Jerome is late for work when he bumps into a vulnerable teenager – but will he regret getting involved?
Image generated with OpenAIJerome always greets folks who cross his path. He or the other fellow looks up, makes eye contact, and nods, and the other nods back. It’s the way things are done. Most anywhere in Texas, especially the smaller towns, people acknowledge one another. There’s more space than people, so you notice when someone comes along.
Off to the left side of the road, more in the tall grass than on the shoulder, a kid jumps out, an angry bolt of teenage angst, waving a stick, grappling with a mesquite bush, and kicking at the low weeds and wood sorrel. Mad at the world, or so it seems from behind the bug-flecked windshield of Jerome’s truck with the gas gauge on empty, and him late for work with a crushing headache from mixing tequila and beer the night before. The kid jerks to a halt on the shoulder and throws the cane, which flips end-to-end and lands somewhere underneath Jerome’s truck as he swerves, brakes, and pulls over, thinking of the turn things could take on a lightly traveled road with Mexico off to the left and armed, skittish ranchers off somewhere to the right.
The kid is blind. He’s new to it, from the look of things. He juts his chin out and tilts his head back, a trick to gain a sense of space, like the patients Jerome knew in the VA hospital. They would sit in wheelchairs with their heads swathed in bandages, listening for familiar voices or the sounds of sports on TV. They were never alone.
Chewing on a toothpick, he watches in the rearview mirror as the kid takes a few steps and crouches down with his palms flat on the ground, feeling for what he’s discarded. It could be a scam. Jerome’s truck isn’t much, but it’s paid off, or nearly so, and you don’t fuck around with a man’s truck. Swiveling on the seat, he squints at the bushes and roadside garbage through the passenger window and pivots around to see if he’s about to get carjacked.
Jerome prays every night. Not on his knees because, as a grown man, he feels self-conscious and, as a lapsed Catholic, a hypocrite, having not set foot in a church in a decade. He prays flat on his back with his hands folded across his chest, staring at the tea-colored stains on the apartment’s ceiling. He believes in God – in religion, not so much. Thoughts of the less fortunate come first, crowded closely by his failed marriage, alcohol, and work worries, all while his lips move in a steady monotone of the Lord’s Prayer. It doesn’t work; nothing changes. Prayer has become a habit, like buying a lottery ticket.
He should help, but he can’t afford to be late to work, plus he’s left his cell phone on his kitchen counter – can’t call into work to explain, and it all sounds made up. “A blind guy jumped out from the side of the road” will not endear him to his boss. Jerome is not employee-of-the-month material. But still, it’s the right thing to do. Simple enough. He shuffles his boots as he approaches and clears his throat.
“Am I close?” says the kid.
“Yup. Reach left about a foot.”
The kid finds his cane, which is slender, like the business end of a pool stick, but with red paint on the tip. He runs his hands over it, gets up, and stands about six feet away, turning his head as though he’d heard his name called from a distance.
“You want a lift?” Jerome asks.
“Where you headed?”
“Right now, back into an air-conditioned truck.” It is hot, the sun low in the sky but ambitious, cooking off the overnight dew into a humid, mosquito-filled fog.
The kid shrugs. “I’m Phil.”
“I’m Jerome,” he says, closing the distance and offering his arm.
They get going, and Jerome glances at him on the bench seat, the kid sitting upright, jaws clenched, out of embarrassment or anger; he can’t tell. Without the white cane between his knees, he’d be just another teenager with an attitude. His jeans are stiff and new, but they’ve been on him for a while and never washed. It’s the same for the white button-down shirt, with fold marks across the chest but already soiled. New, thick-soled boots, some cheap store brand from a big box outfit, but leather, complete the outfit. The jeans are trouble, too trendy, and impractical, but the boots will work fine. Jerome reaches for the radio, turns the volume up, and slides the fresh air vent toward his passenger. The kid’s ripe – more the funk of an unwashed teenager than a homeless guy, but still.
“Are there people looking for you? You came out of nowhere and seemed agitated and in a hurry.”
“They kicked me out,” Phil mumbles as though he has a mouth full of rocks.
“What’s that? Who kicked you out? It’s none of my business, but still.”
“Foster family. They didn’t know what they were getting into.”
“You’re a handful. Is that what you’re saying?” The truck bounces over a rough spot; they levitate in unison. The radio alternates between classic country and static, so Jerome shuts it off.
“It was time to move on.”
“This looks spur-of-the-moment from where I sit. What happened, by the way? If you don’t mind the question.”
“You mean me being blind and all at such a young age, or with the lowlifes that housed me for money?”
“Your choice.”
“Fight at a carnival when I was fifteen. And there are too many rules at the foster home. You can drop me off at an intersection or a convenience store. I can make my way from there.”
“Make your way where?”
