BURNING DIRT

Rudy huddled at the farthest end of the Buick's long bench seat, trying to compact his lanky frame into as little space as possible without seeming to cringe. The door handle gouged into his side, and that silly voice--loud so as to be heard over the radio and the labored thrum of the engine--gouged into his brain. He sat stiffly, primly, legs together, elbows tucked in, hands clenched in his lap, wanting to touch as little of the car's grimy interior as possible. He had put on his sunglasses though it was night--the tiny digital clock affixed to the cracked dashboard informed him it was 10:38 PM in glowing sickly green--and kept his gaze focused straight ahead, hoping to discourage any interaction. Far from it, his aloof manner only served to make her all the more determined to draw Rudy into conversation. 

Rudy didn't want words, he wanted quiet; he would even be content with just the music blasting from the radio, distorted and unfamiliar as it was, and the sound of the wheels on the road. He was tired, sore, dirty, and hungry. His last bed had been a musty pile of straw in a dilapidated barn, a dried out tarp pulled up over him as protection against the hot August sun beating down through the holes in the roof; his last meal a few pieces of overly spiced beef jerky and a large Styrofoam cup of strong coffee heavily laced with milk, obtained at a Stop & Shop gas station cum convenience mart about a half hour back when she (the source of his irritation) persuaded him to procure a bottle of vodka, beer, and cigarettes, as she was underage. His hasty snack sat uneasy in his troubled stomach. Before that no food had passed his lips for a couple of days; not for want of money, he had enough to stay reasonably fed if he bypassed extraneous expenses, like transportation and lodging. 

Rudy had been traveling on foot a little over 2 weeks, sleeping hidden in abandoned buildings during the day, walking at night. Despite his nomadic existence he always tried to clean up daily, wherever and whenever he could; gas station rest rooms, water faucets, irrigation ditches, the occasional pond he could totally bathe in; which was becoming a rare luxury the deeper he got into the Great Plains country. His appearance was very important to him regardless the circumstances. And it was exactly his appearance that chased him out of the last few diners he entered; though Rudy passed relatively unnoticed on his home turf, San Francisco, in Nebraska he was a pariah. No man looking as he did could expect to walk the back roads of the Midwest and remain unscathed. Dark clothing emphasizing his pale complexion, making its pallor all the more startling, black liner smudged around eyes of crystalline blue; long hair done in a thick tangle of meticulous braids of flat black entwined with a vivid purple that glowed once he stepped under the harsh florescent lights. At his last attempt, a kind waitress allowed him bathroom privileges, then tried to sneak out the back door with a plate of food for him, unfortunately intercepted by the burly cook who threatened to 'kick his faggoty ass', and hers, if he didn't disappear, pronto. 

This was the REAL WORLD, just like Cat kept telling him. He missed Cat; his love, his passion, his evil twin. They had been married for over 2, nearly 3 years, pledging hand written vows by candle light at some strange temple, Thee Church of Noctula, on the cliffs overlooking Frisco Bay; he didn't know if it was legal or not, and never really thought about it long enough to care. Even if she really weren’t his wife, he would always think of themselves as joined, in thought, heart, blood and breath. (But if that was true, he puzzled, why was he in Nebraska playing Jack Kerouac, and she was in San Francisco pretending to be a REAL PERSON.) He missed their attic room with the steepled ceilings and the mismatched furniture, silky fringed shawls in clashing patterns draping the walls. And Cat's cool fingers caressing, scratching, her long colorless hair trailing across his belly, white upon white; her slutty mouth and scraping teeth, the sweet sweat in the crease of her thigh. 

She had approached him on a late night street, defying the dead of winter wind, sparely dressed in sleek black pants and high cropped sweater, demanding—not asking, or suggesting—money for a blow job. Her defiant posturing and demanding words were all smoke and mirrors; the dark circles under her over bright gray eyes no make-up could hide, her chipped nails, and the decidedly unhealthy—septic, in fact—look of her navel ring revealed her true condition. Intrigued, Rudy countered with the offer of a hot meal, which she accepted, leading the way to a dim coffee house in the back room of a used book store. She stared at Rudy through the cigarette smoke haze, eyes narrowed to near slits, daring him to follow through with the transaction. 

Cat, beautiful Cat, who had returned with him to his loft, where she slept, untouched, 3 days straight, then never left. Sweet, decadent Cat, who had refused to tell him her name for nearly a month; even after they had already shared the most primal secrets their bodies had to offer. And infinitely dangerous Cat, who had originally intended to rob him; by force if necessary. She had an illegal switchblade hidden in her bra, and was not afraid to use it to cause the most damage possible, as her former boyfriend/pimp could attest; he was now missing half his nose and sporting a glass eye. What Cat didn’t know was that he was aware of her motives, their natures were too close for him not to, and Rudy was prepared. Groggy from an over full stomach, which had been long too empty, and the heavily spiced hot buttered rum he made once back at his loft, her original purpose was forgotten, and she fell asleep on the couch. And Rudy stayed awake, the entire three days. watching, studying, loving, worshipping; waiting for her to wake so they could rewrite the world and begin their life together. 

Rudy would eventually return, after he had done a little more traveling in the REAL WORLD; although he was finding he didn't like it much. 

And it was this same appearance that obtained him this ride. He was walking along the highway in Nebraska when a battered old Buick with a ragged vinyl top--as long as two compacts and the ugliest shade of turquoise--pulled up alongside him. Rudy was not on one of the main thoroughfares, he preferred the back roads; 2 lane black top with a sun blistered yellow stripe, a soft, garbage strewn shoulder fading into wide open fields of nothing; the better to avoid any unwanted mingling with the natives. (Which was in direct conflict with his original purpose, accepting Cat's challenge.) He had never hitched, nor accepted offers, people made him nervous, but, this time, somehow, he was coaxed into the car. After little more than a cursory glance at the slowing vehicle, Rudy continued his casual stride, relatively sure, as in similar situations before, his lack of interest was all the answer required, and they would be on their way, leaving him to his own. Instead, they veered off the pavement, steering the car even closer, coming right up behind him and honking the horn; something he definitely wasn't expecting. Pinned in the high beams curiosity won over better judgment; Rudy stopped, turned. 

"Hey, you're not from around here, are you? Wanna ride?"