Doing a 360 on Route 66
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One mild one only.
Description: The desert is a lonely place.
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My son, may you be happier than your father. – Sophocles
We stand on a strip of steaming asphalt a mile east of Barstow, California. Our thumbs are extended in growing desperation. The desert wind batters our sun-seared skin, as do the dusty contrails caused by the cars streaming by us at high speeds. My dad rages at our situation, cursing our bad luck.
“These jerks don’t give a damn about a family trying to get a ride. We could die out here in this God forsaken hole, for all they care.”
Same old stuff . . . Heard it all before, I think. We’ve been on the road ever since my mom left because of my dad’s drinking. He’s not as angry when he’s drunk though. Sometimes he cries.
A dust devil swirls across the railroad tracks only yards from where we stand and wraps us in its flailing arms.
“Goddamn life!” spits my dad, desperately attempting to restore his wispy hair to its previously slicked back position.
“That was just like a tornado, Dad,” I say.
“No it wasn’t,” he mumbles, gloomily.
“Yes it was,” I insist. “Bet we’re going to get hit by another. The next one will probably be bigger, too.”
“Oh, pipe down, will you, Mick? Jesus! Blab, blab, blab . . . that’s all you do.”
Another car roars by without even slowing down to check us out.
“See!” growls my dad. “You can’t put your faith in people. They’ll let you down every time.”
I say I know that, half believing my words.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” he shouts at a passing 18-wheeler, whose powerful back draft nearly knocks us over.
My dad removes his upper plate and hacks up a huge glob of brown phlegm.
“Wow, you got mud in your lungs, Dad,” I say, as much to goad him as to direct his attention to the sad state of his lungs from smoking two packs of Camels a day.
“Be quiet!” he rips. “I don’t need to hear that crap. Things are bad enough without you gabbing on and on.”
Another whole hour drags by with seven cars failing to stop and offer us salvation. I’m keeping count. Not much else to do.
“That makes 24 cars that haven’t picked us up since we started today,” I declare, in an authoritative tone.
“You’re going to lose count, kiddo,” grumbles my dad, reigniting a half-spent cigarette. “These local yokels are ignorant. They wouldn’t give you the sweat off their balls if you were dying of thirst.”
Just then a pickup truck slides across the gravel to a stop and its driver flags us on. My dad grabs our canvas bag and we dash in its direction.
“I knew we’d get a ride eventually,” he proclaims, grinning as we approach our waiting ride.
“How you guys doing?’ inquires our rescuer from behind the wheel of his decrepit vehicle.
“Couldn’t be better!” gushes my dad. “Couldn’t be better!”
Swearwords: One mild one only.
Description: The desert is a lonely place.
_____________________________________________________________________
My son, may you be happier than your father. – Sophocles
We stand on a strip of steaming asphalt a mile east of Barstow, California. Our thumbs are extended in growing desperation. The desert wind batters our sun-seared skin, as do the dusty contrails caused by the cars streaming by us at high speeds. My dad rages at our situation, cursing our bad luck.
“These jerks don’t give a damn about a family trying to get a ride. We could die out here in this God forsaken hole, for all they care.”
Same old stuff . . . Heard it all before, I think. We’ve been on the road ever since my mom left because of my dad’s drinking. He’s not as angry when he’s drunk though. Sometimes he cries.
A dust devil swirls across the railroad tracks only yards from where we stand and wraps us in its flailing arms.
“Goddamn life!” spits my dad, desperately attempting to restore his wispy hair to its previously slicked back position.
“That was just like a tornado, Dad,” I say.
“No it wasn’t,” he mumbles, gloomily.
“Yes it was,” I insist. “Bet we’re going to get hit by another. The next one will probably be bigger, too.”
“Oh, pipe down, will you, Mick? Jesus! Blab, blab, blab . . . that’s all you do.”
Another car roars by without even slowing down to check us out.
“See!” growls my dad. “You can’t put your faith in people. They’ll let you down every time.”
I say I know that, half believing my words.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” he shouts at a passing 18-wheeler, whose powerful back draft nearly knocks us over.
My dad removes his upper plate and hacks up a huge glob of brown phlegm.
“Wow, you got mud in your lungs, Dad,” I say, as much to goad him as to direct his attention to the sad state of his lungs from smoking two packs of Camels a day.
“Be quiet!” he rips. “I don’t need to hear that crap. Things are bad enough without you gabbing on and on.”
Another whole hour drags by with seven cars failing to stop and offer us salvation. I’m keeping count. Not much else to do.
“That makes 24 cars that haven’t picked us up since we started today,” I declare, in an authoritative tone.
“You’re going to lose count, kiddo,” grumbles my dad, reigniting a half-spent cigarette. “These local yokels are ignorant. They wouldn’t give you the sweat off their balls if you were dying of thirst.”
Just then a pickup truck slides across the gravel to a stop and its driver flags us on. My dad grabs our canvas bag and we dash in its direction.
“I knew we’d get a ride eventually,” he proclaims, grinning as we approach our waiting ride.
“How you guys doing?’ inquires our rescuer from behind the wheel of his decrepit vehicle.
“Couldn’t be better!” gushes my dad. “Couldn’t be better!”
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com