The eighteen-wheeler pulled into the truck stop off I-15 and applied the airbrakes. The passenger door swung open and a young girl jumped out, waved a thank-you to the driver, and walked toward Las Vegas. She had a small backpack thrown over one shoulder of her denim jacket. All she had.
The driver had been a nice enough guy. He had picked her up along a stretch in Utah and enjoyed the company. He said that he had a daughter back in Memphis and that he couldn’t imagine seeing her walk the roads out west at her age. When they pulled into Vegas, he handed her forty dollars from his beat-up wallet.
“Here, take it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No arguing now, hear?”
They both knew that she needed it more than he did. No doubt he also thought the money would soothe his conscience for leaving such a naïve creature on the doorstep of Sin City.
She walked most of the afternoon through the boarded-up streets northeast of the strip, thumbing the buttonholes on the jacket she held and wiping the sweat from her brow. The desert sun turning her shoulders red. She met the few catcalls and periodic requests for spare change with downcast eyes and silence. She was scared. This was not what she had come out west for.
Night crept in and the sidewalk shadows grew more menacing. She stepped into a party store and grabbed a can of Coke and a stick of beef jerky. She waited in line behind a fidgety man undecided on the best choice of liquor under five dollars, which he then paid for with two crumpled bills and a small mountain of change pulled from his sagging pants. Under the white light of the store awning, she sat on the sidewalk and ate her dinner.
The girl checked in to a rundown ’50s motel that was half vacant. She did not want to sleep outside tonight. Not here.
“You eighteen?” the desk clerk asked as he wiped some crumbs off his stained wifebeater T-shirt.
“Yes,” she replied without eye contact.
“Uh-huh.”
He slid the key to her and snatched up the twenty-dollar bill she laid on the counter. She went to room 7. Lucky number, she thought.
She took a shower and pulled out a shirt from her backpack. It was dirty, but still cleaner than the one she wore on the way in. She would have to find a laundromat, but the thought of spending money from her dwindling supply on clean clothes seemed like an extravagance that she could not afford.
The girl dried her hair as best she could with her towel, curled up on the bed, and fell asleep.
She was awakened the next day by a pounding on the door. How long had she slept? She looked at the clock—half past noon. The pounding continued.
“You dead in there? You only paid for one night! You get out now!”
She ran around the room collecting her things and hustled out the door.
“You need another night?”
“No, I don’t have the money.”
“I’m sure we could work something out,” he said, looking her up and down. Her heart rose to her throat and the combination of fear and loathing almost made her vomit. She turned and walked out to the street as fast as she could.
She wandered around aimlessly—mouse in a constantly changing maze. She saw the faces of happy tourists on the strip, enthralled with 100 megawatts of burning filament, and wished she could have someone to smile with.
She kept walking.
The girl’s stomach roared, so she found a diner and stepped inside. She walked to a booth and sat down, grabbing a laminated menu. A middle-aged woman approached, sporting a classic “Mel’s Diner” uniform, and looked her over.
“My, my, you look like you’ve been through some things,” the waitress said, tapping her pad of paper. “What can I get you?”
“Some toast . . . and some water.”
“You need more than that, honey. I’ll get you something good.”
Within minutes the girl was staring down a hot-turkey sandwich drenched in gravy and a side of potatoes. Thanksgiving dinner on a greasy spoon. She scarfed it down quickly as if someone would steal it before she was done.
“How much will that be?”
“Don’t worry, honey, I got it. You want anything else?”
“Coke?”
“Sure thing.”
The girl sat in the booth, drumming her fingers and sipping her soda while lost in a daydream, the bent end of the straw suffering from her half-conscious chewing.
She paid little attention to the people coming and going from the diner, and did not notice the man who sat down at the table next to her, nor did she seem to notice his constant staring. He ordered his food and began to eat but kept his eyes on her.
Coming to, she glanced over at him. “Can I help you with something?” she barked sarcastically.
