Dry popcorn snow whirled in hypnotizing patterns on

the frozen asphalt. The edges of the winter

landscape furred in shades of grey: sky, adobe
buildings, light poles, trash, electric wires, the
concrete on-ramp. Headlights of on coming trucks
and cars floated in the grey blue haze of blowing
snow. The kneeling bundle on the side of the on-
ramp rubbed his gloved hands together, pressing
them between his thighs. The snow stung his nose
and eyes, the only skin exposed, as the dry crystals
caught in his trim beard. He stood and stomped his
boots to wake up his frozen feet. His jeans, pressed
with a sharp crease, felt frozen against his thighs and
he pulled the collar of the caramel colored down
parka up against his ears.

Clayton heard the signature putting of a Volkswagen

van’s engine and turned to see headlights. The van
was crunching slowly up the on ramp and he waved a
confident hand and gestured with his thumb
hopefully. The van passed and then slowed as the
road leveled. He lurched against the wind and pulled
at the handle. It took two hard tugs to get the frozen
door open and then he jumped in and pulled it shut
with a hollow bang.

“Thanks man,” Clayton rubbed his gloved hands on

his thighs.

“I’m headed towards Phoenix. That suit you?” the

driver was a young man with a carefree grin, and he
bounced a bit in his seat tapping the steering wheel.
Leo had just been thinking what a long boring drive
he had ahead when he saw the man at the top of the
onramp.

“Perfect. I appreciate you stopping and giving me a

lift.” Clayton took in the young man’s shoulder
length black curls, swinging under a knit cap with the
momentum of his tapping, silver bracelets jangling
and his small frame gypsy wrapped in layers of
flannel and wool. Leo had the appearance of a
twelve-year-old in wire rim glasses. Only the wisps
of mustache and beard that patched his cheeks kept
him from being carded at Zia’s bar when he had
beers with his fellow UNM grad students.

Clayton tapped down his contempt. His years of

military school were long behind him, but the
discipline was deeply engrained. His clothes were
always clean and pressed, his boots shined, his shirt
tucked in. Even during his daily exercise ritual, he
kept his t-shirt tucked in. His beard and letting his
thinning hair graze his collar were his only outward
flaunting of protocol, and both were meticulously
groomed. Clayton scorned overeducated trust fund
hippies, but he was desperate to disappear and felt
this kid would prove an unreliable witness if
questioned later.

Leo pulled back onto the freeway, slowly shifting

back up to third gear. The blue Volkswagen slowly
dissolved into the storm.

“Rough day for travel. There’s a thermos of coffee

right at your feet there. Help yourself.”

“That’ll work,” Clayton sighed as he reached for the

thermos. He poured a cap full of black coffee and
held it in his gloved hand. “I can help with gas and
pick up supper for your trouble.”

Leo raised his eyebrows. “That’ll work,” he parroted

and grinned.

Clayton grimaced into the cap of coffee and grunted,

sealing the contract.

Before the van’s headlights had given Clayton a

small hope of being rescued from the freezing wind
of the on-ramp, he had wondered briefly if this was
how he would end up. That his frozen body would be
found on the I-40 on-ramp leading from the
Albuquerque airport to points West. It was pure
survival instinct that led him to start walking from
the rental car return desk toward the freeway and
not toward the Frontier Airlines terminal where a
plane was waiting with two seats that would
ultimately not be filled.

His plans had derailed when he reached into the

interior side pocket of his leather satchel to get the
cash to pay for the rental car and his fingertips
grazed a loose .38 cartridge. He startled and felt a
ice hot surge in his stomach. Where was the holster?

At the motel that morning, Clayton had become

irritated with Ben, who had insisted that they count
the cash for the third time. They were pressed for
time and he was worried about missing their flight
back to Phoenix. The .38 was his favorite, lovely with
a pearl handle. He had meant to return the zippered
holster to it’s hiding place in one of his prized
kangaroo skin boots, below the form. But had he?
Was it now nestled in the boot bag and sitting safely
in their suitcase waiting to be loaded into the belly of
the plane?

