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Acresville, May 10
3:15 p.m.
Johnny appeared on the country road like a mirage, his image warped by the shimmer of heat waves rising off the asphalt. He felt drugged with fatigue. His unlaced boots, gray with road dust, scuffed the pavement.
Johnny’s face was gaunt, sallow, and scored with deep lines. His gray hair was disheveled, hanging over his forehead in an unruly cascade. The rags he wore were handpicked from different trash bins—a tattered trench coat, unfastened in front; a grimy yellow T-shirt, half out of his waistband; and plaid pants that were a throwback to the sixties.
His crinkled gray eyes moved from the tufts of grass by the roadside to the drainage ditches. He spent most of his daylight hours panhandling at the local park or searching through Dumpsters and alongside roadways for glass bottles or cans that he could cash in at the recycling depot.
If he were lucky, he could walk away a few dollars richer. That would afford him a small meal or, more importantly, a cheap bottle of wine.
Some days were profitable; others were not. Much like today. The garbage bag slung over his shoulder was only half-full.
Open farmland surrounded him. Meadows and rolling green hills. Grazing cattle. Soil tilled in neat columns. Overhead came the buzzing of power lines.
Now and then Johnny wandered this far out of town. He knew these ditches could be treasure troves of empty beer bottles and cans.
Stopping, he mopped his forehead with a sleeve and shoved wet hair out of his eyes.
It was the humidity—oppressive, enervating, a presence even after the day had yielded to the night. The sun burned at his back like a fireball, wringing sweat from his pores. He wanted to remove his coat, but he knew that would result in a quick burn.
Rain, he prayed. Just let it rain. It was too hot for early May.
With no cars in either direction, he crossed the road and walked along the gravel shoulder, looking into the ditch. A glimmer in a patch of weeds caught his eye. He set the bag on the ground. Then he clambered down the side of the ditch, sliding and grabbing at clumps of grass to keep from falling. As he reached the bottom, he could see it clearly now—a soda can. Beside it lay a crumpled bag from a fast-food restaurant. He picked up the can. It was in good shape, not crushed or dented.
Hands out for balance, Johnny climbed back to the roadside and dumped the can into the bag. A car drove past with a quick press of its horn. Johnny lifted an arm in a wave without looking at it.
People were friendly in Acresville. Only the adolescents seemed to target him with jeers and scoffs. A new generation of ingrates with their foolish apparel and rap music. Back in his day parents taught their children a thing called respect.
Johnny wiped both palms on his pants. He shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked down the road and saw the fading outline of a rear window and trunk of the car that had just passed by. Nothing came the other way.
From an inside pocket he brought out a metal flask and shook it next to his ear. It sounded to be about half-full. After twisting off the cap, he took a quick drink. The wine tasted bitter and warm. It was so much better chilled.
After a second mouthful, he began to feel the pleasant glow that would numb his feelings and help him forget, if only briefly, who he was and who he had been. Unable to control himself, he emptied the flask in one long swallow.
He reached for the wallet in his back pocket. In another time, he vaguely remembered it being stuffed with money. On this day it contained a single five-dollar bill, given to him by a generous couple at the park. Added with the change already collected today, he knew he had enough for another bottle of wine.
He stuffed the wallet back in his pocket and picked up the garbage bag, when a sharp pang in his right side came without warning. Piercing, agonizing, it doubled him over. The bag fell from his grip, sending the cans inside to go rolling over the pocked road.
Johnny braced one hand on a knee to keep from falling over. Just when the pain seemed to ease up, a spike of fire ripped through his abdomen. He slid to the pavement to his hands and knees and crawled a few feet just before the nausea rose to his mouth. He vomited into the ditch until nothing more came up. When at last the dry heaves stopped, he rolled over onto his back, shuddering.
He should really see a doctor. The sudden pain, extreme at times, seemed to occur suspiciously after he drank alcohol.
After the pain subsided to a dull ache, Johnny sat up. He could feel the queasiness still lurking in his system. His throat was raw, his mouth sour. He spit twice and wiped his lips with the back of a hand. He wondered if he would have the energy to make it back to town.
A breeze, light as a breath, touched his face. It did nothing to cool the heat, only stirred it around a little, rustled the grass, and shifted the dust. Movement drew his eyes to the sky, and he saw a flock of tiny birds, dipping low as a single mass and then landing in the meadow ahead of him. Fanning out, they began stabbing at the earth with their beaks. He could faintly hear their low-pitched twittering.
Johnny pulled up his knees and lowered his head. In the distance he heard another vehicle approaching. A blue pickup this time, in the other lane.
He watched it.
A thumb never worked on these country roads. He had tried to hitch a ride many times before, but no one ever stopped. They’d toot. Give him a wave. Never offer a lift.
He felt a gust of air sweep over him as the pickup drove past. Just down the road, the brake lights came on, and the pickup slowed to a stop. In the side mirror the male face of the driver appeared, looking back at him. The engine shifted, and the pickup began backing up.
Wheels crunched on the gravel shoulder as the pickup pulled off the road directly across from him. The driver’s door swung open, and a powerful-looking man emerged. He was wide in the shoulders and thick in the chest, with wavy brown hair. Thrusting square jaw. The stranger wore gray coveralls over a white T-shirt.
He stepped to the centerline, regarding the cans scattered over the pavement. Against his back, the sun’s glare made him seem slimmer than he was.
He asked, “You okay, friend?”
“Just a little tired,” Johnny said. “This heat’s a bitch.”
When he got to his feet, his head felt dizzy. He hoped he wouldn’t get sick again. Facing the stranger, he found himself squinting at the sunlight.
“Too hot for everyone,” the stranger said. “Supposed to cool down in a day or so.”
Kneeling, the stranger began picking up the cans. Johnny shuffled closer.
“You a farmer?” he asked.
The man paused, half turned to him. Something like hurt surfaced in his eyes.
“Was,” he said. “Until the government forced me into bankruptcy.”
Johnny nodded. He’d read about that.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Yeah, it is what it is.” The stranger carried an armful of cans to the bag and dumped them inside. “Can’t do anything about it, right?”
Johnny said, “I saw it in the paper. Don’t remember your name.”
The stranger offered his hand. “Hoss.”
Johnny frowned. That name didn’t sound right.
“I’m—”
“Johnny,” Hoss said, releasing his hand. “You’re a bit of a celebrity around these parts. People love you.”
Johnny smiled. “Love me? Or love talking about me?”
“You know small towns, my friend,” Hoss said. “Is there anything I can do for ya?”
“You can give a poor man a lift back to town.”
Hoss gave him a big smile and waved a hand toward his truck.
“Hop in.”
