THE WANDERER

L. A. Fields

Wade Anderson doesn’t remember why he started walking. The decision was made too long past, almost forty-five minutes ago to be exact, and those minutes do not matter anymore. What matters is why he stuck his thumb out and started hitchhiking, but for that he does have reasons.

There is the Kerouac in his backpack, the Cash in his ear buds, the sweet smell of gasoline that Wade does not yet detest since he is not old enough to be worrying about gas prices. There is the god-awful monotony of school, the horrors of his small Carolinian town, but mostly, there is the depressing walk between the bus stop and his house, from which he suddenly detoured today. It is nothing but scraggly weeds, tire rubber, and trash (of both the human and refuse varieties), so today he left it behind and headed for the interstate.

Wade is still heading there, but he seriously doubts that he will ever make it. Just let one of the neighbors spot him out here pretending to hitchhike; not only will they pick him up, they will take him straight back home and tell him to quit fuckin’ up. You don’t wanna be a fuck-up, doo ya? He is not so sure lately.

Truthfully, Wade has been going through some changes in his thinking. Now that his first year of high school is almost over, he is thinking he does not want to go back for a second one. And now that the school is abuzz with prom plans (and even the underclassmen can seem to talk of nothing else), Wade is thinking he cannot imagine asking out a girl; he has no goofy butterflies about it or anything, he just does not like girls all that much.

Wade hears a car approaching behind him and he turns to scope it out. He does not recognize it as belonging to anyone who knows him, so that is good, but it doesn’t look too promising otherwise. It is a purplish van with an unbelievable glare beaming off the windshield so that Wade cannot make out the driver. He sticks out his thumb anyway, just knowing that the vehicle will not be stopping for him because it is being piloted by some grouchy old wife with eight or nine kids in the back. But to Wade’s surprise, the van slows down and pulls over as it passes him, veering close enough to make Wade jump back in self-preservation.

Wade shakes off the shakes and approaches the passenger door. It opens on its own and swings wide, since the van is now inclined on the shoulder. Wade hooks his head inside to see who has stopped for him.

It is another surprise. The bad-tempered mother is not there; it’s an older guy (older to Wade, that is, so maybe nineteen or twenty) who looks like California personified to a Southern boy like Wade: he has ocean-blue eyes, sun-blond hair, beach-white teeth, and a palm tree’s slender build.

“You almost ran me down,” Wade accuses, though his heart is not in it; the muscle seems to have mysteriously stolen away.

“Don’t exaggerate. I missed you by a mile,” the driver says, punning on the name of the town. Wade has heard the joke before (dear Christ, they all have), but it suddenly seems the height of wit. He smiles wide at the stranger, who after a beat says, “Get in.”

Wade does not hesitate, but jumps in and plops his backpack down alongside his butt.

“I’m Darian,” the guy says, holding out his hand.

“Wade.”

“Where are you going?”

Wade shrugs happily. Hey! He’s going somewhere. He already forgot. “Um, wherever you’re taking me?”

Darian snorts as he puts the van in drive again. “Good answer.”

Wade should be feeling pretty sick about what he is doing, as the sky gets as purple as the van and North Carolina fades into South. He should be worried about how he is going to get back home, what his mother is going to do to him when he shows up a day-and-a-half late, whether or not he will have cops looking for him and what they’re gonna do to him for running off like this… But he is not worried.

Wade is too busy thinking about sex. The more he finds out about Darian, the more he hopes he is about to be taken advantage of, just like everyone promises will happen if you hitchhike. Darian, it turns out, is not from California, but Florida (J was close, Wade thought). Darian is also a musician of sorts, a one-man singer-songwriter guitarist on a “tour,” or so Darian defines driving around to random gigs in his stepfather’s old van.

That is so cool to Wade. He does not know if he knows how to flirt, but he is certainly trying his best, making eyes at Darian and not moving an inch whenever Darian reaches for the radio so that his hand is forced to graze Wade’s knee. Darian keeps smiling at Wade, enough to keep him hopeful, but not so much as to give anything away.