The boots were custom made and they were

beauties. Too flashy for everyday, but commanding
respect during business deals. He had visited the old
Mexican in the boot factory in Juarez and had his feet
cast, a ceramic form had been made. He hand
selected the cuts of leather from piles in a
cinderblock building that smelled of tanning solvents
and thread color and heel size. They fit his feet like
they had grown there.

Standing outside the rental car office he closed his

eyes, knowing he’d left the holster in their carryon
duffle with his dop kit. Knowing that Ben was now
probably in police custody after taking the duffle
through security. The fear and anger blended in his
bloodstream and with no plan he headed for the
freeway on ramp.

The intensity of the cold didn’t register at first, his

face was pinched in rage and his determination to be
swallowed into an anonymous westbound vehicle
pushed him up the curb and over the guardrail.
Snow was not yet accumulating and no ice had
formed so he was able to walk up the ramp easily,
but he didn’t want to call attention to himself and
alert the cops so he stayed on the top of the ramp
and waited. Standing with his back to the wind and
his grey felt hat pulled low on his forehead his pulse
began to slow and the cold asphalt began to leach
the warmth from his body from the souls of his boots.

These were also custom made from the forms in

Mexico, but everyday calf, more cozy than
houseslippers, one of a half dozen pair that Clayton
polished and buffed each week. But they were not
meant to catch the eye. The jewels in the suitcase
were special and the ache Clayton felt at loosing
them sparked a new warmth in his belly. Now both
the boots and his gun were possibly gone forever
and he was freezing his ass off on the side of the
freeway.

The landscape west of Albuquerque could be called

beautiful by some, in a painting or photographed at
dawn or dusk. Looking out the Volkswagen’s snow
smeared windshield one couldn’t tell if it were noon
or twilight. There was nothing but grey blue and no
edges to anything. The van had a CB and an 8 track
player. Leo was partial to the Doobie Brothers which
did not improve Clayton’s mood.

“Do you mind if I browse your tape library?” Clayton

asked, trying to sound curious not judgmental.

“There’s a shoe box under your seat. Got Waylon,

Willie, Creedence, Cash and I think my brother’s
Stones tapes in there too. You can be DJ.”

“Great.” Clayton reached under his seat and pulled

the box onto his lap. “You wear Hush Puppies?”
Clayton smirked.
“Ha! Right! Naw, I grabbed that box outta my old
man’s garage.” Leo continued to giggle.

“Ah! Here’s something. This is great.” Clayton

ejected the Doobie Brothers tape and inserted a Van
Morrison tape. “Much better.”

“Okay, Mr. Morrison it is. Next gas stop should be in

about an hour. I suppose we should get a hot meal
about then.”

Clayton had covered this route countless times and

knew every exit and what it offered. He was a
regular at a few spots and mentally settled on a
Mexican café in Gallup called La Cucaracha. He
longed for their homemade tamales and a cold Dos
Equis.

“We can stop in Gallup and like I said, it’s on me, I do

so appreciate you keeping my ass from freezing out
there.”

Clayton looked out to the moonscape of the frozen

desert and considered for a moment what Ben was
having for lunch. If he was in a holding cell, if he’d
been given a phone call, and who he would possibly
think to call.

“Aw now I’m getting hungry. Change the subject –

quick! I can’t drive an hour with my stomach
churning.”

Clayton tried to think of a subject he wanting to talk

about with the kid as his senses became dulled by
Van Morrison, the putting Volkswagen engine, the
slow hiss of tires on snow and the occasional lazy
swipe of the windshield wipers against the teasing
snow.

“You don’t need to feel shy about telling me that it’s

none of my business, but I am curious what put you
in the mind to hitchhike in this weather.”

There was a long pause as Clayton began to limber

his mind to meet this challenge. Clayton had never
told a completely true personal narrative in his life.
He wouldn’t know how.

