THE RIDE

THE RIDE

I remember that day as bright and warm. Hot, actually, for so late in October. I was sitting by the side of a road out in Iowa somewhere. U. S. 30, as I recall. A backroad paralleling the interstate fifteen miles to the south. It cut through the cornfields connecting Cedar Rapids and Clinton and a whole lot of other towns and cities. But those two were the important ones. Cedar Rapids was behind me. Clinton lay ahead. I was heading east toward the bridge over the mighty Mississippi at Clinton. Actually, I was going all the way to Chicago, but crossing the big river was about all I could wrap my mind around just then. One step at a time, as they say.

For the past few days I had been hitch-hiking around, trying to get my mind right. Trying to escape from the life I was stuck in. School. Parents. Friends. I needed to take some deep breaths. Clear my head. Do some serious thinking. And drinking. The night before I had spent in a cheap hotel in downtown Cedar Rapids with a pint of bourbon to keep me company. I hadn't done a whole lot of thinking there. Now I was heading home. It was early afternoon, but I was already half-drunk. Still working on the bottle from the night before.

The sun blazed down on the highway as it stretched straight and flat through the corn stubble toward the west. Where I'd come from. In the distance it looked like water puddled on the road. A mirage. But no rides. To the east, more puddling. More stubble. No cars coming from that direction either. I lay back in the grass and pulled over my small duffle bag. Zipped it open. Out came my bottle, flashing in the sunlight. Only a half-inch of the amber liquid sloshed in the bottom. Ah well. I tipped it to my lips, heard the gurgling, felt the burn, and the bourbon was all gone. I lobbed the empty at a rock, but missed. Rolled onto my side, squinted west, and waited for some cars to come by.

It wasn't long before I spied a speck growing in the hazy distance. Other specks followed. Cars always seemed to come in spurts along country roads. I groaned and struggled to my feet. It took forever for the specks to grow into real cars and come within range. I lifted my thumb and jabbed it toward Clinton.

"Well goddamn," I muttered when I saw that the first car wasn't going to stop. I snapped in my thumb and stuck up my middle finger. Two more cars and a big chrome-grilled pickup followed, but one after another they whizzed past, each receiving my coarse benediction. The pickup blatted its horn.

When they were all gone, receding into the distance like forgotten promises, I sat down heavily, muttering. "No-good sonofabitches wouldn't pick up Jesus if he was bleeding in a ditch."

The sun went behind a small white cloud, but reappeared shortly. A dry breeze whisked across the stubble of corn fields lining the road. It bore the rich, earthy, almost sweet aroma of agriculture. Manure. Fertilizer. Maybe a hog farm upwind somewhere. Far in the distance a red barn shimmered, faded pastel by the haze. A silo loomed beside it, its dome glinting in the sun. A windmill blade turned lazily on its rusty trestle tower. Coming and going on the breeze an unseen tractor growled, endlessly churning the sea of loam. The day was too pleasant to remain mad. I felt warm and tingly all over. I got up, shouldered my pack, and started walking toward Clinton. Found a long stick and began drumming on the pavement in time to "Red River Valley."

". . . For they say you are taking the sunshine–"

I didn't hear the car until it was almost on me. I spun around. A rusty red old beater was bearing down fast. I threw out my arm and thumbed eastward.

The car slammed on its brakes and slid to a dusty stop on the shoulder fifty yards down the road. It was a faded four-door sedan. Maybe a Chevy. Someone had prepped the roof and trunk for repainting, but given up. The car had seen hard use.

I jogged up to the passenger side, where the window was already rolled down. A thick arm with a tattoo of some unidentifiable woman on the deltoid, half-covered by a tattered gray tee-shirt, rested against the passenger door. A puffy face beneath a short blond crewcut cranked back toward me. "Where y'headed?" he asked.

"Clinton." I said, panting a little.

"Got a drivers' license?" he asked, a little thick-tongued. "A valid one?"

"Sure," I said. "Illinois."

"Great. Throw your bag in back an' go on around and climb inta the driver's seat. Earl here's gonna let y'drive."

"I ain't lettin' nobody drive," I heard the driver growl. Earl. "I'm drivin'."

"Aw, come on, Earl." Crewcut turned back inside. "I thought we talked about this."

