A metallic screech drowns out Janet Jackson, so I pull over to the left side of the highway, turn off the engine, and pop the hood. Smoke billows out. I stare at the parts, hoping the problem will somehow make itself known, that maybe divine intervention will send me a signal. Technically, I am more superstitious than religious (thanks to my Vietnamese American upbringing), and yet I find myself expecting a miracle. So I wait. Maybe a beam of light will shine directly on the engine part. I will hear voices. My body will take over, my hands fixing the problem so that I can get home.
No such thing happens.
I curse myself for going on this trip. It is 1998 and the most popular form of technology is a pager; I don’t have one, nor do I have any money. I look around me: Highway 99. Fields. Open space. Grass. Dirt. Sky.
On the right side of the highway some guy on a tractor plows some land—I don’t know what for, what kind, or why. For a moment, I think about crossing the highway to flag him down, but what will I say? What do I expect him to do? Give me a lift on his tractor?
A highway patrol car heads towards me. Expecting the officer to pull up right behind me, I walk to the rear of my RX-7 and prepare myself for the conversation I am sure will go something like this:
“What seems to be the problem, Miss?” He asks, taking off his sunglasses, revealing eyes the color of honeydew melons.
“Officer, I’m so glad you showed up.” I say. The wind will kick up. In slow motion, I will tilt my head back, shaking dark locks of hair away from my face, exposing my long neck. My almond-shaped eyes are wide with innocence. “My car. I was just driving. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice deep, resonant, full of concern. “I’ll take a look. Get you on your way in no time.”
He’ll be single. Blond. Gorgeous. “I’ll find a way to get you home,” he’ll say, green eyes flashing, his golden locks shimmering with sunlight and promise, “even if I have to drive you there myself.”
But it doesn’t happen like this.
The patrol car drives right passed me. The officer doesn’t even look in my direction. I am stunned, speechless.
I scurry back into my car. “Okay, okay,” I say. “Pull yourself together.” But I can’t. I stare long and hard at the brand new laptop on the passenger seat and think about how I used all of my financial aid to buy it.
A deep rumbling grows louder and louder until it surrounds me. I close my eyes, shaking my head. I wait for the bolt of lighting to strike me down. The rumbling stops. I opened my eyes. In my rearview mirror is a white truck. It is large and dirty, like a construction truck, built for hauling equipment. A man gets out. He is thin, average height. He takes his time as he ambles towards my car. I stare in disbelief: The handlebar mustache is thick above his lip and descends to perfect points on each side of his mouth. His jeans are plastered with mud and his shirt looks as old as I am. He wears a bluish-grey baseball cap over hair in desperate need of a trim. Frantically, I try preparing some sort of speech. “Hi. Thanks for stopping. My boyfriend will be right back.” I come up with nothing. I am stranded, in need of help, but he certainly is not what I had in mind.
He walks right past my door to the front of the car. “What happened?” he shouts. The hood of my car blocks him from view, so I roll my window down about an inch. “It started to smoke!” I shout. “So I pulled over!”
“You been out here long?”
“Since about one o’clock!” After a minute, I get out of my car but keep the driver’s door between us.
“So,” he says, “not too long.” He glances at me, tugs at an engine part. “You’re lucky.”
I look at my watch. 1:15PM. It feels like an eternity, but as he says, I am lucky. In no time, I’ll be crunching on eggrolls while telling this short-lived story to my parents, “And the highway patrolman didn’t even stop.” They’ll shake their heads. My father will say, “Well, you’re safe now and that’s the important thing here.” My mom will stroke my hair, pat my back, put another eggroll on my plate. Later, before I go dancing, she will give me money. “You take,” she will say, “in case.”
“When’s the last time you checked the oil?”
“Oil? I’m not sure. It’s been a while.”
He looks at me but says nothing. I know that look. My father, a retired EQCM Seabee Construction Mechanic, gives me that look every time I am irresponsible with the car. “This looks bad,” the man says. “You’ll need to have it towed.”
My heart sinks into my stomach. I whine, “What do you mean?”
“You got no oil. Car like this don’t have oil, it ruins the engine. If the engine’s ruined, the car won’t run.”
“Oh,” I say.
A big rig zooms by. “Do you have AAA?!” he shouts.