“I had what you might call a breach of confidence.

Someone I thought was trustworthy, ya know, in my
corner? Turned out he wasn’t the man I thought he
was. He set me up but before he could lower the
net, I saw him for what he was. Unfortunately it left
me with no option but to get out of Dodge. I was
unable to make proper travel arrangements.”

Clayton enjoyed how that sounded. He was

impressed with his talent for crafting his story with
just a peppering of the facts to keep the structure
sound.

Leo nodded and smiled at the evasive answer. “Fine,

have it your way. Don’t tell me. But I”ll bet there’s a
woman.”

Clayton laughed out loud, “Well, hell. There’s

always a woman.” And he smiled at Leo for the first
time, a seductive ‘you’re alright’ smile of male
bonding.

Leo liked having a companion on his long drives but

was not unaware of the dangers of picking up
hitchhikers. He felt lucky that he had never run into
a problem doing it. Everyone had stories and in the
end everyone was the same. People all have the
same needs and desires, when you get down to it.
Plus he had nothing worth stealing, and a rider was
always willing to help with gas or buy coffee. Leo
was beginning to warm up to Clayton and was very
eager to hear his story.

The men listened to Van Morrison and Clayton talked

easily about women who had been too demanding or
too bossy. Each had a woman who had left them
scarred and several they had accidentally forgotten
to call the next day or any day. Leo felt that their
stories and laughter had dissolved any trace of
unfamiliarity and at one point Leo asked Clayton a
question whose answer made Leo wish he hadn’t of
asked.

“What’s the worse thing you have ever done to a

lady friend? I’ll confess mine: I slept with my lady’s
younger sister. Stupid. She was trouble, the
younger one. So that was the end of that. What
about you? Every completely misstep?”

“I’d be lying if I said no.” Clayton smiled a sad smile.

“I think I need the comfort of a full stomach before I
get into the details on my worse misdeed when it
comes to women.”
“We got about 30 miles before Gallup. So, do you
have kids? That’s one thing I look forward to but
later, like maybe ten years or so.”

“Yeah. That’s part of my story though, I don’t want

to ruin the punch line.”

Billboards began appearing in the darkening grey

haze, mostly torn and partial advertisements for food
and shelter with the remnants of the former business
underneath. Leo eased the van off the highway into
the first filling station on the access road. Under the
fluorescent lights of the gas pumps Clayton looked
older, his face more angular and lined. “I got this,”
he said and walked quickly up to the window to pay.
The attendant turned on the pump and Leo filled the
tank while Clayton took the restroom key and leaned
into the wind as he made his way toward the side of
the building. Inside the men’s room he locked the
door and then took off his felt hat. He washed his
face and hands with the icy tap and dried them and
then took his hat and peeled back the satin lining
near the brim. He removed four fifty dollar bills and
replaced the lining. He combed the water through
his thinning hair and put the hat back on and put
three bills into his wallet and one in his front pocket.
His thumbnail caught on a thread from his pocket
and took out his knife and clipped the nail, then
rubbed the nail smooth. He took the key back to the
attendant and then paid for the gas.

Back in the van the men drove slowly down the

access road until Clayton pointed to a side street and
told Leo to turn. Two blocks down was the Mexican
café, La Cucaracha, above the door was a red neon
sign outlining a dancing cockroach in a sombrero.
Inside the men claimed a booth and an older Mexican
woman brought them sticky plastic menus and water
in red plastic cups. Her name was etched in a red
plastic badge: JOSIE. The table was covered in bright
oilcloth still damp from being wiped down. Both men
ordered coffee and quietly studied their menus. The
clack of billiard balls could be heard from the bar in
the back.

“I recommend the tamales. They’re small so you

should get the half dozen. I prefer the green chile
but the pork’s their best seller.” Clayton raised his
hand at Josie and mouthed “Tecate” and she nodded
and turned back towards the kitchen.

Josie recognized Clayton but didn’t know his name.