"You talked about it." Earl's growl notched up a pitch. "I didn't talk about it. I'm drivin'"

"Then why'd ya stop for him?"

"Cause y'told me to, ya dumb ass."

They lowered their voices in a private row while I stood alongside the road, gazing off across the corn fields. A hawk circled in the distance. Looking for lunch. I couldn't make out what they were saying.

Finally crewcut turned back to me. His face was flushed. "Ya still wanna ride?"

"Sure," I said, but without conviction. Better than dying on this godforsaken highway.

"Jump in back then." Quietly he added, "We still might need ya t'drive."

I wrenched open the back door and tossed in my duffle, then climbed in over some empty beer cans, potato chip bags, and fast food detritus. The car reeked of stale beer, grease, and sour sweat. A cardboard box was tilted over the hump of the drive shaft. In it were a bottle of motor oil, a greasy rag, spark plugs and ignition parts, and some rusty tools. I shoved it over behind the driver.

"Thanks," I said, slamming the door.

Crewcut swivelled his head and nodded. Earl just stomped on the accelerator and popped the clutch. The car almost stalled, sputtered, coughed, then lurched forward, the back wheels spitting out gravel before squealing onto the pavement. Earl seemed to be in a big hurry.

The car was filthy, with oil stains and dirt on the floor, the seats, and even on the roof and walls. The two men in front didn't look much cleaner, and I sensed an uneasiness between them. Earl, the driver, appeared to be in his late twenties. Maybe thirty. He was short and thick with greasy black hair and a dark, round, unshaven face that sported an ugly little patch of beard on his chin. His collarless black tee-shirt revealed some sort of strange hieroglyphic tattooed on the side of his neck. He gripped the wheel with both fists.

Crewcut hooked his arm over the seat and regarded me with rheumy eyes. He looked to be a little older than Earl. Early thirties, maybe. He had a puffy, unhealthy look. His nose was sunburned and starting to peel, his eyes set a bit too close together. "I'm Butch, an' this here's Earl," he said, nodding to the driver.

Earl grumbled a greeting I didn't catch as the car shuddered through the speed limit and beyond. Dry wind blew into my eyes through the open window.

"Whach'ur name?"

"Bubba," I lied. I don't know where that came from. Just sort of popped out of my mouth. I didn't want to give them my real name. And "Bubba" felt kind of right. Like it might foster a little camaraderie.

"Don' look like no ‘Bubba' t'me," Butch said. "If‘n y'don't mind my sayin' so, ya'look a little . . . young for a name like that. Y'know . . . ya'look a little . . . fancy."

"I'm tryin' t'grow into it," I explained.

"Where're y'headed?"

I explained that I'd been goofing around for a few days and was now on my way back to school.

"Y' goin' t'school?"

"Yeah. Viet Nam, y'know. Tryin' t'avoid the draft with a 2-S deferment." I don't think he knew what a 2-S deferment was. "How ‘bout you an' Earl? Been t'Nam?" I was easing into the dialect. Bonding.

Butch and Earl both snorted. "They ain't in'trested in our kind," Earl said, grinning and taking his eyes off the road for longer than I felt was prudent.

"We both just got outta the Linn County jail," Butch explained.

"Jus' this mornin'," Earl added.

Butch caught his eye, then confirmed, "Yeah, jus' this mornin'."

"What were y'in for," I asked, practicing the patois. "If y'don't mind my askin'."

"Me for drunk'n disorderly. Earl here for driving on a suspended license. Mine was took away way back."

That was sobering news. I glanced out at the cornfields blurring past. "So y'met in jail?"

"Naw. Earl'n me go way back. We're on our way t'Clinton t'see some hot gals we know. Gonna have us a real party." That seemed to remind him of something, and Butch reached under the front seat and pulled out a pint bottle. It looked about half full. He unscrewed the cap and tipped it to his lips. "Earl?" he said, holding the bottle out to the driver.

Earl grabbed it. Took a long swig. Handed it back. It was now a quarter full.

Butch was screwing the cap back on and was bending forward when a more hospitable thought crossed his mind. "Bubba?" He offered the bottle over the seat. "Want a swig of rot-gut?"

