Departure

The first words I heard issue from Steve Amaya’s mouth did nothing to reassure me about the lunacy of motoring into the depths of the Mojave Desert with a complete stranger.

I was just finishing loading up the Cruiser – water, shovel, rope, toilet paper (you can never be too prepared, ya know) – as he pulled up. I walked out to the street to greet him. A tallish guy got out of the car. I recognized him – sort of – from his picture on Archipelago, but either that was an old picture or Steve had had a harrowing drive over, because he looked several years older in person. He looked nice enough, though, normal enough. Then he spoke.

Hooking a thumb towards his trunk: "I brought an axe."

Uh oh. He’d read my journal entry of the night before. He knew what my mother had said about him maybe being an axe murderer. He was making a funny. Maybe. Axe murderers are a notoriously unreadable breed; maybe he wasn’t making a funny, maybe he really did have an axe in the trunk and knew how to use it, intended to use it. Okayfine. I smiled. I had an axe, too, but I wasn’t saying.

I took Steve inside to meet the wife. He rose a notch in my estimation then, proved his mettle. Beth had just gotten out of bed, was still in ratty nightshirt, still had mattress hair, still had pillow face, still had dragon breath. I’ve lived with her and woken up to this for about five years now and it still scares me sometimes. Steve never flinched, though, he just stuck out his hand and said "Pleased ta meetcha." Ah, I thought, so he’s got backbone. I felt better about trekking into the bush with him. But a few minutes later, he worried me again.

To Beth: "Yer husband shore has a purty mouth," he said. Making a funny. Maybe. Perverts are a notoriously unreadable breed; maybe he wasn’t making a funny, maybe he really did think I had a purty mouth and knew how to use it, intended to use it. Okayfine. I smiled. I had an axe.

It was now 8:30, half an hour past our target departure time. We were burning daylight. We loaded his gear into the truck and climbed in. Two strangers trapped in a metal box for the next several hours, on a fool’s mission to hang up a phone 240 miles away. It felt good. It felt right.

I fired up the Cruiser and we headed out.