The rising sun is distant and cold. It pulls itself lazily over the horizon and hangs there as though to catch its breath. The night slinks guiltily away, the sky forfeits its stars. An unassuming bird flits-
“Can you take a picture of us?”
I arrived an hour before daybreak, following the suggestion of Autumn by the Wayside and, absurdly, found I was not the first. At 4:00am there was already a station wagon there, brown and idling, soft shadows moving inside. I assumed I was the more imposing figure, a lone stranger from the woods, and gave the car a wide berth.
They began to stir around five.
“Sir? Sir?”
As our great star heaves itself upward into the frosty void (“Maybe he’s hard of hearing, honey. Walk up to him!”) the atmosphere warms and splays out against the cliff side. Perched on a roadside barrier, legs dangling over the drop, the sharp, dust-laden wind cuts into me suddenly. I start to cough.
“You all right there, son?”
I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, anchoring my body to the fringes of this highway pull-off as though my coughing fit had threatened to send me over the edge. I don’t realize, until the warmth of those fingers, just how long it’s been since I’ve felt the bare touch of another human.
‘Located between Mile Markers 45 and 46, the unnamed state look-out point is just the thing for the jaded traveler. Practically surrounded by other, near-identical look-outs, this small stretch of highway distinguishes itself from the others with an available restroom and a higher-than-average vantage point. Unfortunately, this also makes it the more popular stop and company is to be expe-‘
“Son?”
The man behind me is as wide as he is tall, his pendulous stomach straining at the tucked-in cotton of his t-shirt. His also-large wife stands behind him, near the station wagon. His also-large kids stare daggers from the back seat.
“Son, are you on drugs?”
“What?” I say, “No…”
“Well, if you were on drugs, I’d tell you it’s not too late to stop. My best friend told me something like that back when I was drinking a 12-pack a day. Didn’t know I needed to hear it.”
“I’m not on drugs,” I tell him, stumbling onto sleeping legs as I attempt to swivel on the barrier. “I got dust in my eyes.”
The man scratches himself under the rim of his cap and surveys the area, now behind me.
“Quite the sunrise we had,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Where’d you walk from?”
“Town.”
“Which town would that be?”
I think for a moment, realizing I’ve already forgotten its name. The man’s kids are arguing inside the station wagon, their screaming muffled and indistinct. One of the boys leaps out of the door and starts teasing the others from behind the car. The woman tells them to get back inside.
She doesn’t trust me at all.
“It’s all right, babe,” the man calls, “Let’em stretch.”
She leans into the cab and speaks to them in a tone that is as quiet as it is serious. They pile out the other side and stand around, somberly trying to avoid looking at me.
“Don’t mind the old lady,” the man says, mildly apologetic, “Little over-protective, that one. It’s why I married her!”
He raises his voice at the end and the woman almost smiles.
“My name’s Bill, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Bill By-the-Way.”
“We got a joker over here, Mary!” the man shouts.
He turns back to me, chuckling, and an expectant moment comes and goes.
“Quite the sunrise,” I say and Bill rubs his hands together.
He nods.
“Well, Mr. Joker,” Bill says with a sigh, “Speaking of the sunrise, the wife and kids and I were hoping to see if you could snap a picture of us real quick. Got my camera here,” he says, pointing to a little point and shoot around his neck, “and we just need a fella with a steady hand and a good eye.”
I cough and stretch my legs.
“Sure.”
He hands the camera to me and walks over to his family. Bill’s got his apologetic look on again as he talks to Mary and points out a place near the look-out. She doesn’t seem happy with Bill’s willingness to put the camera in my hands. I look out at the road and wonder where she expects I would bolt to. Do I look like I need money?
“All right, kids,” Bill says, “Gather on around here for the picture.”
I pretend that I’m familiarizing myself with the workings of the camera while the family arranges itself but, with just half an eye on them, it’s clear that something is wrong. Bill’s putting on a good front but the kids are moving around like scolded dogs, even the little taunting one from before. Through the polite barrier of the camera, I watch Mary and Bill and try to remember the warning signs of domestic abuse, of drug addiction, of hostage situations.