"Why not?" I wasn't feeling quite so mellow as before. My own buzz was riding the down elevator, but I was beginning to suspect I might need my wits about me before long. I twisted off the cap, raised the pint to my lips, and held it there for a moment, but took only a token sip. It burned like rat poison. I coughed and sputtered. Studied the unfamiliar label. "I agree," I wheezed, passing the bottle back. "That is rot-gut."

Butch was laughing. "Hey. Why pay more jus' t'get drunk?"

The corn fields rushed past. The car rocked and rattled. Sped through the hot afternoon. I squinted against the breeze. Earl kept the pedal to the floor as he tried to hold the left front wheel on the center line of the road, but it was too much for him. The speeding vehicle drifted back and forth. First into the eastbound lane. Then across the fog line and back. Then into the oncoming lane and back. Thank god traffic was light.

Silos rose up in the distance. And a water tower. A couple of white frame buildings. We were approaching a small town. In a while a "Speed Zone Ahead" sign flashed past. It didn't look like Earl saw it.

Suddenly a slow moving tractor appeared in the lane ahead, growing fast. Its huge tires rose like water wheels, the right one on the grassy shoulder, the left spinning well out onto the highway. Earl didn't seem to notice. I yelled something. Earl swerved. The car started to fishtail, but he managed to wrestle it back under control as we just missed smacking into the tractor.

"Earl! Jesus! Y'gonna get us all kilt!" Butch hollered.

"I gotta piss," Earl replied sullenly, as if that explained everything. "Stoppin' at the next gas station."

Butch turned to me. "Can y'drive stick?"

I nodded, my heart racing. Thinking it might be best for me to abandon ship and catch another ride.

"Y'got any money?"

"Just enough t'get me home."

"How ‘bout a couple of bucks for gas?" His beady eyes were mirthless. Squinting. "We givin' you a ride an' all. Don't that seem fair?"

I fished in my wallet and pulled out two dollar bills. Handed them to him. Those were the days when you could still fill your tank for two bucks.

Well into the speed zone Earl slowed down and turned into an Esso station. He managed to bring the car in at an odd angle beside the pumps, jammed it into first, and was out the door before the wheels had stopped turning. "Let the kid drive," he muttered as he hightailed it for the outside door of the men's room.

When Earl was done, I followed him into the bathroom. Butch was pumping gas. Then Butch took his turn. They both went into the office while I eased myself into the driver's seat, barely pulling my legs under the steering wheel. I felt for the release lever and slid the seat back as far as it would go. Heard a corrugated crunch from the box I had shoved behind the seat. I turned the key and cranked up the engine. Tested the H of the gearshift with the clutch pushed in. Stared at the "R C Cola" sign in the window of the building. Waited. Not really drunk any more, I took a few deep breaths to clear my head.

It seemed to be taking a long time inside for fellows in such a hurry, but soon Butch and Earl were trotting back to the car. Butch piled in front. "Let's go," he grunted.

"Time's a'wastin'," Earl added as he jumped in back. I eased out the clutch and steered onto the highway. In back I could see Earl building himself a little nest in the trash. He soon settled in with his head against the window and closed his eyes.

The speed limit was 55, and I kept it below 60. Didn't want a ticket. The pace seemed glacial compared to Earl's aggressive pace, but no one said anything about it. Butch just stared silently out the windshield. Sort of dazed. Earl had dozed off. I was still a little tipsy, but unconcerned. I'd driven a lot drunker than this.

I remember rolling on for what seemed like a long while, down the arrow-straight blacktop dividing the corn fields, and then coming to a yellow curve sign advising 45 miles per hour. Not knowing the road, I slowed down. No complaint from my compatriots. The highway curved into a grove of trees, some still with tattered reds and oranges of autumn leaves, but most with ghostly bare branches glowing yellow in the sun. We descended to cross a short culvert bridge spanning a stagnant brown stream, then arced back up to the everlasting cornfields on the other side. I caught a glimpse of two black cars parked in the shade of the trees. They looked like Iowa Highway Patrol, and I was glad I had slowed down.

As I crested the rise I saw a flashing light in the distance. Straight down the highway maybe a mile or two. I eased up on the gas. Butch was in his own world and didn't seem to notice. I'd covered maybe half the distance when lights flashed in my rearview mirror. Those Iowa State Troopers were closing fast. Both of them, side by side blocking both lanes. Probably heading for the emergency lights ahead. Maybe an accident. I slowed even more and squeezed to the right to let them around, but they fell into formation right behind me. A siren began to wail. That got Butch's attention.

