Ain’t it hard to stumble
When you got nowhere to fall?
In this whole wide world
I got nowhere at all.
-From an old folksong
The road is flat and straight, long like an arrow shot straight toward infinity. The land on each side is flat and dry, wide as only desert plains can be, the small, scattered cacti and sagebrush coated with white dust, not even a breath of wind to disturb them. The pale blue sky overhead is parched by the unrelenting, unbearable, hot pinpoint of the sun, unmolested by clouds.
A man walks the road. His steps are short and slow as he struggles through the heavy, dry air, the thick and unmoving blanket of heat. He wears an old pair of jeans, faded and torn, dirty and dusty like the cacti. They have seen many miles, these jeans, and will never be clean again, even if the man had the money or the means to wash them.
His khaki shirt lost its sleeves long ago, torn off at the shoulders when they became so ragged as to serve no purpose. Above the breast pockets are rips and tattered threads, remnants of a public service, a time in his life of which he was once proud, but which now just seems like a long time ago, and nothing of which he really remembers.
Around his neck is knotted a greasy bandanna. It was once a symbol of his freedom and independence. Now it serves little more than to capture some of the sweat rolling down the back of his neck.
The man is tall and thin, at first glance a weak and fragile figure. But closer study reveals muscles beneath the jeans and khaki. He is lean but hard, a tanned and weather-worn face framed by shaggy sun-bleached hair. His skin shares the features of the land through which he travels, not wrinkled yet giving a feeling of age, like ancient indigenous ruins, blasted and worn smooth by the blowing dust of centuries.
In his blue eyes, though, rests the weight of a troubled world. They are eyes that have paled under the rejection of society and have acquired the glisten of uncomprehending pain like that of an injured child. He seems both young and old, both worldly and innocent. A sense of transparency, of honesty and truth, seems to hover over his features, and yet it slips away upon closer scrutiny, a ghost of a person no longer fully present.
He is ready for death, but death, apparently, is not ready for him.
So, down the side of the desolate highway he walks, stumbling occasionally on the rough gravel of the shoulder, headed east, not because he necessarily wants to go east but simply because the road points that way. Really, one direction is as good as any other.
Occasionally a car passes on the two-lane highway, headed in the right direction for a ride, but the man ignores it, does not raise his thumb. He is aware how he must appear to the passing drivers, disheveled and unkempt, and he does not need any further rejection to validate his own perception of himself.
He just walks, eyes fixed on the ground a few ahead. Whenever a piece of litter comes into view, he pauses. A quick, professional assessment is made. Items of value justify the effort of bending down to retrieve them, after which they join other trash in the grimy knapsack on his back. Then he moves on, slow step after slow step.
And now: ahead of him, down the road in the shimmering distance, a black dot moves westward toward him on the opposite shoulder of the road.
He doesn’t notice it at first, but something makes him glance upward and he sees it. He stops, squinting, lifts a dirty hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
The dot draws near, and its blurry outline solidifies into the form of a large dog. It hurries along the highway in a steady trot, a long, pink tongue lolling from side to side in a panting mouth.
The man studies it as it approaches. He notes the ribs showing clearly through tight, black hide. The fur may have once been long, thick, and shiny, but is now dull and scraggly, falling out in spots. There is no collar but instead a piece of wire wrapped loosely around the neck, calling up memories of past masters and past pain.
Suddenly the dog sees the man and stops sharply. They stare warily at each other silently, fifty feet apart across the ribbon of black asphalt.
The man can’t help himself . . . he thinks of food, but, no, the dog is too thin and too large to make it worthwhile to catch and wrestle down. The dog, too, thinks of food, but, no, this man shows none of the signs that have betrayed a generous heart in the past.
The two mammals hold each other’s gaze, minds filled with the suspicions of a hostile society. A stray gust of wind lifts dust from the blacktop and rustles the sagebrush behind them.
Then comes an uneasy swirl in the gritty sky overhead, and their bodies tense. Suddenly (magically?), the air between them seems to grow dark, and from cobwebbed corners of their minds, memories come flooding back.
The man is in a cool, spacious suburban backyard on a sunny, spring day. Oh, so green! The grass is so cool under his bare feet! He hears his own voice, young and smooth.
“Here pups! Come here, pups!”
A crowd of fluffy puppies come barreling around the corner of the house enthusiastically, stumbling on their big feet, crashing into each other. They frolic up to him, climbing on his legs, spinning around him. He reaches down with very small, very smooth, pudgy and pink hands, and grabs a black pup, cuddling it to his cheek.
“Can I have this one, Daddy? Can I? . . .”
Simultaneously, across the hot desert pavement, the dog finds himself lying on a soft, thick rug. Next to him, a fire crackles in a stone fireplace, warming his back against the chill air of the room. He hears the sound of breathing from a nearby chair, accompanied but the occasional sound of a turning page. Then the body in the chair moves and he hears a gentle voice.
“Come here, boy.”
The dog stands slowly and stretches. His muscles feel comfortably tight with the memory of the day’s romp in the snow. His belly is full with a warm dinner. He walks over to the chair and feels strong fingers reach down to massage the back of his neck.
“There’s a good boy . . .”
But now the dark air clears and the desert returns for both. It is hot and dry again. They are still staring at each other, but the stares have changed.
The dog wags his tail, slowly, cautiously.
The man squats slowly down on his side of the road. He extends a hand toward the dog.
