Breakdown Lane

© 1996 Sharen Nehoda

Carl "Wild Bill" Cody smiled down from High Stepper at some kids in a red minivan. They goggled at his shiny, black and chrome big rig as he passed. A boy that couldn't have been more than five tugged an imaginary cord. The classic motion of someone wanting the air horn blown, he obliged and tipped his white cowboy hat as the loud blast cut through the noise of the diesel. On a milk run to some little nothing town in the high plateau, any diversion was welcome.

"Breaker..." the CB squawked and sputtered static, "...Big Mutha!"

"B.J.? You old hemorrhoid king!" Cody laughed into the mike.

"How do you spell Preparation 'H'?"

A chuckle mixed with static garbled something about what he was transporting.

"I'm hauling a load of dry goods for a grocery up north on old Highway Thirteen. A town called Baggs. You ever been there before?"

"Nope." The static cleared. "Been to Salt Lake and back over to Boulder the last month, mostly hauling electronics. Dry goods, you say? You getting bored making the big bucks, Wild Bill?" Stifled laugher echoed in the cab.

"Hey, you know I like helping folks. I do what I can."

"Yeah, and I know your motto: 'Truckers help stranded motorists'. You been playing the cavalry again, haven't ya?"

"Heck, I stopped for two cars today, both with flats."

"I knew it! Guys like you are gonna give truckers a good name!"

Cody laughed.

"Wild Bill, you're just too nice a guy."

Another loud laugh barked from the speaker, then heavy static chopped it up.

"Hey, I'll catch you on the sunny side, B.J., sound like the mountains are breaking up the signal."

"Shore 'nuff. Kiss the mayor's daughter for me! Ov--" A crackling hiss of static cut him off.

The rolling lowland hills gradually became high plateau covered by scrubby pine, sagebrush, dry pan and sand. He cracked the window and the sweet scent of sage filled the cabin. The summer tourist traffic cleared out as the high dessert took over and the landscape became more barren. Skin warming sun baked through the window and inexplicably gave him goosebumps.

This side of long-haul trucking, being alone on the road, always made him uneasy. Hoping for another distraction, he turned on the radio. Static. The crackling hiss jittered his nerves. He dropped in a heavy metal CD and tapped the wheel to the thrumming beat.

The next two hours passed like trying to get catsup to pour from a new bottle. At Rifle he turned off the main highway and the road soon got tricky. Double lanes rose toward the mountains, and he cruised along at fifty-five with no problem. Higher up the steeper grade only allowed for two lanes with pullouts for slow up-hill traffic. But nearer the top, the road narrowed to a skinny strip of asphalt that switched back over steep ravines. More than once the back of his neck prickled when only a few feet separated the road from a considerable drop.

For some of the more severe inclines a broad shoulder served as a breakdown lane for overheated vehicles, or for sightseers to admire the view. That service seemed unnecessary as the road had been deserted since he turned onto Thirteen.

Scrub pine gave way to twisted brush and tumbleweeds. The scenery of steep, wind-blasted mountains, boulders and rockfalls gave him something to occupy his mind. Solitude swallowed him with godforsaken intimidation.

The last breakdown lane had been miles back and the grade steadily increased. Downshifting as the rig slowed to thirty, he negotiated a tight curve. Around a blind corner the rugged crest and an old van appeared.

A two tone, yellow over beige, VW bus tilted on two flat tires. It lingered in the last breakdown lane before the summit. A tumbleweed had lodged beneath the front bumper. Road grime spattered the sides in gray steaks. What seemed to be curtains on the windows proved to be just dirt when he got closer. The vehicle, besides being filthy, must have been there for some time.

An old man sat on the back bumper, hands folded over his stomach, a straw hat covered his eyes and upper face from the brilliant sun. Cody guessed by the looks of him that he must have been at least seventy. The man didn't even flinch when he drove past. Either he was asleep or just hard of hearing.

He slowed and pulled off the road into the breakdown lane. High Stepper drew precariously near the edge of a gaping canyon. Terra-cotta boulders and blanched sandstone monoliths stood muted by the harsh light of midday. He stopped ahead of the disabled bus and got down from the cab. The stillness was smothering. Why hadn't the old man come around to say "Howdy"?

"Probably too darn tired. Hot as hell today." He spoke loudly, hoping to wake the man. As he walked back toward the bus an eerie calm surrounded him. Goose flesh returned to his arms, even in the hot sun. The deserted road and the silent emptiness made the skin on his back crawl. The air tasted of dust.