“No.” A blast of wind blows my hair around, turning it into a tumbleweed.
“No?”
I pull strands of hair out of my mouth. “No,” I say. It’s probably wrong on my part to admit this to a stranger, but given the circumstances, I’m not thinking clearly.
“Is there someone you can call?”
“Yes.” I think of Mario, my ex-fiancé. He has money, a reliable car, and is constantly baling me out of trouble. Never mind that he lives in Ventura, that it will take him at least two hours to get to me. He is familiar and safe.
“Okay. There’s a gas station about a mile back. I’ll take you there. You can make a phone call. Get what you need from your car. I have a friend in Frazier Park. Name’s Tony. He’s an auto mechanic. He’ll tow it for you.” Without another word, he starts walking back to his truck.
I feel numb. Holding onto the driver’s door, I stare into my ruined car engine. In my mind, I flash back to first grade where I learned basic survival lessons from Patch the Pony: “Nay, Nay from strangers stay away,” he’d chanted. I memorized this mantra, held it close to my heart, understanding even at age six, how important this message was. And still, faced with my current situation, I ignore this life lesson. As far as I can see, if I want to get home to my parents I have only one choice, and this man is it. So I close the hood of my car, leaving behind everything I know to be logical and safe, grab my purse, duffel bag, and laptop, and get into his truck.
“I’ll take you to the Texaco about a mile back. You can call from there.”
“Okay,” I say. I don’t remember passing a gas station, much less noticing it was a Texaco. But now things are different. I look all around me. We head north on the 99 and I notice an exit called, “Bear Mountain Road,” I see my car stranded on the other side of the highway. I make a mental note of that exit, just in case. I’m not sure in case of what, because I am trying not to think of the possible bad scenarios. All I know is the landscape seems more important than anything right now, and I feel the need to take note of it. I think, Just get me to the Texaco. Then, like a devout believer I silently pray, “Just let there be a Texaco.”
The man looks at me briefly, then back at the road. “My name is Christopher, by the way. Call me Chris.”
“Lucille,” I say, wondering if I should’ve given a fake name. My left arm clutches the laptop to my chest; my right hand grips the door handle, just in case I need to make a quick getaway. If I need to leap out, I’ll just use the laptop to break my fall. I imagine myself landing perfectly onto the laptop, the crunching of gravel beneath me as I roll gracefully, safely into the bushes.
“You a writer?” he asks.
“Trying to be,” I mumble.
He snorts out a laugh. “Maybe someday you’ll write about this.”
I don’t think this is funny.
He laughs again. “Hey, the next time you break down, do yourself a favor. Pull over to the right side, not the left. You’re liable to get yourself killed.” He looks me up and down. I realize with horror that his baseball cap has the word, “Outlaw” printed in big, bold, white letters across the top. I think about the camera in my purse— proof if anything happens to me. I hug the laptop even tighter and smash myself against the passenger door. I want to be as far away from him as possible.
He clears his throat. “Reason why I picked you up is because I have a daughter about your age. What are you? Early twenties?”
“Twenty-six,” I say. As we pass cars, I make eye contact with the drivers and wonder if I look as terrified as I feel. I think about psyching out Chris, acting like I’m not really scared. Maybe I can intimidate him. But I am 5’ 2,’’ 126 pounds, wearing an apple green Gap shirt, Old Navy jeans, black chunky-heeled shoes from Macys, and clutching a laptop. The last thing I feel is intimidating. Instead I look out the window and wonder why I didn’t think to put oil in my car.
“A lot of bad things can happen out here to a young girl like you.” He pauses. “I hope that if my daughter broke down, someone would be kind enough to help her out. That’s why I’m helping you.”
I look at him, but he stays focused on the road. Is this guy serious? I study the crinkles around his eyes, the grey hairs in his mustache and around his hairline. I have no reason to believe him, but as we pull into the Texaco, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He parks the car. “You got a calling card?”
I look at my laptop. “No.”
“Any money?”
I consider lying. “Yes, of course I’ve got money.” But then what? What would I do? Where would I go? Instead, I shake my head and say, “No.” I get out of the car and he follows.
He walks over to me and pulls out his wallet. “Here,” he says, “Use my calling card. I’ll call my friend and have your car towed. No charge.”
