Dandelions: Scenes 1,2 & 4

Ira was crouched on the wet gravel shoulder of the highway, humming, and scribbling on a soggy piece of cardboard, when he heard the heavy chugging of a large vehicle pull up behind him. He leapt up, swiping brown bangs out of his eyes, swung his canvas rucksack to his shoulder, and jogged to the passenger side of a yellow Ford Ranger with a cracked windshield and crooked sideboards. He pulled the steel handle, swung the iron door wide open and climbed up onto the sheepskin covered bench.1

“Howdy,” said a man in the driver’s seat.2

“Hey,” Ira said, shutting the door, the wet sign in his lap and the rucksack between his feet on the mudded floorboard.3

“Where ya headed, boy?”4

“East, to Sangre.”5

Ira glanced around the cab, casually surveying his new driver – he was a tan farmer type, looked like in his mid-thirties, with a sleeveless white shirt and a frayed straw hat; his face was tinted with dust, arms too, right shoulder bearing a large black crow.6

“All right.”7

The man lit a Marlboro, shifted the truck into gear and pulled out onto the highway.8

It was midday and the sun had just come out through the grey storm clouds, which shuffled east toward a range of mountains behind them, rain still lacing the sky in dark thin streaks over the plains of northern New Mexico.9

“I saw you was walkin’ past town ‘while ago and I’d a picked ya up,” the man said, glancing at Ira. “But forgot ma beer back at the station.” He reached a hand into a blue 24-pack of Bud sitting on the floor between them. “Can’t forget that – had ta turn ‘round.”10

Without looking, he grabbed two blue cans from the box with a broad hand, cracked one open in his lap, and took a heavy swig.11

Ira grunted and reached for his seatbelt.12

“Beer?” the man said, holding the other can out across the bench at Ira.13

Ira hesitated, fishing for the seatbelt buckle somewhere in the fold of the bench. Then he saw that the clip was missing anyway.14

“Nah need for that,” the driver said, whose laughter sent a large breath of smoke pluming into the cab, which receded out of the half-cracked windows. He was hunched over the steering wheel, as if sitting drowsily at a counter, steering with his elbow. He took another drag on his cigarette, which clung to the corner of his mouth, smoldering.15

“All right,” Ira said, releasing the seatbelt to its spring pull, and grabbed the beer from the man’s hand.16

“It’s about 200 miles, d’ya know?” the man said, the cabin filling with smoke again.17

Ira didn’t know, nor did he care. He was going to Sangre, and for now he didn’t need his sign – the soggy piece of cardboard that sat on his lap, half scratched at with a dull pen. But as wind tumbled into the cab, fresh with the sweet scent of exfoliating wildflowers and softened red dirt, the cardboard started to dry. Ira pushed fluttering strands of brown hair out of his eyes and behind his ears, and continued to write his sign.18

“I can take ya ‘bout twenty miles or so to Maxwell,” the man said.19

“That’s great, thanx,” Ira replied, preoccupied.20

“’Least it’s a little less ya have ta walk.”21

Ira thought about how twenty miles on foot equals seven hours of steady walking, while twenty miles in a car equals roughly twenty minutes of driving on the highway. His pen was faint on the damp cardboard and he scratched vigorously in large block letters.22

“Here,” the man said, tossing Ira a black Sharpie across the cab. “You can have it.”23

“Gold!” Ira half shouted.24

He popped off the cap of the marker, held the wet black tip close to his nose and sniffed. Ira was born a city boy, and had learned to love the smell of asphalt, paint, buildings and gasoline. Sharpies reminded him of paint and gasoline. But he had grown up reading about the deserts, mountains and plains of the Southwest, the open country that freed – and broke – men, a land for the rough vagabond, the restless soul.25

“So who’s in Sangre, kid?” the man asked, glancing a dusted eye at Ira. His face was blank, concealing all judgment or curiosity. “Gotcha self a women?” he said – his voice deep and meditative.26

“Yeah. Something like that,” Ira replied, his eyes fixed on the sign in his lap, as he outlined the large block letters of his sign with the perfectly black Sharpie. His pen was incredibly obsolete.27

“When I was younger, I hitchhiked to California,” the man said. “Took me five days from Texas … met this chick from Mississip. ‘Came best of friends, we did.”28

Outside the cab, the plains were gleaming with sunlight on the wet yellow grass and green cactus. Everything seemed golden and moving slowly to Ira.29

“Her name was Shirley. Heh. I called her Ms. Temple. Silly little thing…”30

The man’s voice became like a fuzzy radio station in the background of Ira’s daydream. He was glad to be sitting in the truck, miles of beautiful black highway speeding beneath and behind him. The sky was clear and, looking up, Ira could see the Spanish Peeks to the north on the Colorado boarder – twin mountains that edged the horizon like distant storm clouds, unreachable boundaries.31