Eyes shaded with his hand, he looked up and down the road. He had seen no other cars for hours. How long had the van been waiting? With two flats and only one spare, that made for a potentially long delay in a rough and unforgiving climate. All the more reason to help the poor old guy.

The bus and the old man were only fifty feet away but it seemed further. His legs clumped along, heavy, almost unwilling to walk. On sluggish feet he passed the back of the trailer and looked out over the edge of the breakdown lane. An abrupt, steep-sided ravine yawned out from the sagebrush revealing a striking view of the twisted canyon. A couple steps closer to the edge and he noticed a reddish tinge beneath the litter of boulders and stones that jutted from the sheer face of the chasm. He eased out as far as he dared to get a better look.

A huge outcropping of sandstone flanked the canyon. The sagebrush, stunted trees and boulders overhanging the edge of the ravine made it impossible to get a good look at the bottom. From his precarious observation point he could just make out a boxy shape covered by dust, dirt and a mass of tumbleweeds. It was the bed of a red pickup truck. Off to the right, a dark blue fender poked out from a drift of fallen rocks. After a moment he decided they were old wrecks, and tried to ignore the implication.

As he walked up to the van it shuddered and leaned a bit more toward the ravine. Hands against the glass, he squinted in the driver's side window. Inside, dust and grim coated everything with a thick film. An old Indian blanket covered the driver's seat, its once colorful pattern faded by the sun. The passenger seat had been removed and a battered old toolbox and shovel were in its place. The cargo area was empty.

A gust of wind dislodged the tumbleweed from the bumper and it cartwheeled, then somersaulted over the edge. He watched it go, an exhilarated tingle in his stomach as it hit open air, then dropped. The harsh call of a magpie echoed from below, startled by the falling tumbleweed.

He rounded the corner of the bus. "Wake up, old timer. The cavalry has arrive." His voice echoed strangely, as if he'd spoken too loud at a funeral.

The man sat motionless on the bumper. A shiver of understanding shook him as he stepped closer to the still form.

The cavalry had arrived too late. Hands that looked old and gnarled from a distance appeared shriveled, dried up. The bus tilted a few more degrees. He reached for the straw hat, hands shaking, and lifted the brim. The face looked dehydrated and emaciated, as if every bit of life had been drained from the body. The man could have been twenty, or ninety, it was impossible to tell. Here was a mummy, patiently waiting in the sun for someone to find him.

His heart lurched when he looked into dead man's eyes. Blue and wide, the film of death had not yet touched them. Startled, he realized death had come within the last twenty-four hours. He let the hat fall back over those terrible eyes.

Had he passed out in the hot sun, then died of heat stroke? Dehydration seemed the best explanation. Just looking at the man made him thirsty. He tried to swallow, but all the spit in his mouth had dried up. The sun overhead burned down. The memory of those staring eyes brought a sobering certainty. They were open. He hadn't passed out.

The bus shuddered and listed a bit more toward the ravine. Nearly at forty-five degrees, the driver's side tires left the ground. The vehicle bordered on rolling over the edge. He squatted down to find the cause, or to determine what was holding it up. The ground looked solid enough, with no loose stones or sand.

Improbably, it seemed as if the ravine somehow was drawing the VW bus into it, like the tumbleweed. A glance at the body showed a further impossibility. It remained seated on the bumper, hands folded over stomach, both feet in the air, as if stuck on by invisible glue.

A strong blast of dry, desert wind hit the bus broadside. Without even a shudder, it rolled silently over the edge. The bottom of the bus, muffler, flat tires, and the dead man's shoes disappeared into the ravine. Exhilaration, stomach on a roller coaster descent, forced a gasp from him. A faint thump echoed from below, accompanied by a brassy chorus of magpies.

He rushed to the edge. Shading his eyes, he squinted against the dust tossed into the air. Aside from the sound of stones clattering down the embankment and quickly dispersing puffs of dirty yellow-brown, nothing hinted at what happened to the bus or its passenger. The base of the ravine remained completely shrouded from view.

The magpies sang a brief funeral dirge.

"Dear God."

Those terrible eyes, haunted and so very dead, the sudden descent into nothingness, the raucous joy in the song of the magpies sent shocks of alarm through him. A searing gust of desert air struck him, its arid breath parching. He took two steps back. Heat rose in shimmering waves from the pavement.

Thirst drew his tongue to the roof of his mouth and he squinted at the sky. He had to get out of the heat. On shaky legs he turned toward High Stepper where a gallon of ice tea waited in the cooler. Confusion hurried his steps when he noticed how dusty his rig had become.

