his short story I published with Whetstone Literary Journal some years ago will soon be a short feature film from westbound films. My old homie Isaac Lane is the director and it promises to be very serious indy hit. If you dig the story, check out westbound films and the movie poster and more info at: www.westboundfilms.com
Out of the Blue
I didn’t need someone to talk to; I just wanted to assure myself that I
could still behave coherently. Sometimes a long stretch alone on a
highway can temporarily strip me of my sanity. I don’t even notice it
until I stop to buy a cup of coffee, come up on an agricultural
checkpoint, or get pulled over. Then my words come out all tangled and
fast, my eyes suddenly feel wild inside my skull. So I stopped
off—even though the needle hovered right between the E and the F on the
This time I had good reason for wanting to check myself. I’d spent
the past thirteen hours rocketing through the blue and rouge evening
and then the inky night, weeping and trying to talk myself both into
and out of my action. I’d left Rachel face down on our thrift store
couch. When I took off, over an hour had passed since she’d spoken to
me, and the last words she did say were carefully crafted to do harm.
You are the most selfish bastard ever born—I’m glad you’re not a
father. To be honest, I’d acted more hurt than I actually felt. I
always needed to pretend like I was injured—as if our horrid conflicts
were still new enough to surprise and wound me. It was a way to
distance myself from the fact that such ugly battles were actually old,
as expected as dusk. After that hour of pleading with her to speak
again and with an effort that almost collapsed me, I kicked through the
front door and drove off a whole damn tank before making my first stop
back in Arizona.
I climbed out of my rattling old pickup, stretched, and looked
around. The black was pierced and spoiled by the security lights of
the Texaco. A cowboy dozed in the cab of his new, cherry red truck,
the engine running. A black dog with all its ribs poking out eyed me
as he licked something off the cold concrete. To one side of the gas
station was a tractor-trailer that pulled an interesting and enormous
load: an entire house, replete with chimney, front and back doors, and
even curtains; it seemed like it would be a great way to travel. Trash
whirled around it with the icy gusts.
As I pumped fuel I squinted through the bug-splattered windshield at
the atlas on the dash. Just southeast of El Paso. I turned and gazed
south. I figured the vast spillage of yellow light must be Juarez.
Mexico. It made me sad, but in a sweet way, and I watched it glint
silently until the pump shut off.
The clerk was a large pear-shaped Mexican lady with a coffee stained
nametag that read Carolina hanging a kilter from one cantaloupe
breast. Her hair fell all stringy, and she sported two purple sandbags
under her eyes and a bruise half-covered by chalky mascara. She stared
past me, daydreaming, as I approached.
“Morning,” I said, as pleasantly as I could manage given the weight
hanging inside of me like a slab of meat. Carolina slowly shifted her
vision over to my face as if she was winding up a very distant
fantasy. She uttered a barely audible hey. She punched the keys of
the yellow register with a dull violence.
Next to the door a the gargantuan trucker (mesh hat, rumpled
clothes, and ashy skin) that must have been pulling the house, stood
rubbing a nickel hard and slow against a lotto ticket. When I smiled
at him, he turned and wedged himself into one of the half size phone
booths to continue with his one dollar prayer, as if he were doing
something crude and private or as if I were some kind of pervert. I
could hear his elbow knocking against the little wood wall of the booth
as he scraped.
The door was glass, and as I went to push through it, I caught a
full-length glimpse of myself. My eyes were as baggy as Carolina’s, my
brown curls greasy and unfurling, defeated. I could feel the lengthy
stubble on my cheeks, the thick layer of plaque on my teeth, and the
residue of pollution and tears across my entire face. My sweatshirt
was flecked with cigarette ash and barely contained the belly I swore
that I would never have. Disgusted, I knocked the door aside and walked
to the truck, deciding I was still too close to Southern California.
My wheels spit gravel against the pump as I lurched away.
