her purse. He put out his hand and she shook it.
‘It’s a beater,’ he said as he led her outside and towards the parking lot. ‘A 1979 Eldorado. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t even have a car,’ she said.
‘I guess I kind of figured,’ he said. He was thirty years old with a mustache and black hair. His arms were covered in home-made tattoos. The skin on them was pocked with grease marks. He carried a paper sack.
She followed him to the car and got in the passenger side. The floor boards were filled with garbage, MD 20/20 bottles, fast food bags, used oil containers, a couple old newspapers, and brake parts.
‘What part of town you need a ride to?’ he asked and lit a Marlboro.
‘Any part’s okay. I can take the bus from wherever you stop.’
‘The bus is for drunks and old ladies. I’ll take you where you got to go. I just need to know where.’
‘Anywhere near North Las Vegas, I guess.’
He backed the car out of the space and headed towards the highway.
‘This ain’t the best place to be stuck at. There’s not a thing out here.’
‘I know.’ She looked out the window into the desert.
‘Somebody kick you out of their rig?’
‘Just got left here.’
‘Must have gotten in a fight or something,’ he said and put them on the highway.
‘Kind of.’
‘Why?’
‘What?’ she said. There were no door handles on the passenger side. She looked on the ground and saw a Hustler magazine underneath a Burger King bag.
‘I don’t like fighting.’
‘I hate to fight, too,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I hate it more than anything.’
‘Women always say that – “I hate to fight. I hate yelling.” I mean no offense to you, but if you ask me it’s the ladies that always do the yelling.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
He reached into the paper sack that sat between him and the girl and took out a bottle of red wine he’d bought from the truck stop store.
‘I never usually drink in the mornings, but with a guest I thought, what the hell, I’m gonna buy a good bottle of wine. I’m off until Wednesday night. I figured you being stuck all the way out here, you might need a drink.’ He handed the bottle to her. ‘I don’t know if it’s got a cork in it, but if it’s that kind I got a corkscrew on my pocket knife that’s in the glove box. Could you open it for me?’
She looked at the bottle, saw it had a cork, put the bottle between her legs, and opened the glove box. Inside there was a roll of duct tape, extra fuses and bulbs for the car, a spool of wire. She found the pocket knife.
‘You want me to open it right now?’
‘No time like yesterday,’ he said. He turned on the radio and pushed in a CD.
‘You like music?’
‘Yeah,’ she said and tried to use the corkscrew. But she was beginning to get nervous. Her hands shook a little and she had trouble getting it started.
‘Yeah, me too,’ he said and threw his cigarette out the window and looked over at her.
‘Having trouble with it?’
‘I’ll get it,’ she said. ‘The cork might fall apart, but I’ll get it.’
‘Don’t worry, I never re-cork,’ he said and laughed.
He had them in the right lane. The sun was beginning to rise across the desert. The road was nearly empty, just a few tractor-trailers, and the odd car or two passing in the other direction.
‘The only good thing is the sunrise. About my job, I mean. Every morning it’s like this. No traffic, no stop lights. The heat hasn’t started up.’
She opened the bottle and handed it to him. She took the broken cork from the corkscrew, and put it on the dash. From the corner of her eye she could see him drink from it, and while he did, she put the pocket knife down between the passenger side door and her seat, and then she shut the glove box.
He was almost half way through the bottle when she began to hyperventilate.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said. He slowed the car.
‘Nothing,’ she could barely say. Tears were leaking down her
‘It’s a beater,’ he said as he led her outside and towards the parking lot. ‘A 1979 Eldorado. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t even have a car,’ she said.
‘I guess I kind of figured,’ he said. He was thirty years old with a mustache and black hair. His arms were covered in home-made tattoos. The skin on them was pocked with grease marks. He carried a paper sack.
She followed him to the car and got in the passenger side. The floor boards were filled with garbage, MD 20/20 bottles, fast food bags, used oil containers, a couple old newspapers, and brake parts.
‘What part of town you need a ride to?’ he asked and lit a Marlboro.
‘Any part’s okay. I can take the bus from wherever you stop.’
‘The bus is for drunks and old ladies. I’ll take you where you got to go. I just need to know where.’
‘Anywhere near North Las Vegas, I guess.’
He backed the car out of the space and headed towards the highway.
‘This ain’t the best place to be stuck at. There’s not a thing out here.’
‘I know.’ She looked out the window into the desert.
‘Somebody kick you out of their rig?’
‘Just got left here.’
‘Must have gotten in a fight or something,’ he said and put them on the highway.
‘Kind of.’
‘Why?’
‘What?’ she said. There were no door handles on the passenger side. She looked on the ground and saw a Hustler magazine underneath a Burger King bag.
‘I don’t like fighting.’
‘I hate to fight, too,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I hate it more than anything.’
‘Women always say that – “I hate to fight. I hate yelling.” I mean no offense to you, but if you ask me it’s the ladies that always do the yelling.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
He reached into the paper sack that sat between him and the girl and took out a bottle of red wine he’d bought from the truck stop store.
‘I never usually drink in the mornings, but with a guest I thought, what the hell, I’m gonna buy a good bottle of wine. I’m off until Wednesday night. I figured you being stuck all the way out here, you might need a drink.’ He handed the bottle to her. ‘I don’t know if it’s got a cork in it, but if it’s that kind I got a corkscrew on my pocket knife that’s in the glove box. Could you open it for me?’
She looked at the bottle, saw it had a cork, put the bottle between her legs, and opened the glove box. Inside there was a roll of duct tape, extra fuses and bulbs for the car, a spool of wire. She found the pocket knife.
‘You want me to open it right now?’
‘No time like yesterday,’ he said. He turned on the radio and pushed in a CD.
‘You like music?’
‘Yeah,’ she said and tried to use the corkscrew. But she was beginning to get nervous. Her hands shook a little and she had trouble getting it started.
‘Yeah, me too,’ he said and threw his cigarette out the window and looked over at her.
‘Having trouble with it?’
‘I’ll get it,’ she said. ‘The cork might fall apart, but I’ll get it.’
‘Don’t worry, I never re-cork,’ he said and laughed.
He had them in the right lane. The sun was beginning to rise across the desert. The road was nearly empty, just a few tractor-trailers, and the odd car or two passing in the other direction.
‘The only good thing is the sunrise. About my job, I mean. Every morning it’s like this. No traffic, no stop lights. The heat hasn’t started up.’
She opened the bottle and handed it to him. She took the broken cork from the corkscrew, and put it on the dash. From the corner of her eye she could see him drink from it, and while he did, she put the pocket knife down between the passenger side door and her seat, and then she shut the glove box.
He was almost half way through the bottle when she began to hyperventilate.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said. He slowed the car.
‘Nothing,’ she could barely say. Tears were leaking down her
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