“Naw, don’t think so. Just wondering what runaway story you got.”
“I’m not a runaway.”
“Uh-huh. You planned on moving to the streets of Vegas?”
“I’m on my way to LA. Just passing through.”
“How you getting there? You walking?”
She ignored him and looked out the window. The girl thought the conversation had ended until he sat down in the booth across from her. He brought his plate with him and kept on eating.
“You need a ride somewhere?”
“No,” she shot back and got up to leave.
He grabbed her wrist and she sat back down hard. Fear coursed through her veins as she stared at the man across from her. His dark-sepia eyes were motionless, resting in their sunken sockets.
“Listen, missy. I ain’t done nothing for you to be rude. I’m just trying to help. This city can get pretty mean. The bus station is way across town. It’s a long walk.”
His tone was soothing but firm. She thought about the fix she was in. Running low on money and coming from the motel with the repugnant clerk had put her on edge. Perhaps she was overreacting. Maybe this guy just wanted to help.
The trucker from Utah was like that, but his Santa Claus appearance squashed any reservation she had had. The man across the table confused her. He was dirty, some might say greasy, but he appeared to be genuinely concerned.
Her shoulders eased. “All right, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. Now, Helen here can vouch for me,” he said, pointing to the waitress behind the counter who continued on with her work, not noticing the conversation between her two customers. “She knows I ain’t no crazy man. I just don’t want to get home tonight and see your face on TV.”
“All right.”
“You got a name?”
“Molly.”
“Yes.”
He scooped another forkful of food into his mouth and chewed, nodding slowly.
“Nice name,” he said with a full mouth.
She watched him eat, studying his face as one studies the brushstrokes on a painting. Back home, the girl thought she was a great discerner of people. She would be at the mall with her girlfriends and would come up with backstories for the hapless shopper who crossed her gaze: that one is a trophy wife, that one is a banker but secretly spends all his money on porn, that one hates his life. But since coming out west, her powers had become unreliable. There was the clerk in Iowa who’d stolen her change, saying that she only gave him a five when she knew she had handed him a ten. There was the bus driver in Denver who wouldn’t open the door until he got a good look at her backside. There was the guy from the motel who still sent a chill down her spine in retrospect. Now here sat a black-haired mechanic-looking local—another stranger she could not peg.
As he continued eating, she watched his hand move with the fork from the plate to his mouth and back again. She could see in the webbing of his hand, between his thumb and index finger, a blob of ink. Probably a tattoo poorly done. It captured her gaze as she tried to make out what the image was. He stopped eating and put his hand on the table palm down.
“Looks ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“What?” she said coming out of her daze.
“This tat?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Uh-huh. Supposed to be a spider. Word to the wise, Molly, don’t let some half-blind and half-crazy old man pin you down and ink you. It never comes out good.”
She gave a small laugh and he smiled, exposing teeth weathered by the Pall Malls in his shirt pocket. Her defenses were slowly lowering as the man finished his food. He seemed all right, in that hick hillbilly way.
“How much money you got?”
“A bit.”
“Probably not enough, huh? Let’s get over to the bus station and see how much it is to LA.” He stood up and walked to the door. “Come on now, the invite doesn’t last all day.”
Trepidation still lingered inside her.
She looked at the waitress, who was talking with another customer across the diner. She felt a pull to go to her, to look to her for guidance.
Molly thought about the woman back home who was probably sitting in her daughter’s room right this minute, crying over her vagabond child. No, she could not go home now. It would smother her. She looked up at the man and decided, no matter how reckless, the only way was forward.
She got out of the booth and followed him outside. He opened the passenger door of an old black pickup truck and helped her get in. He slammed the door. The bench seat was stiff.
Molly eyed the man as he walked around the front of the truck, looking for the telltale signs of a sexual criminal or molester, as if the traits would be sewn into the fabric of his clothes, into the substance of himself.
He got in and fired up the truck. “Okay, let’s get you taken care of.”