FICTION BY ELE PAWELSKI

Ele Pawelski's stories have appeared in McSweeney’s, Little Old Lady Comedy, The Belladonna Comedy, Flash Fiction Magazine and more. Her debut novel was inspired by a true bombing in Afghanistan, and she’s working on a second one about a mother searching for her son as Nazi Germany falls. When she’s not writing, Ele is road tripping in Ontario or adventuring even further away.

Visit her at elepawelski.com and @eleinthecity.

THE HITCHHIKER AND THE DRIVER
by Ele Pawelski

Bright headlights cut across the Hitchhiker’s torso, creating an eerie striped effect that moved as the car moved. He blinked in the glare, his eyes having become accustomed to the evening gloom. Quickly he put out his right thumb and threw a smile onto his face; his attempt to appear friendly.

He’d been angling for a lift for ages. The last three cars had hurled by, adding to the layer of dust he was already wearing. Underfoot, shriveled leaves crunched beneath his soles as he walked. He was walking both to kill time and to feel like he was getting somewhere. He also thought drivers preferred to pick up walkers than standers. But he was tired of the endurance contest. The pick-me-up of the coffee purchased at the gas station had long worn off. His boots were weights on his feet.

He willed the car to stop.

He was thrilled that the power of suggestion worked as the right turn signal flicked on. Roadside gravel sprayed from the tires. He welcomed the pelleting of the small stones as he eagerly clutched the Cadillac’s door handle and poked his head around the frame.

The Driver shoved his comb-over back in place as he leaned over the passenger seat. “Howdy. Get on in.”

His tone was pleasant, engaging even. Someone who sought company. His parted lips showed teeth all jumbled together. Parents either had no money or no interest in braces when he was small. He must be a “poor boy made good” since he drove a Caddy now, even if it wasn’t the latest model.

The driver had on a red lumber jacket, the kind everyone wore in the 80s and now looked retro or outdated, depending on the wearer. In this case, outdated.

“Thanks. It’s been a long while since I was dropped off. Sure grateful you pulled over.”

The Hitchhiker dropped his eyes to the remains of lunch—or more likely dinner—on the passenger seat. The Driver, too, looked down. Abruptly he tossed the cardboard box, crumpled napkins and drink cup over the seat to the floor behind. He swiped a hand down the middle of the vinyl.

“Sorry, I try not to be messy. But it doesn’t always work.” A muted laugh. “I travel a lot. Seem to live out of my car sometimes. But I have everything I need, right here.”

The Hitchhiker tried to see into the back at the growing garbage dump. Dimness made it difficult. Plus, he didn’t want to appear to be peeping. Every man has a right to his space. Yet for some reason, he was hesitant. He paused for a moment to get a closer look.

The Cadillac, like the Driver, was old. Only two doors, big trunk. With the passenger door open, the Hitchhiker was hit with the smell of old sweat and food grease. A couple of fries sagged over the console. The Driver noticed the fries at the same time as him and appeared embarrassed. Speedily, the Driver scooped them into his mouth. Better than throwing them in the back, the Hitchhiker supposed.

The Hitchhiker shed his uneasiness. After all, this was the only car that had stopped for many hours. He climbed into the now-empty front space. With a jolt, the car veered back onto the road.

“It can get fiercely quiet when you’re on the back roads. I drive back roads a lot. Much better than busy highways. You never know if you’ll find someone looking for a lift.”

The Driver gave the Hitchhiker a stare, then grinned. “Whenever I see someone, I always pick them up. After all, they’re just trying to get somewhere and why shouldn’t I help? Unless there’s more than one. Then I don’t always stop. I can’t vouch for the back seat. Don’t really want anyone sitting back there. I remember once, I picked up a young fellow, much like yourself, and he tried to tell me he saw a rat back there. Now, I don’t drive around with rats in my car, I told him. Who would have rats in their car?”

With a sideways glance, the Driver jutted his chin at the Hitchhiker.

“I don’t know. No one I guess.”

“Exactly.” the Driver continued. “I didn’t like that kind of accusation. Especially because he was my guest in my car. That’s what I told him. Guests need to be polite; to be appreciative.”

The Hitchhiker gazed out the window. There were no street lights here in the bush. Clouds covered the stars and the moon was AWOL. The road was one lane in either direction; far off on each side were the ghostly outlines of pine trees. Occasionally, there was an opening with a house or a barn tucked far away from the street. But very occasionally. It was the middle of nowhere. No one knew where they were except for the two of them.

The Hitchhiker strained his ears, listening for squeaking noises in the back. He detested rats.

The Driver spoke. “Where are you headed?”

“North.”

“North?”

“North.”

“Can’t say I’ve picked up anyone going north. Figured you’d be going west. Everyone goes west.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“You realize this highway runs east-west?”

“Sure. I know that,” the Hitchhiker drawled, sucking in his teeth. He knew the roads in this area. Sometimes better than the drivers who picked him up. The Hitchhiker hunched into his seat, his seatbelt pinning him in and biting into his shoulder. He shifted to relieve the pressure. “When you’re hitchhiking, you don’t usually get where you’re going by the quickest route. North, west, I’ll get there eventually.”

He’d thrown his backpack at his feet, and now accidentally kicked it. The top flopped open. He bent down to fasten the snaps. The contents of a man’s bag are for him alone. He wiggled his toes, wished to take off his boots. But he didn’t want to get that comfortable, and surely the Driver wouldn’t want that either.

“You’re travelling pretty light there. Just the backpack?”

The Hitchhiker nodded. Then realized the Driver wouldn’t see that. “Yep, don’t have too much stuff and don’t need too much stuff.” He ran his tongue over his lips. Tasted of grit. He swiped the back of his hand over top. He could use a drink.

