James Moffitt / To Reno

To Reno

James Moffitt

“Mankind is unkind man.”

“Heh.” It’s all I could muster in response. We’re standin’ in a dry heat over the stinking body of a dead dog, tire treads running over its burst belly. The philosopher next to me is a man I know only as Mike. We had sort of picked each other up at Dana's Deliteful Diner twenty miles back. No shit; they spelled it Delite. I love the South.

We've been hitchin' since noon. Mike sticks out his thumb, and his faded orange pack shifts to his other shoulder as we press on through the treacherous heat. The road shimmers in front of us, and I swear to God I can almost feel it coming up through my boots. Might be ‘cause they have so many holes in them. A truck throws itself on the shoulder a hundred yards from us. Dust kicks up, and we hustle on towards it, both of our packs clanging with the pans and other things we carry.

“You boys all right?” the driver asks as we clamber into the back.

“Yup,” Mike and I reply simultaneously. I can tell he's a seasoned traveler. He's grungy, not poorly shaved, but rough faced. His hands are weathered, and his body is toned with the kind of practical muscle you can't find in any gym. This man's been around.

We talk little on the ride, but it doesn't matter anyway ‘cause the bastard only takes us a bit up the road. I told Mike how I was trying to get to Reno to see my family.

“Don't carry strangers after dark, y'all got to get off,” the man says, swinging the truck back over to the side.

“Fuck,” we both mutter, grabbing our sacks as the truck bed disappears out from under them. We stand a minute in the dust.

“Ain't no point walking. Let's set camp,” says Mike, already stepping into the thin tree line beside the road. They remind me of a comb-over, these trees, trying to compensate for the brutally cut gash across nature's forehead. They're spaced too far apart, and even in the dusk, I can see the swamp farther back under the cover of the trees. I know we have to get a fire going, so I follow Mike into the woods. We drop our packs in a clearing about twenty yards from the road. An hour later and we got a fire.

“So how'd you get to traveling?” asks Mike, passing me another beer and the rest of the bag of pretzels we’d stolen. The look that crossed between us in town, one of knowing, and instant recognition. With only a few words and a quick introduction, we both walked into the convenience store, each sliding into different aisles. I watched him slip food into his pockets and pack without so much as a sideways glance. I kept a lookout. The burnedout cashier hardly even looked up. With passing smiles I bought a pack of matches as Mike trekked out with the bulk of our take.

“I don't know if I know anymore man...one thing led to another, and I just got so fed up, I set out one night. I just took off walking, wound up in Phoenix. Tough town, not much help there. I kept on moving. Couple of years later, here I am in Georgia. You?”

Mike swills hard on his beer, and looks across the fire. “Same thing man. I came from a bullshit job in a bullshit town man, and I just had enough. Realized I wasn't afraid, so I took off. Came down from New York. Met some boys in Philadelphia, they showed me the ropes, took me out west for awhile. When we got back to the East Coast, they split off to the orange harvest in Florida. I met up with some other fellas, and they robbed me for everything I had, beat the shit outta me, and left me.”

“Jesus. I didn't know guys like that were still running around,” I say back. I heard of people running round over the last couple of years, meeting up with guys, feeding them, maybe travelin' around with them for a couple days before roughing them up, took what they could and moved on. It didn't sit right with me, that kind of behavior, part of the reason I wound up where I've been at last couple of years. Got so tired and fed up of people stomping all over the place, all over one another, without any good reason.

“Yeah. I can't stand that. So low down. You know a man's low when he's

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robbin' the bottom of the barrel, taking from his fellow travelers,” says Mike.

“Yup.” The fire crackles at my feet, and I watch the steam swirling off of the toes of my boots. My back is cold from the sweat my pack caused sitting against it all day. Mike and I drink another couple apiece, talk about Reno, then move a little further away from the fire and pull out our bed rolls. We grunt a salutation to dreams as they come. 'Bout sunrise when I wake up. I see Mike. Goin' through my pack.

“What the fuck,” I say groggily.

“Goddammit, why'd you have to go and wake up.” Mike stuffs my cash-roll into his pocket, then takes a lunging step, like a giant, over the fire. His right leg sets down just as his left comes swinging up into my face. His boot catches me square, and lights flashes as my head rings. I start to get up, but that dog boots me again in my gut, and I spill up my stomach, all beer and bile. The bastard steps on my head, crunching down on my ear. I feel my cheekbone crack, but I'm already so deep back to sleep, its barely there.

When I wake up, my pack is a burned pile of nylon and aluminum frame on the ground; the fire is out. 'Bout four in the afternoon now. He took me for everything, so I get up and head toward the road, I can hear a truck coming.

“What in the hell happened to you?” says the driver as I get in the passenger side. I slump down against the door and tell him, “My traveling partner robbed me. Took all I had man.”

“Let’s get you into town. I can't believe this kind of violence would ever come here,” the driver says, putting the truck into gear. I slide my buck knife, a gift from my father, out of my pocket, easing it open against the door where he can't see it.

“Mankind is unkind man,” I say, smiling.