The Passenger
by Andy Wilkinson
Copyright 2011 by Andy Wilkinson
The Passenger
State Highway 20 stretched out into the darkness, the trees and cornfields barely visible in the moonlight. The reflective paint marking the sides and center of the narrow road faded in the distance under the high beams of Mark Hampton's headlights. The road was deserted as usual. It seemed no one ever traveled this highway at night. Sometimes Mark thought the Florida State Department of Transportation had constructed it just for him.
How many times had he made this trip: one hundred-fifty, two hundred? He couldn’t remember. The last few years had all run together in seamless repetition. But life is that way when you’re caught up in the routine of living. One day you’re married; the next day you have a son; the next day you’re son’s playing T-ball; the next day you’re divorced and your ex has taken your son to the other side of the world …
“Cut it out! You’re not the self-pitying type,” he said and drove on.
In the rearview mirror his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a red flicker like the tail lights of a car going in the opposite direction. But there had been no traffic. He turned to look directly at the source.
Nothing there.
Maybe just an airplane going by, or the warning light on a tower, he thought, and dismissed it.
Mark had made the four hour round-trip between Panama City Beach and Pensacola four times a month for more than three years. He gladly made this bi-monthly commute so he could stay in tough with his son and be a part of his life. Nothing was more important, and it was a small sacrifice, but it did anger him that his ex had taken Chad so far away. He allowed himself to bitch about that a little, but only a little, and only in private, just let it out and try to forget it. He didn’t want to become bitter. Kids could pick up on that sort of thing, and it would only harm their relationship.
State Highway 20 was in the middle of swamps, cultivated pine woodlands and an occasional farm. It spanned the one hundred mile gap between two fairly civilized towns, and driving it in the middle of the night was a truly lonely experience. In the distance, under the soft moonlight, the road appeared to be swallowed up by the thick woods; arthritic branches reached out forming a creepy canopy. And on the horizon, shadows were deep and foreboding, lying out over the narrow two lanes of pavement. Heaviness settled over Mark Hampton and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. As the last radio station faded out the silence was interrupted only by the droning of the tires against the rough surface of the road. Mark felt a sudden, eerie chill run up his spine and his breathing became labored.
"This is nuts. I need some fresh air," he said, and rolled down the window. He propped his left elbow on top of the door. The cool night air was refreshing on his face and made his eyes tear up. Mark took a deep breath and willed himself to relax, enjoy the ride home. He rolled his head side to side, flexed his back and shoulders, took two more deep breaths and let his body settle into the seat. “Oh, yeah, now we’re talking. No problem here.”
There it was again … that small red light in the rearview mirror. But just as before, no cars, trucks, or any other exterior source for such a light. Now it moved in jerky little motions momentarily glowing more brightly, followed by a strong smell of marijuana. He hadn’t smoked a joint in years nor had he been around anyone who did, but there was no mistaking the aroma; no doubt about it, that was weed.
Christ! He could see the smoke in his mirror, and the coal burning brightly on the end of the joint. It was coming from the back seat! It was inside the car. He turned sharply, cranking his head around to take a look. The right front tire of his Chevy left the road. He jerked it back and maintained control. The back seat was empty, no passenger, no smoke, no red coals. His mind shifted into high gear and goose flesh rose on his arms and neck.
"What the hell …"
He slowed the car a bit, inhaled deeply then exhaled a long sigh. He gambled a quick glance in the mirror.
Nothing there.
"Okay … I’m just a little bit too stressed right now … and a whole lot freaked out." He rolled his window up, then fumbled for the door lock, found it, and clicked it into place.
He drove on in silence and isolation, contemplating the weirdness of what had just happened, wondering how frazzled he might have become over the situation with his son. Love can have deep underlying currents you might not notice until their paths become disturbed by something on the surface. I understood this, he thought, but could it really have had this much affect on me, on my mind, my nerves?
“I know parenting is tough, but geez, listen to me, I’m talking physic-babble to myself. No wonder my old man wasn't any good at it. Dear ol’ Dad. What a piece of work.” Mark hadn't thought of his own father in a long time … weeks, months, maybe.
I should try to remember him more often, he thought. But sometimes it's hard to picture his face or hear his voice, like an image from an old photograph--recognizable but distant and fuzzy, a distorted reflection from the past.
Mark began searching his mind for the earliest memory of his father, turning it into a game now to pass the time and fill up the emptiness of Highway 20. He scrolled backwards through the recollections of himself and his dad together, like little movie clips and sound bites: Mark and Dad at the park; Mark and Dad at the birthday party; Dad showing Mark how to ride a bike, pushing him off and running along beside to catch him if he falls.
His thoughts were interrupted by memories that were not so happy, his mind carried him to a time when his father had changed jobs and was always gone. And his father’s absence couldn’t have happened at a worst time. Mark had just turned seven, old enough to start doing fun stuff with his dad: fishing, tennis, going to movies they both liked.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, came the divorce; devastation piled on top of disappointment and uncertainty. Nothing fosters insecurity for a child more than the separation of parents.
A fresh surge of anger seized him. "But people don't have to get divorced, do they … or stay gone all the time, or …"
Again he drove in silence, trying to concentrate on not being angry. Trying not to think about the pain of being rejected, trying not to think of how much he already missed
Chad. And for chrissake, trying not to think about the weirdness he thought he saw in the mirror.
Mark took a deep breath, and again willed himself to relax, letting his shoulders drop, arms loose, hands resting easily on the steering wheel. He rolled the drivers side window back down, thinking how silly he had been to roll it up in the first place, acting like a child afraid of the dark. A little stressed … okay … no big deal.… Just relax and get a grip. He took another deep breath. "No problem," he said.
The car was suddenly filled with the smell of marijuana smoke. A cold chill danced across Mark’s spine. He looked in the rear view mirror. A man was in the back seat holding a joint between his thumb and forefinger. A red coal burned brightly as smoke trailed off the end of it.
The man had long shaggy hair and a beard, colorful beads, and a medallion displaying a peace sign hung around his neck. He wore a loose smock with bold Flower-Power patches sewn roughly in place, a vision from the past: a hippie, a goddamned hippie.
Mark’s car left the road and went completely out of control, down into a ditch, back up the embankment, across the road into the ditch on the opposite side, rear end fish-tailing wildly until he finally fought it back under submission and came to a complete stop, dead center of Highway 20.
Mark checked the mirror. The hippie was still there. He jerked himself around to get a direct look at the man in the back seat.
Nothing.
He whipped himself back around
and looked in the mirror. The apparition from the sixties was still there. He could see his eyes now, staring at him through little granny glasses.
"JESUS CHRIST!" he said, jerking his eyes back to where Highway 20 faded out into the darkness. "JESUS CHRIST!"
"Nope, Roberts is the name, Troy Roberts," the hippie said, and erupted in hoarse, gravely laughter.
Mark couldn't believe what he was hearing and seeing … a ghost … or something … or was it stress and an overloaded mind. He just stared ahead, hands frozen to the steering wheel.
"Oh man, you need to chill, learn to relax," the hippie said casually. You’re just going to get dead in the end anyway, you know. So enjoy the journey, stress-free, live in the moment and just ride it on out.”
Mark remained frozen to the steering wheel, anything but stress-free.
The hippie continued:
The Passenger Page 1