As consolation for my lack of company, I turned on the radio. I
came across only an evangelical sermon and some kind of infomercial
before a static-ridden rendition of an old Bob Seger tune invaded the
cab. I turned up the volume until the song overtook the harsh whoosh
of the wind pushing past the broken seals on my windows. The old Chevy
was stretching toward eighty, wobbling and shuddering more with each
mile per hour, which was dangerous in ordinary conditions—and I’d
spotted flashes of slick here and there. I was daring disaster; I’d
left the plane on which one desires, absolutely, to live. I’d reached
somewhere beyond that; it wasn’t that I wanted to die precisely, but I
was willing to chance it, to push the odds, as if to say maybe. Maybe
I should. I felt a strange peace as I pushed the pedal lower. A
suburb of Juarez appeared and vanished in a matter of a minute. I had
the mad thought that perhaps I was hoarding the space of someone who
wanted desperately to live. I could not tolerate another day of soul
shredding sadness beside Rachel and yet I could not imagine a way to
live with the guilt if I didn’t turn around. Cacti, road kill, and the
long, barbed wire border zone streamed by in bumps and lines of dull
green, gray, and silver.
Whereas hours earlier I cried, I was now staring dryly, entranced by
the dance of the broken yellow line and glistening asphalt, so I almost
didn’t see the man on the shoulder at all. I just sensed him
peripherally as I flew past, was only sure enough of his existence to
slow and glance in my rearview. But there he was, waving an arm and
jogging after me, washed in the crimson of my taillights. Without
thinking, I silenced the radio, braked onto the shoulder, and threw the
truck in reverse to illuminate the darkness. I watched the man in my
side mirror as he came near. He shuffled slowly, put his palm up
against the glow of the reverse lights, and craned his neck about
trying to see who his chauffeur would be. An ironic chuckle climbed up
my throat—here this guy was suspicious of me. I let the truck fall
into neutral, leaned over, and unlocked the passenger door.
The man had a broad, pockmarked brow and brawny shoulders. His neck
was almost nonexistent. Short, spiky black hair glistened with the
light rain that had been coming and going in the night. He was of
Mexican blood, maybe thirty-five years old—roughly my own age. He wore
only a tight, filthy white tee shirt on his upper body. He was still
eyeing me with suspicion as he pulled the door halfway open. His voice
quivered once when he spoke, whether from the intense chill or nerves,
I didn’t know.
“Thanks for sto..stopping, man.”
I responded with a small nod and he continued, “fucking car went clear through the fence, down a ditch.”
“Well, get in,” I said, thinking of the thick gauge cable in the bed of
the truck, “we’ll go work on hauling her out.” But the man shook his
head, now committing, hoisting himself up into the cab and pulling the
“No man, that car is fucked. Lost a wheel and everything. I may as
well just leave it for now.” He folded his arms tightly, tucking hands
deep into his armpits. It was clear now that he was shivering and I
flipped the blower up to high. A somewhat rank but warm wave crested
“Thanks, man. Hey, are you going straight on through Esperanza?” He
threw a hopeful half grin across the cab at me, which looked a bit
absurd on him—like a kid putting on eyes for his parents, pleading for
“Yeah, I suppose I’m going at least that far,” I told him and pushed the Chevy, griping, back into motion.
As the high sound of rubber on cold asphalt picked up again, I began to
consider my action. I didn’t know if he was more of a danger to me, or
me to him, but I suddenly felt anxious about having the company I
thought I would enjoy. I reached toward the cigarettes in the center
of the dash with what I realized was a sudden movement. The man
started, lifting his large arms upward in a vaguely defensive
position. His eyes flashed as if something had leapt up behind his
gaze, ready. When he saw the Marlboros in my palm, he put his arms
down slowly and smiled almost sheepishly, giving his eyes to me for
just a second.
“Sorry, man…guess I’m shaky from that little wreck, you know?” I
offered him a cigarette, which he took, and we both sat puffing in
silence for a moment during which I finished my cigarette and the man
smoked scarcely a third of his. I poked open the little triangle
window at the front of the door and sent the butt into an explosive
orange death against the highway. I decided that I would shake off
what was no doubt a silly case of paranoia and engage my passenger. I
thrust my hand across the cab.
