The Drive(Jeremy McCool) The sun was high above the western horizon, beating obstinately on the small gray Saturn Ion as it pummeled west down the two-lane desert highway. Dozens of miles of yuccas and sage flew by the windows, large rocky mesas in the distance the closest source of shade. Dean had clocked the call boxes. They were exactly two miles apart out here. If he broke down, he would not have to walk more than a mile. There was no cell reception except in spurts around the small towns that appeared every thirty miles or so and then disappeared before anyone noticed. That’s good, he thought. Very good. His legs shuddered mildly. His right ankle was pressed tightly against the poorly placed slope of the dash, he could feel the sweat oozing through his jeans where the two met, stagnant moisture with no outlet. His cramped legs were beginning to shake. This was only the beginning, he knew. Fifty-four miles still to go.

He shifted his position in the seat as much as he could, freeing his damp right leg from the dash and pushing his left leg uncomfortably against the hard plastic outcropping that someone thought would make a good door handle. Aching pulsations took over his right leg as the blood began to flow again to his foot. It had been twenty minutes or so since the last switch. He wedged his knee under the steering wheel and reached forward to turn up the air conditioner. The car drifted left slightly and he felt the thwump thwump thwump of center line reflectors under his tires. The air came out of the vents faster now, with more intensity, blowing his hair. He felt the frigid plastic as he adjusted the rotating vent to unleash winter on his sweat-beaded face.

The thermometer on the dash read 108º Fahrenheit. As the bumps of the center reflectors finally registered for what they were, he quickly moved his hands to the steering wheel and pulled back into his lane. His heart was racing, beating somewhat irregularly. Dee-doo dee-doo dee-doo-doo doo-dee. The sweat began to drip down his hairline. His back was drenched, his coarse polyester polo work shirt clinging to his body like sand-paper lined trash bags. He had noticed the temperature in the vehicle rising. He reached forward and twisted the knob. Resistance.

“Ahhhhh,” he moaned. The air conditioner was up as high as it would go. He twisted the knob anyway and stopped when its plastic bowels began to give. He could feel every contour of the driver-side door on his left foreleg. It was rugged and painful. A chill ran through his left foot as the blood stopped circulating there. Soon he would have to switch again. He felt a wave of nausea coming on. He started breathing more heavily. Outside, the highway rounded a curve and headed into a vast dry lake bed. The shrubs and yuccas had vanished. There was nothing but dry, cracked dirt for miles in three directions, crisscrossed with tire tracks. His eyes began to spot. How would she take it, he thought? He lifted his hand, feeling the dead hot weight of it as it moved toward his face. He drew the tip of his thumb along the hairs of his moustache toward his nose, feeling the bristle like steel wool. He gripped a hair between his thumb and forefinger and pulled, hard. A jolt of lightning went through his body as the hair follicles ripped from the tender skin of his upper lip. He looked down at his thumb. There were four, each black hair tapering off into a white pulpy substance. He was doing it again.

“Damn,” he said. He wiped the hairs off his thumb onto the passenger seat and then repeated the procedure. He looked up at the rearview mirror, feeling the familiar thwumps as the car began to stray. He examined his lip. The right side of his moustache had a hole near the top of it. He had pulled too many hairs in the same spot and now there was a red irritated hole. It burned slightly. He touched it with the tip of his thumb and it was moist. She would see it and know something was wrong. He would just tell her, he decided. Point blank. They had always known it was too good to be true. He pulled the car back into his lane just as he heard four loud horn blasts that trailed off behind him as the approaching vehicle passed. He realized he’d been holding his breath and let it out. But they didn’t talk like that. They never had. His left arm, which had been resting on the rounded windowsill which was positioned above his shoulder level, was dead and useless. He removed it from the windowsill and it flopped to his side, feeling like cold meat. His legs were shaking more now.

The terrain was changing. The car went up a steep hill, out of the lake bed, and Joshua trees were littered about in bizarre patterns, moth patterns. The late sun filtering through their spiky death heads was casting sinister shadows on the desert floor. Would she leave? Would she take Amanda? She couldn’t. He wouldn’t let her. The sign that said he was entering Johnson Valley was not accompanied by any real proof. A dozen houses and a Calvary Chapel, along with some OHV trails off to the north. And two bars. That’s all it took. His cell phone beeped. He picked it up nervously, as if handling a dangerous beast, like a Mojave green or a scorpion. He examined it and a drop of sweat dripped onto the screen from his forehead. It was from her. He opened the message. “We need milk” Innocent. She had no idea. Maybe he shouldn’t tell her at all. Just let the sheriff come. It wouldn’t be for months anyway, years maybe. They could stay. But she would know. She would see his lip, and she would know. He nimbly tapped the word “Yep” and pressed send, but it would not send. He was already out of Johnson Valley.

A sign flew by, announcing the presence of Lucerne Valley, 24 miles out. He reached down and picked up the McDonald’s cup off of the cup-holder. It had been too large to fit inside the holder and he had balanced it precariously on the sloping piece of plastic going down to the emergency brake handle. He put the straw in his mouth. It scraped against his rough, dry tongue. He sucked from his stomach. Nothing came. The cup was growing warm, even the ice was gone. It made sense. The air conditioner did not work like it used to. I need to get that recharged, he thought. But he knew that he never would. The thermometer reading was at 112º now. Sweat was beginning to pour from his hair and stream into his eyes. He wiped them with his hairy forearm. She would freak out. She was insecure. He shifted his legs again, putting the pressure back on his right, accidentally knocking the brake pedal. The car made a loud whining sound and shuddered and began to slow down quickly. He hastily pressed the cruise control button on the steering wheel and the car began to accelerate again. The button was hot and slippery. Even the plastic was sweating. He liked the cruise control. They had bought the car the day they were married, and he had insisted on cruise control.

He dreamed of home, the home he dreamed of, the home back east. His daughter, lying on the hammock, thumbing through a Richard Scarry book, trying to identify all of the animals. His wife meeting him at the door with a giant glass of iced tea and a lustrous kiss, pressing her body against his. It was sweet tea. The misters spraying down on the back of his neck. Charlie horse. His left leg cramped violently and he felt it in his head. He gritted his teeth against the pain and they gnashed together, like chewing on sand. A dust devil two hundred feet tall swirled lazily off to his right, as if on a mid-afternoon stroll through the dry lake bed. He massaged his leg with his hand, but it did not help. A minute or two later, as the pain was beginning to subside, a loud ding ding assaulted his ears. The digital panel on the dash flashed the letters “PWR STR” in dull green blips. He felt the steering wheel seize. He was used to this. He actually drove better when the power steering was out. It was only a nuisance when turning sharply at low speeds. He was used to the resistance. He wouldn’t tell her. He’d decided. He would look for a job out of state and they would move before she found out. He would give the bank a forwarding address so she wouldn’t see the mail. He would never tell her. Back east someplace where things are green. Not dead and dry like here.

He watched the sun creeping farther toward the west, his eyes being slowly blinded by the shimmering taupe universe outside. He pulled the wiper wand back and a lacking squirt of blue fluid fanned itself out onto the windshield. The wipers scraped noisily across the pocked and riveted glass, smearing fluid and the creamy viscera of black flies all around, leaving streaks the size of Dean’s hand. Back east, he thought. He had passed the first homestead house on the edge of Lucerne Valley. His legs were now shaking mildly, but uncontrollably. The steering wheel was locked up. He was driving due west. Only twenty miles to go.

---