September 04: Passers By

I sat down to write this story with less than two hours to go before my self-imposed deadline. I'm posting it with less than twenty minutes before the aforementioned deadline. I had a couple of false starts, but then this story started to build itself up out of the words as I formed them on the page. This feels like I could definitely flesh this out later into a bigger story, but for now enjoy today's short:

Passers By

I never pick up hitchhikers. I’ve seen too many late night movies and read too many Stephen King novels to trust anyone thumbing a ride alongside a deserted highway. It’s easier to pass them by if they look like the stereotypical hitchhiker: unkempt, road weary, dangerous. These are the guys who I figure are most likely to pull a gun or knife then force me to pull over to the side of the road where they’ll steal my money, my clothes and my car.

It’s the pretty girl hitchhikers that are hard to pass by, but they are even more dangerous. They’ll seduce you, leading you to believe you’re living out your own personal “Penthouse Letters” right before they steal your money, your clothes, your car and your dignity.

I don’t know what made me pull over that afternoon. I was heading home from work and had taken a slightly different, more rural route in order to avoid traffic. I was on a particularly long stretch of straightaway on which you can see for a couple miles, so I spotted her in the distance a couple minutes before I would pass her. I had already determined that I would keep on driving as per usual, when it started raining.

This was an unusual sudden microburst that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. By the time I actually reached the girl, she was absolutely soaked. I slowed down to avoid splashing her, though there was no way she could get any wetter. I glanced out the passenger window as I passed her by and she turned to look right at me.

Perhaps there was something forlorn in her gaze as she watched my pass, or perhaps there was a resigned defeat, but whatever it was, it was as if she were gazing right into my soul. Before I even knew what I was doing I had pulled my truck over to the side of the road. I watched as she jogged the twenty yards to the truck. She was dressed in torn jeans, black Converse, and was draped in an over-sized Army jacket. She had a canvas messenger bag slung over her shoulder and held it to her side as she ran.

I leaned over and pushed the passenger door open as she came around the side of the truck. She quickly jumped up and pulled the door closed behind her.

“Th-thanks.”

Her voice was soft and quiet, like she was afraid.

“Where you headed?”

“South.”

“I’m going as far as Hastings, about twenty miles south. You can catch probably catch a ride from there.”

I didn’t actually know if that was true or not. Hastings didn’t have a truck stop, bus stop, or anything else beyond a small coffee shop where she might find somebody willing to take her further.

I put the truck back into gear and continued on down the road. We drove for about five minutes in complete silence. I decided to maybe try some small talk.

“So…where you coming fro—.”

“I know your grandfather,” she suddenly blurted out.

“What?” My grandfather had passed away about five years earlier from natural causes. He’d spent five years prior to that living in an adult care home. I didn’t see any way that she could have known him.

“From Tender Care, the old folks home.”

Tender Care was the facility where my grandfather had spent his last few years.

“My…my grandma was a patient there about six years ago. She was pretty far gone and didn’t recognize anyone anymore, but I went once a week for two years just the same. Your grandfather was always in the cafeteria playing checkers by himself, so I started to play with him during my visits.”

“Hold on. How could you possibly know that was my grandfather? I just picked you up hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere and you have know idea who I am.”

“Jack told me all about you, Paul. You’re pretty much all he ever talked about. Well, you and the war. I think that’s why he remembered you so well, because you also were in the Army. He could remember his Army days as if they had just happened.”

“But how could you know it’s my grandfather?”

“You look just like him. And…”

She turned away and looked out the window suddenly. This somehow seemed worse than getting robbed by a stereotypical hitchhiker; this was downright bizarre. I was starting to get a little scared. I slammed on the brakes on the truck skidded to a stop in the middle of the road near a commercial farm.

“Who the hell are you? What is going on?”

“My name is Karen Batterson. Your grandfather Jack sent me to get you because he couldn’t come himself. You’ll understand so much more in just a few minutes. When you see my mother, tell her I’m sorry.”

I leaned over to grab this girl and try to physically shake some sense into her. I had no idea what she was even talking about. As I grabbed her arm, our whole world exploded into a violent kaleidoscope of violence and finality. I never saw the eighteen-wheeler that smashed into my truck at sixty miles an hour. I never saw what happened to the girl, Karen, or even to myself. I had a brief glimpse of my truck, as if seen from a high vantage point, slanted across the intersection where it had skidded to a stop when I slammed on the brakes.

I watched in detached slow motion as the eighteen-wheeler hit the truck and it exploded into a billion shards of metal and plastic that erupted into a fireball as the gas tank exploded. Then everything faded to black.

After what seemed like only a few moments, I found myself sitting in a crowded diner. I had a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. A sign above the counter declared this the “Best Little Diner Outside of Oklahoma City”. A woman in her mid-forties, well-dressed but barely concealing a level of weariness that she carried like a physical burden was standing by the counter looking for a place to sit.

She scanned the diner and found that the only seat available was across from me. Our eyes met and I could see the hesitation, that she would normally not sit across from a stranger in a crowded diner, but she could sense something in my calm gaze. I also saw her true identity flash into my mind as if I had known her since before she was born.

Her name was Sharon Batterson. Her only daughter, Karen, had committed suicide without explanation four years earlier. She had been struggling to cope in her daughter’s absence and the subsequent disintegration of her marriage. And I saw that she was going to die in five minutes from the aneurism that has been lying in wait for three years.

She hesitantly approaches my table and asks, “Is—is anyone sitting here?”

“No. I was saving it for you.”

She laughs a polite but nervous laugh as she sits down. I sip at my cup of coffee and realize that it is the last thing I will taste before I leave this world for good. I take another prolonged sip, savoring the rich, bitter taste.

“Karen wants you to know that she is sorry, Sharon.”

I can see the confusion and even the fear in her eyes as she stops with her sandwich only a few inches from her mouth. I can hear the unasked questions vying for a voice as she struggles to make sense of what I have just told her. There isn’t much time, so I place my hand on hers and grip her fingers in what I hope she takes to be reassurance.

“I met Karen hitchhiking outside of Hastings, Michigan not too long ago and she told me tell you that she is sorry. I know you’re confused, Sharon, but this will all make sense to you in a few minutes.”

I could see the understanding in her eyes at the same moment I could see the aneurism burst. As the light suddenly faded from her eyes, I saw a brilliant flash of white light and I left this world.