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Tuba City
"The stillness surrounds us and his pain sits like a prayer book in my lap. I almost offer him the flask I have between the seats, but for some reason I stop myself."
The smell of booze followed the Indian into my truck. This was not a surprise or my first time picking up travelers on this road. It was just past 9 a.m., and the red dirt of the Navajo reservation always left me yearning for company.
I was headed north, returning to Montana and a seasonal job packing mules for the Forest Service after a winter in the deserts of Arizona and Mexico. My bank account was empty, my credit cards were full, and the back of my truck was littered with water jugs, a cooler, a leaky solar shower, a sleeping bag, and well-worn camping gear.
He sat down unsteadily, as if his cowboy boots were uneven. He pulled a jacket around him, adjusted his baseball hat and laid his thick hands across his worn Wranglers. He studied my white skin and blue truck. His smile broke the awkwardness.
"Thanks for the ride, brother . . . "
"No problem, just kick all that junk out of your way or throw it in the back."
"Okay . . . do you . . . uh . . . "
"There's a jug of water by your feet, let me get you a banana."
"Thanks . . . "
I am not being patronizing. As a man who wages a daily battle with alcohol, I know what is on his mind. Water and a little bit of food to ease the morning nausea.
When I passed him at 65 miles an hour, he was in the middle of nowhere. I stopped and threw it in reverse for 70 yards. No town, no road and no house for miles in any direction. You never ask a man where he came from.
"My name's Jason. Where you headed?"
I extend my hand and he grasps it firmly, like a man holding a shovel. He gives me his name, an Indian one, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth. I nod in acknowledgement.
"I'm going to Tuba City."
"Me too. I can drop you off wherever you want."
We ride in silence. The banana is consumed slowly and the water disappears in small sips. His body hoping that maybe this time something will stay down, just enough nourishment to make it through the rest of the day.
The road snakes across the reservation and the wind paints the car with a fine dust. Red rocks climb out of the plain, rising like warm bread. The bluffs and buttes are composed in harmonic symmetry; the notes ringing clear in the dry air. Bridges cross cracked arroyos that once brought life, but now lie parched, their water diverted for unsustainable farming and swimming pools that sit lifetimes away.
My mind wanders. I recall past hitchhikers, loners, social outcasts, and street children that have passed through my life leaving deep impressions with their every word. The scars are too numerous too count.
* * *
There was the Indian I picked up last year on this same stretch of road who was headed to Blanding. He talked for 45 minutes, and I never made out more than a few of his words through the toothless grin. I smiled and hoped he wasn't asking me questions.
The only story I understood was when immigration officials rounded him up. He had been working with a bunch of Mexicans and his brown skin marked him as "illegal." He spent three days in jail and was almost deported until they realized he was Navajo. They released him and told to find his own way home.
There was the drunk Mexican in Flagstaff. I was drinking lonely beers and journaling my lust for a certain woman on a bar porch when he passed. A thready moustache sat above his lip and the wool hat only covered one of his ears. One pant leg was tucked in and the other hung out of his green irrigation boots like a lost dog. He stumbled from one parking meter to another, begging money from tourists and locals alike. For two full blocks and over 20 minutes I watched every person ignore his tired face.
When he was almost out of sight, I closed my journal and left it with my half empty beer. I touched his shoulder and handed him a five spot as he turned around to look at me. His hug was drenched in the smell of cheap booze, body odor and vomit. I hugged him back and told him "good luck." He won't even remember where he got the money.
There was the long-bearded man in Washington state. A future ex-girlfriend and I were drinking and driving cross-country when we saw him. His clothes stuck to his body and he held a sign that read, "Need help." No shit.
She was driving past when I said, "Pull over." She let up on the gas, but looked at me in disbelief as I reached for my money.
"He's just going to drink it away."
"Pull over."
I reached behind the seat, grabbed a bottle of Bud Light, and wrapped a $10 bill around it. We stopped and I handed the package to the man. His grin revealed three teeth in various stages of decay and his eyes said, "Thanks," even if he didn't.
The rest of the drive we spent in silence.
Then there are the hundreds of tiny, brown hands that I have pushed pesos, quetzals, cordobas, baht, ringgit, kip, rupiah, lempira, or spare American change into. The hands were too many and my pockets too thin. Their palms haunt me in dreams.
* * *
His voice breaks my thoughts like the crackling of ice.
"So . . . what do you think about politics?"
An unusual question.
"What do you mean?"
"What do you think about the big man . . . you know . . . the boss..."
"I think he's an idiot, if that's what you mean."
"Yeah . . . yeah . . . me too. All of those boys over there, those soldiers are still chewing bubble gum. Such a waste. All that money, just to kill. We used to have three clinics on our reservation, now . . . now, they are all closed. He closed them, cut off our money. Where can the women and children go now if they get sick?"
I shake my head.
"I was in Vietnam . . . see my grey hair (lifting his hat) . . . 101st Airborne. I saw small fingers in the mud, I saw the insides of people . . . the insides of hearts when people were still alive . . . I saw Vietnam two times - I never want to see nothing like that again."
"You did two tours?"
"I don't know why I went back. I was on the rez for three weeks and then I signed up for a second tour. I never should have done that."
"Why not?"
"I got shot."
"Oh."
"Twice here (pointing at his right groin), once here (pointing at his left hip), and once in my back. I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm disabled. I need to go to Flagstaff twice a month for therapy. If I hadn't gone back, I'd be a whole man."
He burps, filling the cab with a mixture of wine, bourbon and banana. He thoughtfully rolls down the window.
"My grandfather, he fought in the Pacific. I fought in Vietnam. They barely pay the medical bills. Since 1866 it's been nothing but broken promises."
He turns his head to the window. The stillness surrounds us and his pain sits like a prayer book in my lap. I almost offer him the flask I have between the seats, but for some reason I stop myself.
Tuba City comes into view.
"Right there, yeah . . . at the gas station."
I guide the truck into the parking lot and pull the emergency brake.
"You know, if you could spare . . . well . . . "
Yes, I know. I know your hunger. I know your thirst. I have seen it all over the world and continue to feel helpless.
I complete the routine. Five bucks passes between us with little more than a glance. He gets out and smiles.
"Good luck to you. Thanks for the ride."
His hobbled walk takes him out of my life. He steps into the convenience store, my money - his money, our money - hidden in his fist.
I pull onto the stark highway. The tapestry of the sky is threaded in several shades of blue and woven tightly into the horizon. I grip the steering wheel, looking for balance. The sobs are unexpected and shake my chest. I streak blue across the red landscape.
Jason Fisher lives in western Montana and picks up hitchhikers on a regular basis.
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