By the time they stop driving for the night, Wade is going nuts with wondering. Will he or won’t he do something? Is Darian interested in this little country kid? Wade is not about to do a thing in that direction. He will keep himself open, hint broadly if he must, but he will not initiate. Darian seems cool, but you never know how uncool a guy can get until you start hitting on him. He might just hit you back.

Wade need not have worried so much. When they pile into the curiously clean rear of the van to stretch out on the unfolded, bed-sized seat, Darian sets his hand on Wade’s thigh, more on the inside than the out, and asks him a telling question.

“How old are you?”

Wade hesitates to say, “Fifteen.”

Darian winces but does not remove his hand. “That’s pretty young.”

“I’ll be sixteen in like ten months,” Wade adds unhelpfully. Darian laughs. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Oh,” Wade says. He does nothing for a few seconds, just kind of waiting around for something to happen. Eventually Darian’s hand squeezes him gently and starts to move north. Wade does not stop it. He only watches it closely, too shy to look at Darian’s face even though that is the prettiest part of him. The hand stops over his fly.

“First time?” Darian asks.

Wade presses his lips together. “Does it show?”

“Were you trying to hide it? I hope you don’t wanna be an actor when you grow up.”

Wade looks up to say Hey in as outraged a voice as he can muster with that hand getting so friendly, but Darian interrupts him with a kiss. This is a first, too; the very first of many.

On the last day of school, Wade wakes up in Ohio. He realizes the date because when he turns on the TV in the skuzzy hotel he and Darian are in, it fizzles into the midmorning news and he sees the date down in the corner before he flips past looking for cartoons.

He has been tagging along with Darian for almost two weeks, and if he were a deeper person, he might pause here to take in the concept of time, the futility of measuring such a fluid and magical thing, and to regret that it is running out so quickly. Instead, Wade is just glad that he is not in his English II class right now, counting the minutes and yawning.

He can hear Darian in the bathroom starting a shower. Last night was their first in a hotel. Darian has finally gotten them to his next gig, and he apparently gets a hotel when that happens so he does not stink up the stage with road-funk. That information was offered freely by Darian when they stopped; Wade hardly ever asks a question, and Darian asks none. He does not seem to care where Wade came from, or why he is not there anymore, or even what his last name is.

Wade keeps meaning to tell him everything, but there does not seem to be any rush. For his own part, Wade is surprisingly unmoved by his new transient lifestyle, he is not homesick or worried, and he feels as if he could go on with Darian indefinitely, just drifting along on the road forever.

In fact, that night at the show, Wade suddenly finds himself dying to be a musician. How cool, even at this pathetic open-mic-like gig, how cool is it that Darian can play the guitar and sing at the same time? And do both so well? Darian even surprises Wade from up on the not-a-stage platform.

“Okay,” Darian tells the ten or so drunk people in the room. “This is a new song, never played it before, and I know that excites you folks, but please try to remain calm.” The bartender titters softly, and a tipsy girl up front lets out a long Owww!

“Yeah, so. This is for a friend of mine in the room tonight.” Darian tips a wink to Wade. “We’ve been on the road together for a while and, uh… Well, this song is called ‘The Wanderer.’”

Darian strums his guitar, tapping his foot to keep the slow, country beat. He whistles forlornly, but clear as glass. He stops for the lyrics:

“When I consider all of the things that I knowed,” he sings. “About what’s picked up at the side of the road, I think about some folk’s garbage and trash, about junkies and killers and counterfeit cash.” Darian grins around his words, faking a Southern-ish accent. “But ah never did think about picking up you. That is the one thing that ah never knew.”

He is singing the song again when they get back to the hotel, much more softly, and slurred around the edges by alcohol. Wade can taste it on his lips, but that is as close as he will get to a drink. Darian, though perfectly comfortable with his own underage drinking, refused to be a party to Wade’s. Totally unfair, to be sure, but arguing was not going to help. Darian’s fake ID made him untouchable, and Wade had to content himself with the low level of control he had over Darian’s suggestible self.

Now they have fallen on the bed and Darian is pawing sightlessly at Wade’s face in the dark. “Hey,” he whispers wetly.

“What?” Wade whispers back.

“I love you.”

“Oh, really?” Wade is smiling at the gold box of the ceiling in the streetlamp’s light.

“Yeah. You smell really good.”