“Hiya, feller. How ya’ doing?”
The voice sounds unfamiliar, even to himself. He suddenly realizes he hasn’t said a word aloud in months.
But the dog wags his tail a little faster. It makes a couple of tentative steps toward the man, then hesitates.
“C’mon, boy,” the man whispers, “I won’t hurtcha . . . “
A trance has descended, both are swallowed up in a fragile sensation that neither have felt in years, a sense of . . . yes, bonding, friendship.
Neither of them hears the low roar building in the background, rubber on pavement. Neither notice the glint of sunlight reflecting off a speeding block of metal.
The dog still hesitates. The man pats the ground next to his feet, manages a feeble smile for the first time in years.
“Come on, boy. Come on, now . . .”
The dog’s body relaxes, and he starts to walk slowly across the road.
Two hearts lift, a moment of connection, of commitment, of hope . . .
Then a dam breaks inside the man’s head. The roar of an approaching car floods his consciousness. He looks beyond the dog and sees a big sedan hurtling down the road. The animal is directly in its path.
He stands abruptly. “Hey! Look out!”
The dog freezes, his tail stops wagging. He crouches down and stares at the man in sudden fear.
The man sees that the car is not slowing down.
“Get out of the way, ya dumb mutt! That car . . .”
The car sounds its horn abruptly and the dog’s paralysis is broken. Too late, he stands and whirls to face it, forming a snarl filled with the anguish of betrayal.
The huge vehicle, glistening with cruel chrome and glass, smacks into the animal. There is a horrible thudding sound, an unbearable howl of canine agony, a squirt of blood, a fur-blunted crunch of bones and flesh. The machine races onward, leaving a mangled black form rolling and bouncing across the shoulder.
The man half-crouches in shock, dimly aware of the receding sound of a motorized, uncaring society, roaring onward to its motorized, uncaring destination.
And another sound, of whimpers and pain from the bloody body, dragging and jerking itself into the ditch beside the road.
The man slowly stands upright, emotions rippling through his body. After a moment, he stumbles over to the ditch where the dog landed. The animal is lying on its side, blood staining the ground underneath, breathing heavily. It twitches its head, biting at its body in terrified confusion, unable to comprehend the pain.
Horrified, the man stares, then kneels beside it and extends a hand in comfort. But trust and friendship have fled. The dog growls and snaps at the man’s fingers. He jerks back a hand spattered with bloody saliva.
He moves back a few feet and sits down on the sand, staring numbly at the dog, watching the desert soak up the spilled blood. He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them. He feels an old sensation in his eyes, something else from long ago. He is crying.
The sun slowly slides into the desert. In the sky, yellow gives way to orange and red and then finally purple and dark blue. Traffic picks up on the road as truckers begin their nightly assault on the cooling highway. The moan of huge tires fill the desolate distances.
The dog still lives, but his breathing is slowing, growing fainter. Occasionally, the man tries to move near, but he is greeted with a feeble snarl and bared fangs.
Finally, it is dark. There is no moon, and the man can only see the dog in the brief light of passing cars. The animal is almost dead, he can sense it. The man has lingered too long, he should be looking for a place to sleep for the night, but he can’t make himself leave. He feels compelled to stay to the end.
At last, it must be close to midnight, he can detect no sign of life in the dog. He crawls over in the darkness and tentatively reaches out to lay a hand on the gaunt frame, motionless but still warm.
For a long moment, he strokes the rough fur and lowers his head onto his own chest sadly.
Then, without warning, there is a growl, and he feels sharp teeth rip into his arm. He jerks it away and scrambles to his feet. Something warm and wet is running down his arm, across his hand, flowing onto the ground.
A passing set of headlights illuminates the scene. There is a deep red gash on his forearm, blood flowing freely.
Then another growl beneath him. Pain shoots up his leg as teeth rip through his thin jeans. He screams and shakes his leg viciously, but the dog somehow maintains its death grip, refuses to let go.
Fear grips him and he stumbles backward, kicking and shaking the dog desperately.
He backs up blindly and the ground becomes smooth and hard beneath his feet. There is a sudden blast of a horn, a flash of light, and the screech of tires on pavement. He whirls and finds the shining eyes of Death bearing down on him.
Something huge hits him very hard and throws him backward. He hits the ground and hell itself breaks loose in his mind as the eighteen-wheelers catches him and rolls over his body, shredding his skin and snapping his bones. He is tumbled and twisted under the screaming blackness of the machine.
Then the metal chaos around him is gone, but he is still rolling, a rag doll, to finally come to a tangled stop in the roadside ditch. In a last movement, one arm lands on something soft.
Vaguely, he hears footsteps approaching. They come very close and stop, he hears deep voices, filled with fear, then the footsteps move away quickly, never to return. He is alone with his agony.
It is quiet now. He can barely hear the traffic passing, lying down there in the shadow of the ditch. No one would see him, crumpled in the dark. He is more invisible than ever. It is getting hard to breathe, the pain is starting to fade.
Suddenly, the soft thing under his arm moves, and he hears a low whimper. A dry, coarse tongue runs itself along his shattered arm. Once, twice, three times, then it stops. The soft thing moves no more.
Trucks and cars roar past. Dimly he wonders if the dog had a name. He tries to remember the name of that puppy from so long ago, and then he tries to remember his own name. Just as it is coming to him, but before it arrives, the final darkness comes first.