All Write, Already!

I thought it might be fun to try writing a serial with recurring characters and situations based on the day-to-day topics made up by the group. This may be a disaster, but I'll give it a go. Unplanned free writing mode... ON!

Desperation. That is what I saw in his eyes - sheer desperation. I don't usually pick up hitch-hikers. Well, no, that is misstating the matter: I never pick up hitch-hikers. Frankly, I am a coward, and the thought of letting a total stranger into my car, invariably in the middle of nowhere, has always terrified me.

Still, there was something different about him. I think there was something about his body language that affected me subconsciously, as he trotted beside the road, jerking his thumb at passing vehicles. Whatever it was, my concern for another person in trouble managed to overpower my far more cosmopolitan self-preservation. I slipped down through the gears, nudged the brake pedal, and stopped beside him.

A glance at his face confirmed it - he was close to panic - but when he saw me pull up the desperation was coloured by relief. For a moment he looked as if he would cry. I thumbed the electric window control down.

"Hey mate," I began, then could not decide how to go on. After a moment of silence I added, "Anything I can do to help?"

He also seemed a bit lost. I suspect he was stunned that somebody had actually stopped for him, and I wondered how long he had been out here in the middle of nowhere, the middle of the afternoon, the middle of summer. With visible effort, he found the words to say. "Help," he said, echoing me. "Yes, need help."

I leaned over and opened the door. "Come on, mate. Get in and tell me what I can do for you." He hesitated for a moment, glanced around (No, there's no queue of cars behind me hoping to be the one to pick you up came a quiet but bitter thought) but finally got in and closed the door.

He smelled of fresh sweat - salty, not unpleasant yet. If he didn't get a shower in the next few hours, though, he would end up pretty ripe. A small selfish part of me hoped his destination was close, but I pushed it away; like most people, I like to think I am a decent human being, and nobody wants to recognise those petty and nasty facets of their nature. Probably out of a moment of guilt, I grabbed my half-full bottle of water from the drink holder and handed it to him.

"Here," I said. He had been staring at his feet, and I startled him somewhat, sloshing the plastic bottle into his field of vision. He took it from me carefully, but did not open it. He just looked at it.

"Thank you," he said in a small, dry voice. "You're very kind." The plastic bottle crackled like twigs and I realised he was squeezing it. Then the tears came. Tremors shook his body, and tears wet the front of his dusty white t-shirt. "Oh Jesus," he sobbed, "what'm I gonna do?"

What was he going to do? God, I was the one with a strange, sweaty, dusty man bawling his eyes out in the passenger seat of my rented car. Come on, Joe, I thought to myself, you're being a prick again. It's a weird situation, but this guy is seriously upset about something. Talk to him, you dumb bastard!

I cleared my throat. "Hey, it's okay. I'll help. Just tell me what's wrong, eh? We can sort it out. You need a lift somewhere? Need a bit of cash? I don't have much on me, but it'll get you a few meals. I could-"

Then he said it. I suppose they were the kind of words I had been dreading from the moment I had depressed the clutch and started slowing down to stop for him. He said the words, and a glacier touched my spine.

"I think she's dead," he sobbed. "Oh Jesus, what'm I gonna do?"

My feet were lead and my head was full of helium. Oh shit, I thought. I think I'm in trouble.