“Well, then I love you too. You’re a really good singer.”

“Thank you,” Darian says politely before he falls asleep against Wade’s neck in the middle of kissing him. Wade pushes him under the covers and lies next to him, not falling asleep himself, but also not trying to. Wade is just hanging out enjoying the cold blast of the air conditioner, the warmth of Darian’s body, and the whole crazy situation. This is great, he thinks. It’s just like being on vacation!

Another week later finds the boys at a rest stop along I-75, Darian turning cartwheels to wake his bones up after driving all day. He groans as his back goes snap, crackle, pop, and then heaves a gargantuan sigh.

“I wish I could take over for a while,” says Wade, not really meaning it; Darian looks extremely uncomfortable.

“I’ll just bet you do, Useless McGee.”

“Anderson,” Wade says.

“Hmm?”

“My last name is Anderson.”

“M’kay, Useless Anderson. You couldn’t have gotten yourself a learner’s permit before I found you?”

“I did get one. I just left it at home when I ran away.”

Darian stops stretching and comes back to the van, where Wade is sitting on the hood. He puts his hands on Wade’s knees and says, “You ran away?”

“Yup,” says Wade proudly. “Just took off.”

He smiles at Darian, who isn’t exactly smiling back.

“Why?”

Wade shrugs. “No idea. Felt like it.”

“Um. Okay. Did you leave a note or anything?”

“Didn’t have a chance to,” Wade says, still oblivious to Darian’s concern. “I was walking home from the bus stop and just…” Wade gestures into the distance. “Took a detour.”

Darian stares at Wade for a doubt-filled, skeptical second, as if waiting for him to say, “Psych!” When Wade does not, Darian straightens up and away from him.

“What about your parents?”

“It’s just my mom. It’s not like she misses me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“ ’Cause she’s a bitch. She was always snappin’ at me to do this and do that and go to church. Fuck that.”

Darian crosses his arms and scowls fiercely at Wade. “What?” Wade asks indignantly.

“That’s all you’ve got? She told you to do things you didn’t want to do? News flash, asshole, that’s what mothers are for.”

Wade recoils slightly. “Don’t call me an asshole,” he pleads.

Darian eases his stance, unknotting his arms and setting his hands on his hips instead. “You could have at least left her a note.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” Wade tells Darian, wishing he had said nothing. Today should have been a silent day.

“You could call her,” Darian suggests.

Wade looks around for a pay phone and is relieved when he does not find one. He is about to point this out to Darian when he turns to find a cell phone thrust under his nose. Wade frowns at it, suddenly pissed.

“I’m not calling her. I don’t want to and you can’t make me.”

“I know that,” Darian says, not lowering the phone. “But I can leave you here.”

Wade flinches like he has just taken a low blow. “You wouldn’t do that,” he tells Darian, not at all sure if he is right and suddenly scared as well as hurt.

Darian waves the phone at him. “Call your mom and we won’t have to find out.”

Wade takes the phone slowly, thinking about forgetting the number (Darian would never believe that), thinking about dialing some random number and faking it. But eventually he dials his house and contents himself with hoping that Mom is out.

She’s not.

“Hello?” his mother answers. Wade considers hanging up on her. She sounds fine. She is not sniveling into the receiver because her only baby boy is gone; she is not anxiously sitting by the phone waiting for the kidnapper to call. She really doesn’t care. Wade can totally tell.

But Darian is standing threateningly close, so Wade talks.

“Hi, Mom. It’s Wade.” And just who the hell else would it be? There is no one else on earth who calls her Mom.

“Wade?” She sounds as if she has misplaced the name. “Wade, is it really you?”

“Yeah.”

Wade hears a shaky intake of breath and maybe a whispered Thank you, God. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just calling to…” He looks at Darian.

“To tell her you’re fine,” Darian whispers.

“To tell you I’m fine.”

“Where are you?” she sobs. Her face sounds extremely close to the receiver on her end.

“I’m in, um. I think I’m in Kentucky.”

Darian nods as Wade’s mother screams, “Kentucky? What are you doing there?”

Wade rolls his eyes. That worry sure lasted a long time; she is already mad at him. He knew she would be. “I’m with a friend,” he tells her, really incredibly fed up with this whole thing. “His name is Darian.”