The highly polished lacquered black had turned a chalky gray. The chrome dull, flat, lifeless. Dust motes swirled and danced around her in tiny whirlwinds, splashing dry decline against her sides. Deep age cracks crisscrossed tires newly purchased only a few weeks prior.

He threw open the cab door then pulled out the cooler. Inside, the gallon jug was bone dry. Even the ice in the cooler gone. A tumbleweed bounced by and his head snapped around to watch it roll over the edge of the ravine. He heard a magpie chatter. It sounded of death.

A thirst beyond any he had ever experience drained the energy from him as slumped onto the running board. The parching breeze whipped around him and dried the perspiration on his brow almost before it had a chance to form.

"What's happening here?" His lips felt papery, his tongue thick and sticky.

Gnawing thirst tormented him. His weakened legs shook uncontrollably as he trudged to the front of High Stepper. With a grunt of exertion, he yanked the engine cover back and removed the radiator cap. Alarm forced his heart into his throat.

The radiator was dry. Bone dry. So was the battery. High Stepper was dead. The magpies chattered from below. The sound of bones rattling in an open grave. Even in the searing heat the sound made his flesh crawl.

He looked back toward the ravine and out over the canyon. This place, this Breakdown Lane, was like a huge, lethal Venus flytrap, and he was the fly. It drained the life from anything that lingered there. Was it too late to get away?

"No, it was too late when I stopped."

The sound of his voice croaking through dried lips spoke of leaves blown across a gravestone. A sudden, loud bang made him jump. One of High Stepper's tires had blown. Moments later another pop announced a trailer tire had gone.

"Please..." He scrambled into the cab and grabbed the CB mike. It was covered with dust, but he flicked it on anyway. Nothing, not even static. It was as dead as High Stepper.

He rested his head on the steering wheel although the cab had become an oven. Surrounded by silence, the air seared his lungs and pressed him with fiery gloves. Another tire blew. The magpies' raucous reply sounded like laughter.

He gazed at his hands. Strength and vitality gone, they had become the gnarled roots of an aged oak. Rubbed over his face his palms were sandpaper against parchment.

The magpies called a death knell.

"God help me!" he rasped, "Where's the cavalry?"

The back of the trailer canted toward the ravine as another tire blew.

"No!" He screamed with what was left of his energy.

The magpies mocked him with anxious chatter.

Clearly he was doomed, but could he stop it from trapping someone else? Able only to drag himself, he struggled to the rear of High Stepper, its once gleaming body now tarnished, grimy and lifeless. He scuffed weakly in the dirt with the heel of his boot and tried to leave a message, a warning.

A tumbleweed whirled around him, then another, their dried tangle stirred the dusty soil, his message erased. He kicked at them feebly, sobbed a little, then tried to leave the warning again but the tumbleweeds kept brushing it away.

All of his energy exhausted, he slumped back and sat down on the trailer's bumper. As he rested his head against the smudged and dusty metal, he knew High Stepper had an appointment with oblivion. One he was unable to prevent.

In his mind he saw the cavalry come charging over the hill on horseback, flags flying and snapping in the breeze.

"I can't let this happen again," he croaked.

Mustering the last of his waning strength, he shuffled to the edge of the ravine. Somewhere, far away, a tire blew, and he heard the magpies' invitation one last time. He leaned forward, arms outstretched to embrace the up-rushing ground.

***

Just after noon, Jake O'Bannon rounded the last tight bend before the final uphill run to Baggs.

"Man, I hate these winding mountain runs," he said to Suzi's photo taped to the dash.

He gripped the wheel tightly and made the turn at about forty-five miles per hour. The trailer slewed out into the oncoming lane, and Jake exhaled noisily as he palmed the wheel back to gain control, his heart did a snappy tattoo as he glanced at his girlfriend’s picture.

He scowled at the CB, its signal had been blocked the last fifty miles and the quiet made him restless. When he talked to fellow truckers the trips went by faster. Boredom could be deadly to a long-haul trucker, as lethal as not enough sleep.

Up ahead, a fellow trucker had stopped in the breakdown lane. The trailer leaned toward the edge on too many flats to count.

"Must of run over some glass. Damn lucky he didn't go over the edge."

He eased up to the filthy old rig, and drove by slowly looking for someone needing help. It must have been an old derelict, abandoned to the desert. Looked like it had been there for years.

"Would of been nice havin' some company, though." He winked at Suzi's photo.

Just as his rig passed, the big diesel sputtered and tried to stall. He gunned the engine and downshifted, then drove on by to finish the run into Baggs.

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