Books by Philip Hoy
Because what, I look like a rapist?
Run, you almost say. It’s him! But it’s too late for that. He doesn’t know, you reassure yourself, moving closer to Joanne and Ruth. He doesn’t know.
“Our car broke down,” says Ruth. “Can you give us a ride to the nearest payphone?”
“Shit,” he says, looking her up and down. “You need a ride? Where you wanna go, beautiful? I’ll take you anywhere.”
“Just a payphone, please.”
He grins. “Of course, of course.” Now he allows his gaze to sweep over you before returning to Ruth. “Except, I only got room for two.”
“I’ll sit in the back,” says Joanne. “I don’t mind.”
He looks at Joanne, his mouth opens as if he’s about to speak, but then he throws his head back and laughs. “I’m just fucking with you,” he says, winking at Joanne. “You, girl, are definitely sitting up front. Get in. Get in. All three of you. I got room.”
Joanna hurries around the back of the truck with you and Ruth close behind, but you reach for the door handle and open it before she can. You climb in first and then reach over to help Joanne get in.
“Hey, woah, you a fag or something?” he says, turning to you just as Ruth squeezes in and slams the door shut.
“No, man.” He smells sour, like dried sweat. “I’m just trying to be a gentleman.”
He laughs, like a sneeze, through his nose. “Orale, check out this white boy, a gentleman, he says.” He leans forward to get a better look at the girls, his gaze moving freely over them. “Okay, okay, I get it, homeboy. Protecting your women.” Then he turns to you, eyes narrowing. “Because what, I look like a rapist?”
All you can do is hold his stare and try not to blink.
Slowly, his mouth stretches into a grin. “Orale,” he says, reaching up to pull the column gear into drive. “I’m just fucking with you.” The truck lurches forward and begins moving steadily down the road. He shifts around in his seat, first holding the steering wheel with both hands, then hanging his left arm out the window only to grip the wheel with it a few seconds later. “I mean, what does a rapist look like anyway?” he asks, running the palm of his right hand over the stubble of his shaved head. “In my experience, it’s the innocent looking ones, the mama’s boys, the fucking yes ma’am, no sir, I’ll have your daughter home by ten motherfuckers you can’t trust.” He looks over at Ruth and smiles. “With me you get what you see, right beautiful?”
Ruth doesn’t respond.
“So,” he says. “Where is it, your car? I didn’t see anything?”
“We’ve been walking for a while,” you say.
“On this road?”
“No. We, uh, kind of got lost.”
He laughs. “You lost your car? Whose is it?”
There is an intersection ahead. If it weren’t for the stop sign, you might not have noticed. “Mine,” you say.
He slows down just enough to make a left turn. “What is it?”
You picture Eric’s mother’s car. “A Datsun B210.”
“A Datsun? Shit.” He turns to Joanne and Ruth. “You hynas let this white boy drive you out to the middle of nowhere for what, some blow, some acid?” He pinches his thumb and forefinger together over his lips. “Sinsemilla?” He laughs. “So, he can, what, run out of gas and make your asses walk home? I sure hope it wasn’t for his Datsun bee-fucking-whatever, cause if you like cars,” he says, grinning at them. “I got cars back at the house, and anything else you need.”
“I had gas,” you say. “The engine overheated.”
“The engine—” He breaks out laughing like it’s the punchline of a joke. “Homeboy, you crack me up.”
You’re thinking about his gun and where he might have it when he slows the truck again, this time to turn right.
“What do they call you, Datsun?”
“My name?” you ask.
“Yeah, your name.”
“Matt.”
“Matt? Okay. What about you, payphone?” he asks, looking at Ruth. “What’s your name?”
“Ruth,” she says, her eyes on the road.
“Ruth,” he repeats. “And front-seat, here?”
Joanne looks around the truck cab, as if just becoming aware of her surroundings. “Joanne,” she says, hesitantly, like she would take it back if she could.
“Timoteo,” he says, hand to his chest. “But my friends call me Timo.”
Joanne stiffens next to you and her hand flies to her mouth.
Ruth reaches over and squeezes Joanne’s knee. “Thank you for the ride, Timo,” she says. “We really appreciate it.”
His mouth opens in a toothy grin. “Orale, my pleasure.”
Joanne begins to tremble next to you. You don’t know how much longer she can keep it together. You scan the horizon for the next intersection. Still, nothing but farmland. On the right, ahead in the distance, is a row of large, flat-roofed, metal looking buildings, packing houses maybe. And to the left, just as far, is what looks like a wall. A moving wall? Not a wall, a…
“Train,” you say.
“I see it,” says Timo.
At the speed it’s moving, the train will cross in front of the truck. Timo will have to stop for it. You turn to Ruth, meet her eyes, then let your gaze move to the door handle and back again. She makes the slightest of nods.
Now you can see the red lights ahead begin to flash, but unlike the crossing guards in town, no striped arm lowers to block the way. Timo isn’t slowing down though. He’s speeding up.
“We’re not going to make it,” you say.
Timo grips the wheel with both hands and stares straight ahead. “We might.”
For a moment, you think he could be right, but as the needle on the speedometer edges past sixty, the truck begins to vibrate and shudder and the gap between truck and train quickly closes. The train’s horn goes from intermittent blasts to one constant blare. The tracks are just ahead. It’s too late.
Timo brakes so hard that all three of you straight-arm the dash to keep from slamming into it. When the truck finally jerks to a complete stop, you are thrown back in your seats and the glovebox in front of Ruth drops open. Joanne’s purse is stuffed inside.
The train continues to roar past the front of the truck as Ruth opens the door, grabs Joanne, and jumps out. You try to follow, but Timo catches you by the back collar of your shirt and slams you into the dash board. Your head explodes in white light and searing pain, just before your world goes dark.
THE MISADVENTURES OF MATTHEW VAN DER BOOT is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental … no matter how many times you ask.