“She was wild, too. And crazy…” the man continued, Ira catching only parts of his monologue and he stared out the window.32

“…a red-headed river gal and I was young buck cowboy – just the two of us walking to the big city Cali!”33

The sky seemed so wide to Ira, and the clouds rose higher than all the desert birds and single engine airplanes. They did not cling to the landscape or rise like smog out of large cities, but gathered from somewhere unknown, and back again, vanishing like untouchable ghosts.34

“And when we got to San Diego the morning of the fifth day, I picked her a dandelion right off the roadside, and professed my rawhide love,” the man said. “The next day, she left me for a small-time gambler who’d just won $6,000 in black jack. Shit. Lost it all.”35

...36

The truck exited the highway, stopping at a crossroads beside the overpass.37

“Thanx for the ride, sir,” Ira said.38

“A damn pleasure, kid. And good luck to ya,” the man said. “There’s a truck stop ‘bout three miles up the road.” He flicked a smoldering butt out the window, lit another Marlboro and drove on to Maxwell – the New Mexican town Ira could not see, somewhere down the cracked road – heat and rain water rising from the faded asphalt horizon like blurry bottle glass.39

Walking back onto the shoulder of the highway, Ira knelt down and picked up some orange plastic rope and lashed his sign to the back of his rucksack. The large black letters clearly read “SANGRE.” Ira walked at an easy pace. Speed was not important. The important thing, he told himself, is to keep walking. He did not hold a thumb out. He was way out in desert country with not a soul to talk to, save the occasional red-tailed hawk calling from a telephone line, or a pair of long-legged jackrabbits sprinting away on the other side of the barbed wire fence following the highway. This was a beautiful but lonely place, Ira thought. If someone was walking, they wanted a ride. And if someone wanted to pick Ira up, they would stop, or else keep driving.40

...41

The sun was nearly setting on the horizon behind Ira, as he saw a small cluster in the distance, nearly three miles out, possibly a truck stop. He’d be there by sunset, he thought. Traffic had picked up and cars sped past him in both lanes. Now Ira stuck his thumb out. He was desperate. His feet no longer hurt, they throbbed with every step. It had been nearly six hours since he left Maxwell, and his last ride. How can people be so cold, Ira thought. He would turn and walk backward now, facing the cars head-on as they sped by so as to look the drivers in the face. Eye contact might increase his chances, he thought. And at least he could see the faces of the heartless souls that passed him – clearly a distraught youth running from his problems.42

But the drivers had no sympathy as they sped by. Cold faces – all of them; a blonde-headed mother, her cranky son in the front seat, hitting the dashboard with an action figure, the black Excursion nearly running Ira off the shoulder of the road; a young couple – yuppies, Ira thought – driving a silver Subaru with a bike rack; an older gentleman with gray hair and a suit, rolling gently by in his white Cadillac, smoking a cigar.43

Ira turned back around and kept walking forward. He imagined himself in the Cadillac with the old man, sitting in the large leather passenger seat. Air conditioning. The older man offers him a cigar from an oak box in the center console.44

Certainly, Ira says.45

The two smoke and discuss many things. Beer. Adventure. Women.46

Oh yes, a man needs to go off and explore the globe while he is still young, it is his civil duty, the man says, gnawing the blunt end of his Montecristo.47

Indeed, Ira replies, puffing gentle smoke rings. We need to keep America great.48

Damn right! the old man says, telling Ira about the War, and driving him all the way to downtown Sangre.49

And God bless America, the man says, handing Ira a crisp hundred dollar bill, with a portrait of his face on it.50

Ira solutes the man as he drives off.51

“Ridiculous,” Ira said, shaking himself out of the dream as he walked. He had reached the point in the day where he thought out loud, commenting on his ludicrous daydreams, which had gotten increasingly ludicrous as the day progressed and as cars continued to pass without stopping.52

The sun was now on the horizon, and Ira could clearly see the buildings – a truck stop – about a mile away. He’d be there in twenty minutes, no problem.53

A blue highway patrol car sped by and honked, flaring its lights, but kept driving. He’ll catch me at the gas station, Ira thought. He was walking into a trap, for sure. “Maybe he’ll take me to the next town.”54

Ira watched as a brown Accord hatchback clanked slowly passed him – it was old and rusted. Suddenly Ira waved frantically at the car from behind, hoping to catch the driver’s attention in the rearview mirror. A few seconds later, the car slowed and pulled onto the shoulder of the highway, continuing to roll about fifty yards ahead of Ira, taillights flaring, then stopped. Score! Ira sprinted toward the vehicle, his whole body straining with every stride.55

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