I take his card, mumbling an embarrassed, “Thanks.” Except for the cashier, it’s empty inside Texaco. “Payphone?” I ask. The cashier points to the back and I see the payphone next to the bathroom. I am relieved to know that my experience will soon end. After I page Mario, he’ll immediately call back. I’ll tell him what happened, and he’ll come get me. I’ll be in Oxnard by six o’clock at the latest.
I page Mario six times in a row but get no response. I go outside, back to the truck.
I scratch my arm and look at the ground. “He isn’t calling back.” I hear the fear in my own voice, the high pitched whine, the shaky uncertainty of never ever getting home.
“Wait a few minutes and call him again. If nothing happens, we’ll think of something else.”
I nod. I go inside the Texaco and call again. Nothing. I turn around. Chris comes towards me.
“Any luck?” he asks.
“No.”
“Page him again.”
With shaky hands, I punch in the number to Mario’s pager, punch in Chris’s number, then hang up. Chris and I wait together. I stare at the phone, will it to ring. I imagine how quickly I’d pick up the receiver and yell, “Come and get me!” Mario will know it’s me, will know I am in danger. Without a word, he’ll drop everything and be on his way.
The phone never rings. My voice breaks as I hand back the calling card. “I just want to get back to Fresno. I don’t care about making it to Oxnard.” I start to cry and I hate myself for it. I imagine my mother shaking her head at me. In the Vietnamese culture, crying is a sure sign of weakness.
Chris puts his hand on my back and leads me outside. “Is there anyone else you can call?”
I avoid eye contact. “No,” I say. The logical thing would be to call my parents, but I am too humiliated. I don’t want to explain to them that I’ve neglected to put oil in the car. Again. After I broke up with Mario, I knew they worried about me. I’ve been living on my own for the past year, making $844.00 a month, and it was important to me to appear responsible, even if I wasn’t. They were the last people I wanted to call. I wouldn’t even know where or how to begin.
Chris doesn’t question me. Instead, he says, “You’re halfway there, so here’s what we’ll do. I’ll call my friend, Tony. He’ll send a tow truck. We’ll drive back to your car and then we’ll follow it to his garage and see what he can do.”
I nod, realizing I have no other choice. We get back into his truck and head out to my car. I remain quiet and sullen. When he stops the truck, I don’t move.
“Staying here?” he asks.
I nod.
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll talk to the tow truck driver. Be right back.”
I watch Chris smile as he shakes the other man’s hand. He points at me and then at my car. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I see the other man laugh and nod. I think of fourth grade and how I forged my mom’s signature on a math test I’d failed. I was an excellent student but I couldn’t face my mother’s disappointment when she saw that grade. My teacher confronted me. I confessed, sobbing uncontrollably. During lunch that day, I watched my teacher laugh and talk with the other teachers. Every once in a while I saw her look in my direction. She’d turn back to her colleagues, say something, and they’d all start laughing. I was sure they were talking about me. I was sure they all knew what I had done. I watch Chris help the driver hook up my car and I feel that same sense of shame. I look away, at the open space of land and sky and wait for Chris to return.
He is in good spirits when he gets in. “You ready?” he asks, adjusting his baseball cap.
I nod. “Thank you for helping me,” I say, feeling like a child.
Along the way to Frazier Park, Chris points out different buildings on the I-5. “See that? I built those. My construction company is responsible for those. Most of the stuff you see along here, I built.”
They are business buildings. Some are long, single-level warehouses while others are tall multi-level corporate buildings. Further down the highway are signs promising future models. I am really impressed. “You did that?” I ask, but what I think is, Thank God you came along when you did. I am aware that this man happens to have all the means I need to get me where I need to be. In any other situation, we would’ve never met. He is out in the real world: working, building and creating. He is successful and responsible for others. My world is a safe haven of concepts, books, writing workshops, friends, and parties. As a student I am responsible only for myself. My father often asks me, “When are you gonna get out of that ivory tower and start livin’ in the real world?” Every time my answer is the same, “Never.” I believe that as long as I stay in school, I am in control. Why on earth would I want to live in the real world? To me, it is unknown territory and therefore dangerous.