"What the hell's goin' on?" he wanted to know, craning to look out the back window.

I let up on the gas and looked for a place to pull over. The Troopers slowed to match my pace. The flashing light ahead, only a half mile away, resolved into the pulsing bubble on top of a black-and-white car parked across the road. Blocking both lanes.

Earl's head popped up in the rear view mirror, his eyes sleepy.

"Cops'r pullin' us over, Earl." Butch said. "What're we gonna do?"

"Jus' hold on." Earl replied, waking up. Thinking it through.

I found a wide spot and crunched slowly onto the shoulder and stopped. Clicked off the ignition. "I wasn't speeding."

One Trooper pulled off about fifty feet behind us. The other cruised past and pulled off the same distance ahead. They sat in their black cars, red lights spinning in bubbles on top. The black-and-white approached from ahead, light flashing. Not a State Trooper car. It pulled even with the Trooper in front, then angled onto the shoulder on the far side. I could read "Clinton County Sheriff" on the emblem on the door. All three sat with their red lights rotating silently. Menacingly.

"What'er we gonna do, Earl? I ain't gonna go back t'prison."

"Looks like we don't got a whole lot'a choices here," Earl replied.

"What about the gun?"

Gun? What the hell were they talking about a gun.

"Maybe they won't find it," Earl said. "An' if'n they do, we jus' tell'em it belongs t'Bubba here." I looked into his eyes in the rear view mirror. They were awake and sober now. Calm. Calculating. The eyes of a cornered animal. "You ok with that Bubba?"

I said nothing.

"Can't have no gun in our possession," Butch whined. He was pleading to me. "Neither one a'us. We' both ex-felons."

As if on cue, a uniformed man climbed out of each state police car, guns drawn, eyes focused on us. Their pistols were gripped seriously in both hands and pointed skyward. The sheriff's deputy wriggled out of the passenger side of his patrol car. The safe side of his black-and-white. He stood cradling a shotgun across his chest.

"Step out of the car with your hands up!" the Trooper in front commanded. He was the older of the two. The one in charge. He wore a chocolate brown shirt and matching Smoky the Bear hat. Tan trousers with a crisp black line tracing the seam. Serious black shoes gleaming in the sunlight. The vision burned into my retina like a Kodak snapshot.

I reached for the door handle, but Butch grabbed my right arm. "You'd do that for us, Bubba?" Butch begged, staring at me with sad dog eyes. "Tell'em its yours. Wouldn't ya?"

I jerked the door handle and shouldered it open, pulling free of Butch's grip. Fast enough to get free. But slow enough not to get shot by the Troopers. I stood with my hands spread above my shoulders and stepped away from the car toward the Trooper ahead of me.

"Down on the ground," he barked. "On your face. Arms out to the sides. Legs spread."

I complied, dropping in front of the car. The gravel bit into my knees. My palms. My cheek. I waited, pulse racing. Nothing happened. I lifted my head a few inches and saw the Trooper concentrating his full attention on the car. I was now under control. An afterthought.

What were Butch and Earl going to do? I began to fear that Butch might slide over and start the car. Run me over. Or jump out brandishing his hand gun. I didn't want to be laying there while a shootout raged above me. But there didn't seem much I could do about either possibility. My mouth was dry. My stomach felt hollow. My armpits sweaty.

"Officer?" I finally said.

He kept his eyes on the car. Didn't reply.

"Do you mind if I come on over a little closer to you?"

No reply.

"Those fellas kinda scare me," I added.

"Come on over," he said. "But keep your hands where I can see them."

I crawled. The sharp teeth of the gravel bit into my hands and knees.

"That's close enough," he said when I was within ten feet. I dropped to my belly again.

"You're not with them?" he asked softly.

"I was hitchhiking. They picked me up."

"But you were driving."

"Just started. Earl was drunk. Asked me to take over."

"Earl Templeton?"

"Didn't say his last name. Has weird tattoos on his neck."

The Trooper eased himself backward three slow steps. Around the hood of the cruiser. "How many with him?"

"Just one. Calls himself ‘Butch.'"