He came through regularly, ordered the same each
time, always tipped well, always the wolf mask smile.
A dangerous hungry smile. Always alone.

“I’m hungry and if you’re paying I might as well

splurge. How’s the chimichanga?” Leo had a
twinkley smile that Clayton hadn’t noticed when they
were sitting side by side in the van.

“Well, what isn’t good that’s deep fried? I prefer the

enchilada plate if I’m going’ for a full meal. Oh
great.” Clayton smiled flirtatiously at Josie as she put
the can of Tecate down and a small dish of lime
wedges.
“You ready to order?” she smiled back, a neutral
waitress smile.

The men ordered tamales to split, the chimichanga

and the enchilada dinners and Josie took their menus
and headed back to the kitchen. Josie clipped the
order slip to the wheel then ducked behind the soda
dispenser to spy on the men She was worried for
this young man with the wolf.

Leo was ready for Clayton to resume his story. “So

you have a child and you wronged a woman? Now
for the details. What’s your story?”

Clayton hung his hat on the hook provided behind

the booth. What hair he still had was pressed in a
tight ring where the hat had been. He smoothed it
back with his manicured hands and reached for a
lime wedge. He rubbed the lime wedge on the rim of
the Tecate can and squeezed the rest into the can.
He then reached for the salt checker. “well, it starts
out simple enough. Then it gets complicated. That’s
where I am now, the complicated part.”

Clayton took two long swallows of the beer, savoring

the lime and salt. “I married under duress. I was
enjoying life as a drunk frat boy and wham” Clayton
slapped his palm on the table, “suddenly I’m at the
altar with a shotgun at my back.” He licked the salt
from his mustache, holding Leo’s gaze.

Josie came by and dropped off a plastic basket of

warm tortilla chips and a fake lava bowl of salsa. “do
you have a chipotle or a tomatillo salsa? Something
muy caliente?” asked Clayton with his Tecate smile.
“si,” she said and returned again to the kitchen.

“I guess you were out of the frat?” asked Leo.

“Technically, sure. I still went to a lot of the

festivities and helped with pledges. I was pretty
involved. But yeah, I was not officially a member and
had to move out of the house.” Clayton scowled at
the memory and took several more gulps of beer.

Josie made another trip to the men’s table with the

salsas and put them next to the chips. One was dark
brown and the other light green. She smiled and
pointed to each, “Chipotle. Tomatillo. You want
another Tecate?” Josie knew what his answer would
be.

“Por Favor.” Clayton smiled.

“So off to manhood, fatherhood and the daily grind of

life in an office, suit and tie, ‘yes, sir’ to the boss. I
was happy to do business trips and client lunches
and the trips became longer and more frequent.
Fast forward eight years and I have a regular
schedule with my out of town clients, hotels and
restaurants in those towns. In each town I have a
routine with bartenders, desk clerks and waitresses.
They remember my name, treat me with respect and
I remember them at Christmas.”

Almost none of this was true. Clayton stayed on the

road as much as possible, but kept to himself when
not showing new designs to a purchase manager. He
had spiral notebook with crib notes on each client,
with the name of the secretary and her description,
family members names and kids ages, schools, any
relevant information including physical description.

Leo was listening and testing each salsa. The

chipotle was too smokey but he liked the citrus flavor
of the tomatillo. He was sweating and nodding, “not
friends or family but important.”

“Exactly. Except in one town, at one bar. A lounge

singer became more than a ‘friend’. She was happy
with the arrangement we had because she was
studying to be a nurse and she didn’t have time to
be anybody’s full time girl friend. She didn’t make
demands of me and was fun. I never gave her any
personal information about my home life and she
never asked. Everything was perfect.”

Josie arrived with a huge tray balanced on one

shoulder and a tray stand in her free hand. She set
up the tray and began arranging the platters of food.
“Hot plate.” She warned as she set the oval plate of
red sauce and cheese in front of Clayton. She
repeated the warning to Leo and set the tamales in
the center between them. She replaced the empty
Tecate with a new full can and asked, “anything
else?” and then, “ Enjoy.” and turned and headed for
her hiding place behind the soda dispenser before
either could answer.

