Christ! Why?!!" I had grown cold over the last few months, leaving my anger and disgust behind me, but all of those feelings were perfectly reflected in her anguished cry of "why" and they awoke something inside me.
I slowly rose and walked out of the dark toward her car. I could hear curse words and muttered cries of anguish and sobs. I stopped at the back of the car, she stood on the sidewalk in front of it. She didn't see me coming, I realize now, and so when I said "can I help you" she jumped and screamed in surprise, although I think I was at least as surprised by my offer.
"Stay back! I have pepper spray and I'll use it" with an anger and bravado I could tell she was unaccustomed to. She fumbled with her purse and was soon holding her arm rigid with a small bottle of something pointed at me. I shrugged and turned to walk away, emotionless again. As I retreated, she said flatly "wait." It wasn't a command. It wasn't a pleading question either, it was simply an indication that I should wait. I turned back and looked at her standing there. We were nearly under a light and as her arm lowered and she relaxed slightly I began to make out details. Her shoes were heels, and her calves, exposed by the knee length black, tailored, designer cocktail dress, were perfect. Her body curved subtly, clearly sculpted by many hours in the gym. Her face, classically beautiful was pinched in pain. I could see swelling, and possibly a bruise on her left eye.
Her voice portraying a level of control I knew from my life was a mask, she flatly asked "can you change a tire?" That simple question exploded in my mind. Could I change a tire? At seven I began working on cars with my Dad. We rebuilt the '68 Mustang he had rescued from the guy who had driven it without oil. We worked on the family cars and my friends' cars, and the 1972 Grand Am I had bought from some moron who thought it was a lemon. I had taken engines completely apart and put them back together before I was fourteen. I knew timing settings and carburetor settings of a half dozen late 60's and 1970's cars like I knew the back of my hand. I could rebuild brakes and clutches and I had even done a little body work and painting. Most of those skills though, were useless today. No one had a manual transmission and clutches were a thing of the past. Electronic fuel ignition was controlled by a computer and was perfect, something nearly impossible to achieve with a timing light in your backyard. Of course when the chip failed, you couldn't drive your car at all. Such is the price of perfection.
But I simply shrugged and said "yeah." We stood there looking at each other for a moment and she reached into her purse and I heard the bleep-bleep of remote key entry opening the car and the trunk popped. She remained about three feet in front of the car on the sidewalk. I approached the trunk again and opened it completely, assuming I would find a neat and empty trunk, with a spare under the carpet. Instead I found a jumble of beautiful clothing thrown hastily into the pristine trunk. I gently gathered an armful, and walked slowly to the passenger side of the car. The door was unlocked and I placed the clothing on the leather seat with far more care than was probably necessary. The small back seat of the two door car was also strewn with clothing and knick knacks. The woman stood, the car always between us, and watched.
I suppose I should have felt anger at doing all the work. Or perhaps pity or disgust. But what I felt was an understanding for someone who was leaving her life with only a carful of possessions. I carefully moved her clothing to the front passenger seat until I could lift the trunk panel and expose the spare tire and jack. The spare was not one of those emergency ones, but a full tire. I lifted it in one hand, while the other grabbed the jack and tire iron/lug wrench/jack handle. I wished, for a brief second, for my good lug wrench, as the combinations did none of the jobs well. Mechanics using pneumatic wrenches could over tighten a lug nut making it humanly impossible to remove. Rust and road grime, and in this case the trauma of a blow out, could damage threads too. I didn't hesitate, and soon was apply the lug wrench to the tire.
Hesitantly, she tried to strike up a conversation "So, what were you doing over there?" Her voice betraying her nervousness.