"Butch Sturka?"

"Didn't say."

"Are they armed?"

"Butch said they have a gun," I said. "I didn't see it. I have no idea what they plan to do."

He thought about it for a moment, then called over to the sheriff's deputy. "Carl, I got one for you. Says he was just a hitchhiker."

Carl didn't come out from behind the black-and-white. He was no hero. A survivor. "Send him over, then."

"Get on over across the road," the Trooper said to me. "Keep your hands in sight and back on the ground when you get there."

I scrambled to my feet and crouch-ran across the highway with my arms sticking out to the side. Fell on my face behind the sheriff's car.

"Hands behind your back." Deputy Carl knelt down and clicked handcuffs onto my wrists. They bit into the flesh. Hurriedly he patted my pockets. "Don't move," he ordered, returning to his vigil. He was middle aged and frowning. Not a happy camper. Maybe a little mean of spirit from years in a tough job. He wore a wrinkled blue uniform. No hat. He laid the shotgun across the car roof and waited.

The minutes dragged on. Tense minutes. Everyone held their ground. A siren approached in the distance. My stomach churned acid. Dust tickled my nostrils. My wrists hurt. My fingers were going numb. But this didn't seem like my time to complain.

The siren grew louder. I twisted my head and saw another car approaching from the east. Another black-and-white. Its imminent arrival seemed to precipitate matters.

Things happened fast. Butch exploded out through the passenger door, running away from the road, stubby legs pumping. He was surprisingly fast.

"Stop right there," the old Trooper in front yelled. "Stop or I'll shoot!" He leveled his pistol at the fleeing man.

The younger Trooper from behind took off after him. Through the stubble. He was slim and blond and agile, leaping from row to row like a dancer. Butch saw him over his shoulder and spun around, a silver pistol in his right fist. The young Trooper dove for the ground as Butch fired a single shot. The pop was like a firecracker. The bullet must have flown over his head. The older Trooper fired two rounds from his position by the cruiser, pop, pop, missing with both, and Butch swung his pistol toward him. I jerked at a deafening explosion over my head. Deputy Carl had fired his shotgun. Butch bent forward and grabbed his belly with his left hand. I heard the click-clack of Carl's pump action. Butch tried to raise his pistol arm, but Carl blasted again, and Butch crumpled to his knees in the cornfield. He shook the pistol off his finger and clutched his face. His other hand still held his gut. "You bastard!" he screamed. "You blinded me!" The young Trooper hit him with a flying tackle. Knocked him over like a bowling pin. There was anger in that tackle. Guess he didn't like being shot at. The young Trooper wrestled Butch's right arm away from his face and twisted it behind his back, snapping on the cuffs. Then the left arm from his belly. Pushed him back into the dirt. Butch was crying and screaming insults, blood dripping from his face. From his eyes. Blood soaked the front of his T-shirt. The pistol lay on the ground beside him, gleaming in the sun.

I had to look away. Not because of the queasiness in my stomach, but because I was embarrassed for him.

A second black-and-white screeched to a stop beside Carl's cruiser. A young deputy jumped out of the passenger door. Same blue uniform as Carl's, but crisper. Captain's cap. A shotgun in his hands. He pumped a shell into the chamber.

"Call for an ambulance," Carl told the driver.

My ears were ringing from the shotgun blasts. No one paid any attention to me. They were all now concentrating their firepower on the car. I managed to squirm into a sitting position for a better view.

"Earl Templeton!" the older Trooper called out. "It's over! Come on out with your hands above your head!"

No response.

"Otherwise we will assume you are armed!" he added ominously.

"I'm coming out," Earl yelled. The back door on the passenger side clicked open and slowly swung wide. "I'm unarmed." His hands rose above the roof. Slowly he stood up. The old Trooper and the young deputy approached warily, got Earl Templeton on his face on the ground, and handcuffed him. They led him into the back door of the new black-and-white.

Well, I was thinking, Earl got what he wanted. Someone else to take the fall for the hand gun.

The ambulance came. Drove right out into the cornfield. They loaded Butch inside and drove off, siren wailing. The highway was reopened, and a slow stream of cars and trucks inched past, awe-struck faces gawking out the side windows.