“My name’s Jackson.” The man placed the smoke between his lips and
then shook my hand. His grip was firm, callused, dry, and still
“Javier,” he replied, a little burst of smoke and two small pieces of ash lifting off into the air.
“Where were you headed?” I asked, shifting my vision between him and
the road. For a moment, I wasn’t sure that I had been heard, but then
Javier chuckled softly.
“I guess the same direction for a long time,” he said, his eyes only on
the asphalt before us, “just hadn’t really been moving till tonight,
you know?” I was pondering this, but I guess I took too long because
Javier changed his mind, sat up straight, and sent his butt out the
window. “Just east, man, just east.”
I felt frustrated with myself; although both responses were also true
for me, I liked the first one more and he’d brushed it away. I tried
to regain the opening.
“I think maybe I should have been moving in this direction for a long
time, but I haven’t been. Maybe just in my head.” I tried to gauge
Javier’s reaction to this. There was only a slow nod—as if to say
yeah, I understand or ok, whatever, man I could not tell. I changed
“Where you from?”
A hesitation. “Southwest….Arizona mostly. You?”
“Orange County,” I replied with an eye rolling tone. Javier laughed.
“Orange County! I thought all white boys from Orange County drove Lexus and Beemers and shit?”
The stereotype made me smile. “Guess I’m the odd one out.”
Javier patted the dash with tenderness. “Hey, I’m not saying this
ain’t a fine ride itself, my friend.” We both laughed then and
everything felt easier. I settled back into the seat and Javier asked
for another smoke. We both lit up again, quickly, because the truck’s
lighter never stayed hot for too long.
For a handful of minutes we rode in silence. I blew out hard, rushed
clouds of smoke that would bank and flatten against the cracked
window. Javier silently released slow, measured plumes that slipped
perfectly into the thin slice of night bared by his window. I felt
comfortable with him somehow; the few words that we’d shared and his
easy presence had satisfied my desire for talk. I felt a bit
surprised, then, when Javier said,
“So, why don’t you tell me why you’re out here with the armadillos tonight.”
I considered this for a moment. I wasn’t sure how much truth Javier
expected to be dropped on him and how much he was just making
conversation. But something in the tone of the question suggested that
he wanted to know what I was really doing. I settled on a gruff, manly
introduction to the truth.
“Had to get away from my wife. She was really dragging me down, you
know? It’s like, once she settles into feeling scorned, I know there’s
going to be a long stretch of shit ahead and I just couldn’t swing it
this time.” I leaned forward and peered up at the star crowded slab of
sky. “So I split.” Javier gave another slight nod. He seemed to be
waiting for more information, but I was nervous about that. What else
could I say without having to completely explain the sick, complex, and
horrid nature of my marriage?
“You know, most guys just head to the bar on the corner or something
when they ‘split.’” It was a statement, apparently free of irony or
sarcasm, only meant to open me up further. I cleared my throat.
“Yeah. Well, you know, I guess I needed a little more space.” I
didn’t like that I sounded evasive. “I sort of snapped this time,
Javier. It wasn’t really such a conscious decision. See, things have
just gotten unbearable.” I felt the size and weight of it welling up
in me; my frustration grew with it and I sighed. How could I make a
stranger understand all of this? And why? “It’s really complicated.”