“Here we go,” says Chris, taking the Frazier Mountain Park Road Exit. He turns right on Mt. Pinos Way. Behind me is the freeway leading home. Up ahead, I see a lone auto garage surrounded by a few cars. It looks like a lonely place to be. I hope that somehow Chris is wrong about my car and that Tony will magically twist something here, tighten something there, and I will be on the road. After all, Chris said I was lucky. But Tony takes one look at my car and grimly shakes his head. “This engine’s shot.” With a grease-stained finger, he points at what looked like a fan, “Rotary engines are tricky. Take good care of ‘em, they’ll treat you right for a long time. Don’t put oil in ‘em on a regular basis, you’ll burn out the motor. Looks like you’ll need a new one.”
Both men stare at me. I look at my shoes, as if they hold the answer. I think about the new outfit I bought for this trip, the laptop I purchased, the dinner with my friend, Elizabeth. And now I think about the new motor I need and the money I don’t have to pay for it. “I’ll tell my dad,” I say. “He’s a mechanic. He can fix it.”
“No problem,” says Tony. “The car can stay here until he gets it.”
I make eye contact and he sees the gratitude on my face. Or maybe I just look unbelievably pathetic. I smile weakly. “Thank you,” I say, grateful for his kindness. Tony smacks Chris on the back and says, “Talk soon.” I smile, look at Chris, and wait for the next part of the plan. I pray that my luck holds.
He looks at his watch. “I’m playing in a baseball game down in Santa Clarita this evening. Can someone meet you at the ballpark if I take you there?”
“Really?” I ask, not quite believing but also not willing to question my luck. “Santa Clarita is only about forty-five minutes from my parent’s house.”
“Great,” he says. He looks at me for a moment and says softly, “You’ll need to come with me to my place. But don’t worry. My ex-wife is meeting me there because she’s going with me to the game.”
“Where do you live?” I hear the fear creeping back into my voice.
“I live up in the mountains. It’ll take about a half hour. But my ex-wife will be there.”
The mountains. In my mind’s eye I imagine freezing temperatures, endless trees, no clear paths, no sign of city life. When I was eleven years old, my family and I moved to California from Mississippi. We drove the entire way. The further west we headed, the more mountains we encountered. The sheer size of them terrified me and whenever we passed through them, I closed my eyes because I felt like I was being swallowed. But you’re not eleven anymore. I push my fear aside and look Chris in the eyes. Nodding my head, I say, “Okay.”
In the truck, I am nervous again. I look out the window. The landscape is lovely against the sunset. Pink streaks contrasted rows and rows of dark trees. I tried not to think about what would happen if I were left out there. Fortunately, Chris interrupts my thoughts.
“I still love her, y’know, and technically we’re separated, not divorced. She’s going through a tough time with menopause so I’m trying to give her some space. I’m hoping it’ll all work out.”
I don’t know why he’s telling me something so weirdly personal. I assume it’s his way of reassuring me that there is indeed a wife and he does love her and that she is going to be at the house. Maybe he feels the need to tell someone about his situation because it’s important to him, and who better to tell then a stranger? I stay quiet and let him talk. As he drives, the surroundings change. The road becomes narrow and curvy. The trees are dense, and I imagine total darkness within those trees, nothing but animal sounds I can’t identify.
Despite the fact that Chris has done no harm to me, I clench my jaws, hold my breath; I know I won’t fully exhale until I see his wife. My arms are crossed over my chest, but I don’t realize it until I hear Chris say, “Cold?” I shake my head no, but he turns the heater on anyway. I tell myself, “I’ll feel better when I see her.” Just to have another person around, a female, will help calm me.
We pull off the highway onto an even more deserted road. It is completely dark and if there are any street signs, I can’t read them. He drives slowly, avoiding deep potholes that bounce us around like turbulence. He turns left into a clearing and stops in front of a large log cabin house, surrounded by forest. There’s one dim light in a front room window but the rest of the house is lost in shadow.
Chris points to a Ford Explorer and shouts, “There she is!” He says it with such love and validation that I laugh as I get out of the car.
A lovely petite redhead approaches me. She smiles. “I’m Janine and you must be another stray.” She looks at Chris, my outfit, and then raises an eyebrow. “Let’s get you inside.