“All right, joker,” Bill says when the family has arranged itself, “See if you can’t snap this picture.”
I take a couple but their smiles are all uneven and their eyes are looking down. The sun is rising further into the sky behind them now and backlighting the frame. I grow conscious of the time, of the book in the back pocket of my jeans.
Where to next?
“I think I got you guys,” I tell Bill, trying to mirror his false enthusiasm but he holds up his hand as I approach.
“You mind looking over’em just to make sure they look good?” Mary’s face falls as he says this. “Just a, you know, a quick glance over. It’s hard to rally these guys once they all scatter.”
He forces a laugh.
I switch over to the review menu and start to scroll through. I see a few landscape shots, a few pictures Bill must have taken before he hailed me down, but the pictures of the family aren’t there.
“Didn’t take, Bill,” I tell him, “Am I using this thing right?”
When I look up I see he’s consoling Mary, who seems to have started crying. The kids look uncomfortable, the youngest on the verge of tears herself.
“Try one more, if you would,” Bill says, hardly looking away from his wife, “Make sure you hit the button all the way down. Take a few of them.”
I raise the camera again but they don’t seem to notice. I take a few, try a couple different settings. The flash goes off, probably unnecessary in the new morning light. Whatever act the family was trying to pull, whatever guise of calm that Bill had held together, it starts to come apart at the seams. He tries to hold them together, but the family falls apart around him.
I have their camera in my hand. I scroll through the pictures again and quickly realize that there are now additional landscapes, pictures I’m taking in which the family refuses to appear. I feel embarrassed, suddenly, like I’ve been let in on some secret.
“Bill, I… I think your camera’s broken, man,” I tell him, trying to hand the thing off without looking the man in the eye.
He doesn’t take it.
“That old thing…” he says, suddenly quieter, “That old thing’s been giving me some trouble on this trip. Tell yah what, joker,” he says, chuckling sadly, “How’d you feel about taking a picture on that fancy phone of yours and then sending it my way later? I wouldn’t want… wouldn’t want to forget this.”
“Sure,” I say, and I set the camera down on the barrier.
I feel a moment of relief when I pull up my camera and see the terrified family there in front of me. The embarrassment and concern from before begins to thaw.
“Smile, guys,” I tell them and they try, but as soon as the phone freezes the screen to confirm, the family blinks out of the frame.
They wait, expectantly.
“Bill,” I sigh, “I don’t think this is going to work.”
“What do you mean it’s not going to work, joker?” he says, and I sense, for the first time, an angry undercurrent, “You’ve just got to take the picture.”
“Maybe try taking your own picture,” I say, backing up, “Maybe set a timer or something.”
“What?” he asks, “Is it too much to ask a stranger for a favor now?” His voice is rising and he steps toward me. “Is it too much to ask for a helping hand?”
“Nothing like that,” I say, lowering my head and raising my hands, “Nothing like that at all, Bill.”
The sun is peeking up over the barrier now. Bill moves and it shines over his shoulder and into my eyes. I lower my sunglasses with one hand and I turn my back on him.
“Fuck you!” he yells, “Get in the car Mary, kids, let’s go!”
I do not turn back to look at them and I walk, calmly, back to the highway.
It’s taken some time to get used to this part, reader, the part that necessitates leaving.
“Fucking assholes!”
A car door slams.
Maybe there’s a way to help people like that, but I haven’t figured it out. In my experience, the only thing to do with stuck folk is to walk away. Otherwise you end up stuck there with them.
An engine roars to life.
I pause for a few minutes as soon as I’m out of sight of the look-out and I wait to see if I’m wrong. Could be I am an asshole here. Wouldn’t be the first time. I wait and look over the picture I tried to take of them, a picture of the sunrise and a cement barrier.
The engine idles for a moment and then shuts off. There are no more sounds.
I take Shitholes out and start to walk again. This region is looking pretty clear and it hasn’t seen much of the Stranger’s meddling. He never says much when I call.
I happen past the description of the turn-off and stop. There is a picture of the place, a familiar picture of the sunrise and a cement barrier.
Credit to the author.
-traveler
