The Hitchhiker

My arm is numb; I can feel it droop slightly at each passing pair of headlights. The evening air is condensed with the presence of near rainfall. Interludes between vehicles stretching out longer each time. The area is oddly quiet tonight – a two-lane road littered with unkempt shrubbery, dividing residential and commercial. A little ways behind me lilac-tinged lights sputter on and off every few minutes, barely illuminating the derelict convenience store. In the opposite direction tall iron fencing lines every corner, only discoloured rooftops visible. I try to imagine what it looks like during the day; sun-kissed children skipping through the community gates, eager to swig down the sour fizz of a slushy or rip into the sugary fluff of a Krispy Kreme, guilt-ridden mothers looking on.

Bright red exterior with a driving style milder than the rest. I take a step forward and bring my arm upwards again, my freckled skin dewed with tiny water droplets. The car pulls over.

'Hey, thanks so much for the—'

'Don't mention it.'

I note the driver's impatience and slide in swiftly, clicking the seatbelt into its holster. The car starts up and I take my chance at quick observation. Heavy jacket, thick-rimmed glasses with smudges bordering the left lens, unruly brown curls wilting down to frame his clean-shaven face. Early-thirties. Not too much younger than myself.

We sit in silence and he still hasn't asked where I'm going. I realise if he does ask, I'll need an answer prepared. 'I'm headed down to the East Coast, by the way.' My words linger in the small space between us. 'I lost my license a while back ... and I have this weird thing about public transport. But I'm grateful for however far you can take me. I have money too. Not much, but ...' I trail off and clear my throat. 'Are you planning on heading in that direction yourself?' Seconds pass and I hear only the engine's muffled vibrations and the faint patters of rain against the car. When I turn to look at him he's already staring, his dark features stressed by the buttery glow of passing street lamps.

'What's your name?' He speaks and I immediately pick up the accent, Long Islander.

'Isobel,' I reply. 'Yours?'

'Travis.' He offers a half-smile, then turns his scrutiny back to the long, winding road, creased fingers curling securely around the helm's lower-half. We make a right turn and the car shudders, causing the rear-view mirror's silver crucifix to tangle and dance in half-circles. I wonder whether Travis is a religious man; if he's analysing me in wilful silence. My outfit is loose-fitting, a beige v-neck that shows off more than a few centimetres of cleavage; attire I cannot imagine being thought appropriate by the devout. Maybe he just isn't much of a talker.

I fumble with my hands for a few seconds. 'Do you mind if we turn on the radio? Listening to something helps stop me from getting car-sick.'

He nods.

'Thanks. I actually get really weird symptoms from it.' I mess with random buttons and dials as if I know how to work the receiver. 'I mean first there's the nausea but that's kind of a given. But then I get these bizarre little goose bumps that cover my entire body. I swear, sometimes I even get this weird taste in my mouth that makes me drool like crazy.' I squirm in my seat, desperate to defuse my own embarrassment. 'Don't worry, I probably won't fill your car with saliva!' Travis ignores my ramblings and nudges my hand to the side. He pushes a single button and the fluorescent green backlight flashes fiercely three times before a spurt of audio emits erratic enjambments. I recognise the voice. Ted Luster, retired football star-turned sports commentator for The Daily News. Propping up my elbow against the car door, I let my head loll to the side and rest against the palm of my hand. This is what irks me most about hitchhiking at night, drivers seem much less willing to allow me into their thoughts, or feelings.