I took the last drag, which proved to be mostly filter, grimaced, and
sent the butt out. “She’s just so fucking miserable all the time. I
try so hard man, you can’t imagine. I take her out to eat at places
she used to love, buy her shit, try and get her to open up. But it
seems like most days just end with her silent. She won’t talk. Man, I
can beg and plead and go fucking nuts and she won’t give me a goddam
word.” I paused, but my head continued shaking. I was aware that I
was on the edge of a rant. The familiar and sharp grief had taken me;
I felt the wrinkles and furrows, which seemed nowadays to dominate my
“I’ve tried to get her into counseling, you know, and she agrees after
a long fight about it and then the time comes and she just cancels. I
mean, she was in some counseling right after. And it seemed like…”
Here, I fell silent. I’d lost track of my words. The opportunity to
vent had made me careless. I watched the road intensely and felt my
fingers increase their pressure on the wheel. I glanced over at
Javier. He was gazing toward me, not impatiently, but expectantly. His
arms were folded and his eyes were soft. I blew out a long sigh and
decided to commit.
“The thing is, we lost a kid.” I felt the weight of the words
transfer—from my chest to the cab of the truck, into the world. Javier
nodded once and turned his eyes forward, dropped them onto the highway
again. I continued, fearing that if I didn’t then, I wouldn’t be able
to. “She was born really fucked up. Umbilical cord all twisted up
around her neck. She was paralyzed, brain damaged man, everything you
could think of really.” A blazing, florescent gas station drew near on
the north shoulder. I waited until it faded to a dull throb, as if
we’d passed within earshot of a stranger. “She lived for two weeks.
Sometimes I think that was the worst part.” I paused for a moment,
then reached and lit another cigarette with my usual violence.
“Christ, that’d kill me,” Javier said evenly, “I’m real sorry, man.”
There was no suggestion that he was going to say more. But the sound
of his words felt real and empathetic, some shred of understanding in
them. They rid me of my remaining hesitation and I launched forward,
spilling it all.
“She made me promise I would never leave her.” I said it like it was
an oath and, for so long, it had been. And I told Javier. Of holding
Rachel down through sobs and screams and flailings to keep her from
harming herself. Of the jealousy that surged forth when I had to
interact with another woman—if only to buy a cup of coffee. Of the
cold silences that lasted for days during which I stepped lightly
around the apartment, swinging crazily between wanting to throw myself
from the balcony, flee, or shake Rachel until some piece of who she
used to be was jarred back into her. Of her thinly veiled threats of
suicide if I were to slip off even for a week to visit friends or
family. Of her refusal to try again for a child, the only thing I
could imagine that might heal the terrible wound in her soul. Of her
almost total hatred of sex. And of the few and far between moments in
which the horror cleared, when Rachel seemed to refigure and rise from
the ruins of herself and could smile, how that bitter fuel held me
hoping and praying through more of the nightmarish storm that my life
and love had become.
When I’d finished, the dawn was beginning to tease some cold colors
into the horizon that we were aimed toward. The dying moon was half
obscured behind one of the tatters of clouds, like a shy child peeking
out from behind his mother’s skirts. Javier looked sleepy, his eyelids
low. I once again began to regret my wild abandon in spilling all this
for a person that I didn’t even know.
“So, are you going to turn around?” The question was an obvious one, but it struck me as if it came from out of nowhere.
“I don’t know. I guess I probably will.” It felt like a confession as
I said it. We watched in silence as the dawn arose to spread its
bleary light across the desert. The border zone still raced alongside
us, looking as empty as if life itself had been prohibited between the
two nations. Just when I thought my passenger must be dozing, Javier
began to speak.
“Once I was riding with some guys from one town to another. I didn’t
have any money for a bus and one of them was a buddy from a farm I
worked at. He offered me a ride, so I took it.” Javier reached for a
cigarette and gave me a look that asked for permission. I nodded
impatiently, wanting to hear the story. He lit up and blew out two of
his patient exhales before continuing. “Well, it turns out these dudes
are carrying a half a kilo of crank. We get stopped and a couple of
them start freaking out bad. Things got tense with the cop and one of
these assholes pulls a gun.” Javier’s head was shaking as he recalled,
a frown reaching across most of his wide face. “Goddam trooper gets
hit twice and almost dies. They got us real fast with a roadblock.”
He slid a glance over to see my reaction to this. I did my best to
appear unfazed and sympathetic at once. “Well,” Javier sighed, “They
put me in prison for a long time.”