The men tested the heat on their platters and started

unwrapping the tamales. Steam rose from their
table and the men were quiet while they navigated
their food.

Leo nudged Clayton back to his story, “perfect

except you were married and had a child at home.”

“Wrong!” challenged Clayton, “Perfect until I come

into the bar one night and she wasn’t there. ‘She’s
taking a break,’ the bartender said. I figure she’s in
finals or started an internship at the hospital. She’s
mentioned that being a concern, not getting paid for
a while so she can intern. I have a hell of a time
getting her number from the bartender. When I call,
she’s living with her mother. She had moved out of
her apartment so I’m thinkin’ that’s gonna put a
cramp in our relationship. I always went to her
place. I just felt more comfortable having my motel
room be just for me, ya know?”

Clayton started in on his enchiladas. He thought

longingly of his motor home parked in the desert. He
only started staying in motels again when he and
Ben had started their business venture. His motor
home was sanctuary for him and he never let anyone
else sleep there. Clayton paused in eating to wash
down a mouthful of enchilada with the last of his
beer, which Josie replaced without his asking.

Leo nodded. He was enjoying Clayton’s story, and

feeling thankful that his own life was more simple,
and a little sad for Clayton’s wife and child even
though he didn’t know them.

“she says we should get dinner out, doesn’t want me

to come pick her up. Says she’ll meet me at this
restaurant I don’t know. I should have known that
was a bad sign. So we meet at the restaurant -
some Italian place near the mall – and she doesn’t
even let me get a drink first before she hits me. ‘I’m
pregnant’. I don’t need to tell you this is not good
news for either of us.” Clayton is finishing his
enchilada platter, using pieces of tamale to soak up
the extra sauce and slurps the fresh beer. He signals
Josie with a spent lime, a request for another.

The waitress hurries over with a new dish of limes

and clears his empty plate. Leo shakes his head at
her when she offers to take his. He is slowly finishing
his meal and eager to learn the rest of Clayton’s
story.

“that is a drag,’ Leo says. “bummer”

“yeah, tell me. I’m thinking, OK, she could be lying,

or maybe she wants money. Or maybe she’s gonna
threaten to tell my wife and want a lot of money. I
haven’t even told her I’m married – I don’t wear a
ring – so maybe she found out and got pregnant on
purpose. Man, my head is spinning and I’m not
making any sense to myself. I should tell her I’m
going to the men’s room and take off. She couldn’t
track me down. I’d switch territories with another
rep and never come back to this town again. I’m
looking for an escape hatch. Then she says, “I’m
not getting rid of it. I’m keeping it. My momma will
help me with the baby until I’m finished with school.
I just thought it was right to tell you. You can be
involved or not, but don’t say you want to and then
go and flake out later. You need to decide now.”

Clayton is leaning in studying Leo’s reaction. Where

he takes the story next depends on the audience. A
real man will see how clearly in the right Clayton is.

Leo pushes his platter to the side and turns to look

for Josie. He catches her eye and mouths ‘coffee’
and she nods. “that is quite a situation you have
there.”

A safe neutral response. Clayton can see he has to

bring Leo more forcefully to his position. Explain a
man’s perspective by example.

Josie is quick with the coffee and clears the rest of

the dishes off the table. She leaves the hand written
check face down on a black plastic tray with two
peppermints. “take your time.”

Clayton is smiling in his wolfish way, “oh you have no

idea. So she’s having my kid, , and I’m welcome to
take on the responsibility of being ‘Daddy’, but she
cuts me out of her life and I get to live in fear of my
wife and family learning of this bastard child. She’s
always got this to hang over me. It’s a potential
nightmare scenario, right? So I figure, she can’t hurt
me with this if I beat her to the punch. So, I had a
frat buddy of mine open a new checking account in
his name for me to put some money away, I rent an
apartment in Flagstaff and set up house. Then I go
home and come clean with the wife, who
understandably wants me out. I let her file for
divorce and that, my friend is the worst thing I ever
did.”