“Where do you want dropping off then?”

“How far are you going?”

“Not sure entirely. Earlier I was feeling a bit sleepy, but I opened the windows fully, turned up the music and took care of that. Now I feel like I could drive forever and a day.”

The Hitchhiker appreciated the feeling of being wide-awake, blood cursing through the veins, hearing every little sound as if it was right beside his head. He repositioned his legs, glanced down at his bag, and secured it between his feet. He was glad there wasn’t any music playing. He disliked the kinds of music most everyone else liked. “Mind if I open the window? All your talk has made me keen for a cool breeze.”

That was not especially true. There was a metallic smell in the Cadillac—sort of like the smell of brakes or the clutch wearing down. But wasn’t it, exactly. The smell wasn’t a burning smell but it was certainly foul. The Hitchhiker didn’t want to smell it anymore.

He opened the window halfway.      

“Don’t roll the window down too far; cold out now and the heat not’s working.”

The Hitchhiker wound it back up until it was open about an inch.

Air funneled loudly in. The Hitchhiker raised his hand to feel it go through his fingers. Earlier, when he’d been waiting for this ride, he’d taken off his leather jacket, slung it over his shoulder as he walked. He’d tugged it back on again when the Cadillac stopped. Now though, he was cold. He pulled the zipper as high as it would go. Too tight. He dropped it slightly and closed the window. He curled his fingers into his lap, tapped the tips together.

The silence was thick, like mud in a dwindling river. But the Hitchhiker had nothing to say.

Just then, the Driver snapped open the glove box. It thumped down. The Hitchhiker jumped and swore under his breath. “Hey, give a guy a heads up!”

As he pressed into the seat to avoid the Driver’s arm, the Hitchhiker glimpsed inside the compartment. It was all shadows, but inside something glinted.

Goddammit if that wasn’t a gun.

He bent forward and squinted hard, but the Driver’s hand was in the way. When the Driver was done routing around, all the Hitchhiker could see were papers. He couldn’t think of a reason to open the glove box to check it out. So, he just sat there, thinking of the gun.

“Sorry, wanted to grab some gum. Got a real dry mouth all of a sudden.” The Driver unwrapped a stick, popped it in his mouth and threw the wrapper in the back—the cavernous, black back.

The metallic smell had returned. The Hitchhiker thought to say something, but didn’t. The Hitchhiker didn’t want to know what the smell was. He cracked the window again, not caring about the cold.

The Driver’s gum chewing was as loud as the airstream. The Hitchhiker blocked out the smacking as best he could.

The Driver’s hands were tight on the wheel. The Hitchhiker noticed the chunky silver ring. A signature ring, the kind a student buys to show off long after graduation. Or to remind them of their glory years. It gleamed in a garish sort of way.

“Pretty nice huh? Got it at a pawn shop.” The Driver’s voice held such glee. Quiet. Then smack, smack.

The Hitchhiker kept his eyes at the window, inhaling the air, watching the scenery pass. The moon had finally come out and cast a weak light. There wasn’t much to see, though. The earlier barns and buildings had given way to dense forest that crept quite close to the road at times. He felt almost as though he could touch the branches if he waggled his fingers out the car window.

“I know of a cabin up ahead. I was thinking of stopping for a break before I push on. Driving’s getting to me. Okay by you?”

The Hitchhiker stiffened. He didn’t know of any cabin along this road.

The Driver stuffed the chewed gum into a napkin he retrieved from the back and dropped it into the door pocket. He whistled a short song. The Hitchhiker rolled up the window, gripping the knob.

“That your cabin then?”

“Nope, belongs to a friend. He leaves the key just in case.”

Of course, thought the Hitchhiker. A place to drop in to do whatever.

“What if I say it’s not okay by me?”

There wouldn’t be much choice in the matter—the Hitchhiker was going wherever the Driver was going—but wanted to test it out anyway.

“I’d stop anyway. Gotta use the restroom.”

The Hitchhiker ran through a few scenarios in his head, talking himself out of his disquiet. Could be the truth. The Hitchhiker glanced at the Driver. But if not, the Hitchhiker could hold his own against the older, frumpy man. Minus the gun that was. He thrust his knee against the glove box and made a decision. “It’s okay by me.”

Soon the Driver signaled and turned right into the woods. The dirt track was narrow. Shoots grazed the doors, giving sound to the strain in the Cadillac.

The Driver rode the brakes. There was no cabin that the Hitchhiker could see. In fact, it looked like the path was petering out.

The Hitchhiker’s every nerve-ending buzzed.

Just then, the brush opened up and a tiny building materialized.

So, the cabin was real. Good. The Hitchhiker slouched back into his seat, relaxed his hands that had turned to fists in his lap.

When the car stopped, the Driver turned off the ignition and exited. Instead of going to the cabin, however, he went behind the car and rummaged in the trunk.

The Hitchhiker wound down the window and turned the side mirror inward, trying to eyeball the Driver. The trunk lid was a dark wall.

The Hitchhiker stretched his arm down to the glove box and pressed the button, keeping his eye on the upraised lid. He put up his knee to gently let it down. He leaned forward and stuck his hand in. He almost expected a nibble on his fingers. He felt all around—slowly and carefully so he didn’t dislodge anything. There were only papers. What happened to the gun? He was sure he had seen one. He closed the glove box with his knee.

The Driver put down the trunk.

It was time.

The Hitchhiker reached for his bag, opened it fully and seized the chef’s knife. He’d never felt more alive. He gulped in air and reached for the door handle.

In the open window, a pistol was pointed at the Hitchhiker’s forehead.