"I can't feel my hands anymore," I told the old Trooper as he ambled by. He was gray at the temples. His face lined and wrinkled from too much wind and sun. Probably thinking of retirement soon. His wide-spread eyes tilted down on the outside, giving him an expression of permanent sadness. Or perhaps compassion. I hoped for compassion.

He regarded me. "Carl," he said to the deputy nearby, the deputy who had fired his shotgun. "I think we can take these cuffs off for now."

Carl came over and released the handcuffs. Hooked them onto his belt. Blood surged back into my fingers. Pins and needles. My hands burned as I rubbed them.

"Shake ‘em," Carl said. "Like this."

I shook them.

The Trooper was still regarding me. He asked for my ID. I gave him my driver's license. He made notes on a clipboard. Handed it to Carl. Carl took a look and handed it back to me. "How'd you end up with this bunch?" Carl asked.

I told him I was hitchhiking.

"What the hell'er you doin' out here?"

I made up a story about visiting my sick aunt in the hospital in Cedar Rapids. "I'm on my way back to school. Have classes Monday morning."

"Where're y'going t'school?"

I told him where.

"That's a good school," said the Trooper. "Got a student ID?"

I fumbled it out of my wallet. Handed it to him. They both looked at it.

"Keeping y'out of the draft, is it?" Carl asked.

That caught me off guard. It seemed like a touchy topic, under the circumstances, my not knowing what his persuasion was. I decided to stick to the truth. "Yeah. 2-S deferment."

He thought about it and I got lucky. "I got a boy ‘bout your age. A little younger. Still a senior in high school. I'd like t'keep him out."

I nodded. Waited.

"Don't get me wrong. I served my country. But that was between wars. This Viet Nam thing is another kettle of fish. It's a crazy mess. I don't want my boy going off over there. Maybe a 2-S would keep him out."

"Depends on his draft board," I said.

"Yeah. " He thought about it. "Not a lot of fellas going on to college from Clinton High. Plenty a' cannon fodder. Guess that improves his odds. "

I waited while they conferred with the other Trooper and sheriff's deputies. A detective in a wrinkled sports coat was talking to them, taking notes, while a photographer flashed pictures of the bloody spot in the cornfield. They searched silently through my duffle bag on the patrol car hood, found nothing of interest, and zipped it back up.

Carl came back over and held my duffle out to me. "They say the gun is yours."

I shook my head. "I never even saw the gun, until . . . "

"Didn't think so. Those boys used it t'hold up a coupla gas stations back outta Cedar Rapids. Just the two of 'em, according to witnesses. One silver pistol."

The older Trooper rejoined us.

"Wh'da'ya aim t'do with him?" Carl asked him.

The Trooper shrugged. "Your call."

"You're not interested in haulin' him in?"

"Might save us some paperwork not to."

Carl grunted. "God knows there's gonna be enough paperwork the way it is."

"Your call," the Trooper repeated.

"The DA might need‘im t'testify."

"Probably not. If he does, we know where to find him."

Carl thought about it for a while. An eternity, it seemed to me. "Aw, let'im get on back t'school. He didn't have nothin' t'do with this."

The Trooper nodded imperceptibly.

Carl turned on me. Searched my eyes. "I hope you learned something here," he said. "I hope t'god you got the message."

I had. And he saw it in my eyes. He smiled. "Come on, then. I'll give you a lift into Clinton. You won't be catchin' a ride here. Not with this peep show goin' on."

I rode in front with him. Neither of us spoke much. We each had our own thoughts to chew on. Like how it felt to shoot a man in the face. And how close I had come to blowing my college career. To carrying a rifle through the jungle. Not the kind of thing to talk about to a stranger.

He took me all the way across town to the west end of the long suspension bridge over the Mississippi River. Dropped me off. "Good luck," he said as I climbed out.

"Thank you," was all I could reply.

I decided to walk across the bridge. With my shadow lengthening before me, I stared down at the swollen, muddy water. It was dark and turbulent. Thinking isn't always something you do. Sometimes it just happens. I couldn't help thinking about Butch. Gut-shot. His face bleeding from the buckshot. I wondered if he would ever see again. Whether he deserved what he got. I thought about Earl and those cunning, merciless eyes. And what he deserved. What any of us deserves.

I haven't thought about either of them for years now. I remember that the walk was very long, but I made it across.