“You win.” Leo laughs nervously, and Clayton joins

him laughing loud and with relief.

Clayton palms the check and glances at it then pulls

a fifty from his pocket and walks up to the cashier.
He tips Josie generously as she expects, and returns
to the booth for his hat and coat. “gonna use the
john before we hit the road.” And he walks to the
hallway.

Leo is lost in thought. He doesn’t know Clayton at all

and he is not sure he respects a man who is so
cavalier with his children, even if they both came into
his life serendipitously. He remembers his thermos
and asks Josie to fill it with coffee and hands her a
five. She waves the cash away and takes the
thermos with a smile, this time genuine.

In the men’s room, Clayton washes his hands with

the bar of rough lava soap provided and then
splashes water on his face. He hadn’t meant to go
into so much personal detail in his story and hopes
Leo isn’t appalled. Most men who travel have affairs,
and the women know what they’re getting in to. He
dries his face and hands and puts on his hat and
parka. ‘fuck it.’ He thinks, ‘No charge for the
education, son.’

The men meet up at the cashier as the full thermos is

returned to Leo. Clayton takes a toothpick from the
dispenser and puts it in his mouth. Both men stand
in the alcove zipping their parkas and raising their
collars before they brave the blowing snow and jog
quickly to the van.

“next stop Winslow!” Leo announced as he started

the van. He forced Clayton’s sordid tale out of his
thoughts. He set the coffee filled thermos on the
floor and nosed out of the deserted gravel parking
lot. He began to sing: “Standin’ on a corner in
Winslow Arizona, hey, find the Eagles tape. Let’s
listen to that one.”

“Eagles. Okay.” Clayton ejected the tape and then

fumbled in the Hush Puppies shoe box then inserted
the Eagles and hit rewind. The whiny screech filled
the van. It was dark, early evening and the
headlights showed there was nothing on the road.
Leo didn’t seem upset with him. He was feeling
relieved, full and the beers helped his thoughts settle
on that morning’s fiasco. The salsa in his gut began
to smolder as he relived his anger at Ben.

Ben was surely incarcerated at this moment back in

Albuquerque. They had worked this simple deal
many times with no hitches. It was a no brainer - he
had the supplier – Ben had the clients and it was fast.
Easy money. Everybody wins.

Clayton had met Ben through his kid. They had kids
the same age and they were in a summer tumbling
class together at ASU. Waiting for the class to be
over, they struck up a conversation based on the t-
shirt the partner was wearing. It was a Grateful Dead
skull in a New Mexico zia. Clayton wasn’t a
deadhead but he liked the design, thought it clever.
Ben had worked as a local stage crew on that tour
and made money on the side selling weed to the
crew. He had volunteered this information, without
lowering his voice as if he’d been a sno-cone vendor.

Clayton bought from a guy who was always trying to

recruit him into selling, because he said he looked so
‘straight’ no body would suspect. By the end of the
summer Clayton and Ben had organized a business
plan to make drops at rock shows in Albuquerque
through Ben’s roadie crew contacts.

He had never had any need to carry a gun, but for

some reason he felt any self respecting dealer would
have one. He bought the pearl handled pistol in a
pawnshop on Guadalupe street before their first deal.

Ben had laughed hysterically when he saw it. “what

was that line, man, from Patton? ‘Only a pimp in a
cheap whorehouse in New Orleans would carry a
pearl handled pistol’ or was it the piano player? Man
you are not going to need that. Just be cool. Crazy
bastard.” Ben shook his head in disbelief.

He’d been right. He’d never needed it and it was a

liability. Now he’d forgotten to put it back in his boot
bag and Ben had unknowingly taken it through
security in their carryon. Shit.