Wade’s mother starts yelling about something else, but he does not hear it because Darian snaps for the phone. Wade gratefully hands it off and listens to Darian’s syncopated half of the conversation.

“Mrs. Anderson? This is Darian. I picked him up. He was hitchhiking. No, I don’t. I don’t think so. I’m a singer, I… No. No, he’s not. No.” Darian stops and stares hard at Wade for a long moment. “I think so,” he says cryptically.

Darian says “okay” a couple more times and folds his phone up. He slips it into his pocket and walks to the van’s side door. “I think we’ll stop here for tonight,” he says, opening the door, not looking at Wade. He climbs into the van and shuts the door, leaving Wade to watch the sunset, which he hardly enjoys, though it is quite beautiful.

Wade scuffles around, pacing up and down the parking lot, wondering if he is allowed to go inside the van. He feels sick to his stomach, sick at knowing Darian will now look at him differently because he is the kind of boy who would just run out on his own mother, and that apparently is not cool in Darian’s book. Maybe he is just really touchy about mothers. His mother probably died or didn’t love him or something. That makes so much sense to Wade that he smacks his forehead, goes straight to the van, and climbs inside.

“Hey, Darian?” he whispers.

“Hey, what?”

Wade slides the door shut behind him and feels his way close to Darian in the dark. “Did something happen with your mom?”

“No,” Darian says incredulously. “Dude, I call my mom every week and tell her where I’m going and what I’m doing and why. Moms like that. Sometimes she’ll send me money when I get stuck somewhere with no gas. Or she’ll send me extra clothes when I end up north in the winter. Or sometimes she’ll send me food, just because.”

“Well…then, what the hell?” Wade whines. He does not get what the big deal is, but he wants it to go away now.

Darian shakes his head, sighing. “Maybe you just have to be older to understand?” he asks to no one in particular, since he must surely know that Wade doesn’t have the answer. After a lengthy, uncomfortable silence, Darian extends his arm and Wade crawls beneath it.

“I’m sorry,” Wade whispers into Darian’s hair. He feels, somehow, that he has already been forgiven, but he wants Darian to be sweet on him again.

“Liar. You are not,” Darian laughs. Wade stays quiet, smiling but not cocky; he is just happy that everything is all right. “Are you tired?” Darian asks.

“No,” Wade says, his smile getting wider with insinuation. Their lips meet effortlessly in the dark.

When Wade wakes in the back of the van a week later, he is unsurprised to see North Carolina outside of the window. There had been a vibe all week, an apologetic but resolute silence on Darian’s part that tipped Wade off. He eventually pops into the passenger seat and starts giving Darian directions to his house. Darian says nothing, but he does ruffle Wade’s hair gently before concentrating both hands on his turns.

When they get to his house, the door explodes open (it seems they were expected) and from within comes his frantic mother and a flurry of invitations for Darian to stay for dinner, for the night, for as long as he likes. Wade and Darian do not get a moment alone together until the following evening, when Darian is getting ready to leave.

Wade is leaning against the front right fender, watching Darian sift the contents of his van back into proper place.

“Almost ready?” Wade asks.

Darian stops and looks Wade up and down ponderously. “You know you’re not coming with me?” He says it as if he is double-checking what he already knows.

“Yeah,” Wade says, desultory with the truth. “Where are you going next?”

“Atlanta, then home. For a while.” Wade nods. “What’re you gonna be up to?”

“Summer school,” Wade says, facetiously happy. “I get to retake all my classes if I don’t wanna repeat the grade.”

Darian shrugs, smiling with only a little sympathy. “Yeah, but whose fault is that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wade says, being a good sport and smiling back. “Will you come back and visit me some time?”

“ ’Course I will. Next time I’m around. I can even call you every once in a while.”

Through some blip of physics, in the next moment Wade and Darian are in the van, in each other’s arms, hugging intensely. They are luckily concealed from the houses on both sides of the street by the van’s tinted windows, because neither of them considers the propriety of this display before going at it full tilt. They murmur meaningless shit while they caress each other, but it all matters less than their last kiss—the very first of many more to come.