I waited for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time.
“That seems pretty unjust to me,” I told him.
He chuckled ruefully. “Yeah. It did to me too.”
He gazed out
the streaked window as we traveled a few miles in silence. Then he
began to squint at a sign looming up on the shoulder. “Hey,” he said,
his tone suddenly spiked with relief, “here we are.”
I saw Esperanza on the massive green sign and shifted over to the right
lane, coasted down the off ramp. At the bottom, one sign pointed
toward the border, another north, indicating a memorial to Texan Civil
War heroes. We cruised into the arrangement of gas stations, cafes,
and money transfer places. Javier told me he would get out in the
parking lot of a small shopping center. Reluctantly, I rolled to a
stop between two RVs.
“What are you going to do here?” I asked, wincing at my judgmental tone. Javier, however, just chuckled again.
“Oh, I have a cousin who works at the border here man, in Mexican
immigration.” That struck me as strange, but I just nodded, figuring
it wasn’t much worth questioning. I began to tell him goodbye, but
Javier wasn’t making any move toward the door yet. He seemed to be
thinking something out. Finally, he breathed deeply and turned to me.
“Listen, Jackson…I wasn’t being totally honest about just going east.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m going home, man.
Guerrero.” His black eyes were searching mine, asking a question that
I didn’t grasp. I felt a kind of splinter in my mind. His gaze
relented a bit and he looked off through the windshield, with what
seemed to be a bit of the nervousness that he first approached me
“I have to ask you a favor. Do you have a knife in here?” A fearful
reaction must have crossed my face, because Javier laughed and assured
me he wasn’t going to slash my throat. I rummaged in the jumbled back
of the cab. I came up with a rusty, small pair of wire clipping
shears. He said that they would do and took them. Then he unrolled a
bulge of cloth at the top of his pants—which proved to be a jumpsuit.
He began to half snip and half tear above the elastic waistband,
twisting from side to side to get at difficult angles. When he’d
finished, Javier held the blue fabric in a crumpled ball in the air
between us. His eyes flashed and he grinned. Then he smoothed it out
on the seat. I read the white letters stenciled across.
Texas Bureau of Prisons
I blinked a few times as it registered. When it had, I found myself
smiling. Javier was climbing out of the truck. He shut the door and
ambled around the front end, turning his stocky torso and looking about
easily but warily. He stopped at my window and I lowered it. He stuck
his thick hand through.
“Wait a second,” I told him, then pulled off my battered sweatshirt and
pushed it out. He nodded his appreciation and slipped it on, pulling
the hood up and the drawstrings tight, arranging it over the ragged top
of the now-pants. Then he extended his hand again. We held each
other’s gaze and hand for several seconds.
“The best to you, brother,” Javier said.
“Thank you, Javier.”
He shuffled quickly away and vanished around one of the softly idling RVs.
For several minutes, I sat quietly. A few rays of sun escaped the
cloud cover and danced on my windshield and my brow. Around me the
little town was coming to life; I heard the rattle of a train of
shopping carts in the parking lot behind me. An old woman and a small
child appeared on the sidewalk holding hands, the child talking, the
woman leaning downward, listening. A station wagon pulled in a few
feet away. The driver pushed his baseball cap down over his eyes and
reclined the seat, disappearing in rest. I started my truck and eased
it into gear. Guilt, like lead in my gut, seemed to be slipping away.
And the first bubbles of hope and a new, nervous, good kind of fear
were rising through me. I could see Rachel stomping around the
apartment, raising storms of dust motes, throwing pitches of my
belongings into paper bags. Frenzied, she would strip away every trace
of me that she could by tomorrow. And then she would believe that she
hated me for a long time—maybe forever. I looked forward to when I
would hold her sweetly and tightly in the back of my mind.
The underdog sunrays had carried out a true rebellion against the
gray and the glare was harsh. But as I climbed the eastbound onramp,
driving directly into it, I felt grateful.