“Okay,” I say, laughing. The relief in my voice is obvious.
The living room is warm and inviting. There are pictures on the walls and tables and bookshelves of various friends and family. A couch and recliner are covered in pillows and comfortable looking blankets and quilts. Tiffany lamps emit a soft glow. I smile, feeling like myself again.
While Chris changes for his game, Janine feeds me. “How does lasagna sound?” she asks.
“Great,” I say.
“It’s leftover from last night. Is that okay?”
“It’s fine.” I ask to use the phone. Janine points to the one on the coffee table. I sit on the couch and page Mario. The phone rings instantly. He tells me that he’s tried several times to call but couldn’t get through. I believe him, explain what happened and apologize for making him worry. I ask him to meet me at the ballpark. He agrees. I hang up, feeling extremely lucky.
“Here’s a glass of white zin.” Janine looks me in the eye, “You could probably use one.”
I take it from her and we laugh together.
“Eat, drink, and then call your parents.” She shakes a finger at me. “They’re probably worried sick.”
I nod. “I will. Thank you for everything.”
Janine sits in the recliner next to me. “Chris picks up strays all the time. You’re lucky he came along when he did.”
Her words hang in the air. I look at her. She doesn’t say what could’ve happened. Instead, she takes my empty plate and glass from me and says, “Now call your parents.”
I call my parents and explain that my car is at an auto shop in Frazier Park, and that a nice man and his wife helped me. I am at their house, finishing up dinner. They will take me to Santa Clarita where Mario will pick me up. My mom informs me that Mario is on his way to their place. She is silent, waiting for me to explain why he was the one who called them.
I don’t respond.
She sighs and says. “I make barbeque chicken. You still hungry? I tell Mario bring you some.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You sure? I make potato salad, too.”
“I’m sure.” I smile. “I’ll have some when I get home.”
Chris comes out, wearing his baseball jersey. He looks at me. “What’s wrong?”
Slack-jawed, I point at his uniform. “Your jersey number is thirteen. That’s my birthday.”
He grins, looks from me to Janine, and shrugs his shoulders.
We pile into Janine’s car and head to our final destination. I sit in the back, feeling giddy and alive. I want to sing along to the radio, just to celebrate the sound of my own voice. I watch the mountains lining our path, the I-5 freeway taking me closer to home. I think about what could’ve happened to me but didn’t. As I snuggle into the warmth and comfort of Janine’s backseat, listening to their voices drift around me, talking of everyday things, familiar and safe, I know that they saved me.
The ballpark lights are bright as we pull into the parking lot. Mario’s red Mustang is there, waiting. Even before Chris turns off the ignition, he approaches us. His face is tight with worry and relief as I introduce him to Chris and Janine. He shakes their hands, thanks them, and takes my duffel bag and laptop. I tell him to go on, that I’ll be with him in a moment. I remember the camera in my purse and know this is the last time I’ll see Chris and Janine. I hold up the camera. “Can I?” They smile with understanding. “Wait,” Chris says, “let me give you this.” He pulls out his wallet and hands me his business card. The crinkles around his eyes deepen as he smiles. “Just in case.”
It is a simple business card. White paper with black lettering that read: ATKINS CONSTRUCTION CO. Contractor-New Construction-Carpenter--“Manifesting Your Dreams Through Custom Building and Remodeling” Chris Atkins--Remodeling Specialist. I laugh out loud. Remodeling specialist.
I thank them, hugging each one hard. I hold up the camera. “Ready?” I say. They nod, smiling broadly. Chris throws his arm around Janine, hugging her close. I snap the picture. For proof.
Lucille Sutton’s most recent work can be found online at snreview.org, prickofthespindle.com, and JMWW.150m.com. She is a two-time SLS Writing Contest finalist, receiving fellowships to attend writing workshops in Russia and Kenya.
Since the experience of St. Christopher, Lucille does not travel without a cell phone, debit card, or AAA Plus Member card. In addition to teaching Fresno State students about literature, creative writing, and composition, she offers them well-meaning (though unsolicited) advice about being responsible in the hopes that they will make better life choices. But when mistakes are made, she tries her best to be sympathetic, and then asks permission to use their experiences in a short story.