“I’m headed up to Oklahoma City. I’ve got people there. I’m taking a bus.”
“How old are you?
“What’s that?”
“You said you lost your sight at fifteen. How old are you now?”
“Eighteen.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The pavement unrolls under them, a jigsaw puzzle of patched asphalt mixed with gravelly spots and the occasional freshly patched depression, already softening from the traffic. A cell phone chortles from the kid’s jeans. He digs into his pocket and silences it. It rings again.
“You should get that.”
“Nah, it’s okay.”
“Not that you should reconsider your plans – but maybe they don’t see you leaving the same way you do.”
“They’ll lose their allowance from the state. I mean, once I’m officially not there. There’s no point in talking about it. They can claim I still live there for all I care.”
“Yeah, but what if they’re worried about you?”
“You got any water or anything? Anything to eat – a granola bar?
“Sorry, I wasn’t planning on company.”
“I skipped breakfast. Sort of left in a hurry.”
“And traveling light, as well.”
“I had a backpack. I’d set it down to take a leak, took a few steps, and then couldn’t find it. That’s when you came by.”
“Lucky I did.”
“It would have been fine.”
“What if I hadn’t happened along? Then what? Somebody else may not have seen you, squashed you like a bug.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I do okay.”
“I’m beginning to see how you could get under a person’s skin.”
“They’ll be pissed about the backpack. I left with more than I came with.”
The sky breaks. The view in front is clear, while the mirror holds clouds the greyish purple of an old bruise. The wind flings the rain forward over them, lazy drops plopping on the hood, raising dust, followed by a deluge with hail and wind, bouncing them left and right. Jerome can’t see more than six feet ahead and curses as he slows and looks at his watch. He glances over at Phil and imagines the kid is at least grateful for the ride. Perhaps doubt has crept in. He wouldn’t be surprised if Phil ended up back where he started, at home. After all, there are two sides to every story. The perfume of hot, wet pavement seeps in, and at the point where the speed limit goes from fifty-five to thirty-five, right where the old Stuckey’s sign hides motorcycle cops on fair days, the rain ends. Phil tilts his head to the left, listening to the squeal of wipers against a dry windshield.
“Well, there you go,” he says. “Clear weather. See, I do okay.”
Jerome wheels into a convenience store parking lot, throwing out, “I’ll get water and snacks,” as he exits and jogs next door to the Sheriff’s substation.
“I picked up this blind kid on the side of the road,” he says and watches the officer place his hands wide and flat on the scarred linoleum counter and push back, settling in, nodding at Jerome’s story and letting him tell the whole of it as if he knew it wouldn’t require anything of him.
“We’re not equipped for this. We’re not social services; this person hasn’t committed a crime. You, on the other hand, could have. People might be looking for this kid, and who knows if what he told you is true.”
“Well, do you have any suggestions?”
“Drop him off where he wants to go.”
“That’s it?”
The cop glances behind him, at a closed door leading to the rest of the station, then over Jerome’s shoulder to peer past the front glass window, squinting at the truck.
“You know this kid, don’t you?” says Jerome.
“On the positive side, I mean for you, since you picked him up, he’s eighteen. It might also explain the kerfuffle where he was staying. Foster care doesn’t last forever. But Phil is a vulnerable adult, so the more you’re involved in this, assuming his people are trying to find him, the more complicated it gets.” The cop shrugs his shoulders, gives it the whole routine, palms up, the entire gesture saying, “What can you do?”
They sit in the bus station parking lot. It’s raining again, a random drizzle without the theatrics of earlier. Jerome gets out to check the schedule; they have an hour to wait. He climbs back in to see Phil where he left him, ramrod straight, cane held between his knees. He wishes he’d fold the thing up. It would take the pressure off, the constant reminder; they could be just two guys minding the time.
“So, the cops had nothing to offer?” says Phil. He knows the spot, the cop shop next to the 7-11. And he has a timer in his head – he knows how long it should take to grab water and food.
“Not much. The officer seems to have made your acquaintance. He knows you’re an adult now, able to make your own decisions.” It sounds preachy to Jerome’s ear; he doesn’t intend to lecture. It’s none of his business.
“Nobody likes to be told what to do. I have a lower tolerance than most for that sort of thing.”
“These people you’re going to, up in Oklahoma City, they’re what, family, friends?”
Phil shrugs and yawns, “Enough about me. What about you? Do you have a family? Are you married?”
Jerome starts to press him on Oklahoma but thinks better of it. What does it matter? What was it the cop said? Drop him off where he wants to go. “I was married, divorced now. We have a son.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You asked me what happened to me. What happened to you? You give off this vibe like you drive around at night with your lights off.”
“Nothing happened. Things didn’t work out. We’ve known each other since high school. You know, sorta grew apart.”
After so much time, Jerome is more inclined to think that the good parts of his life have never happened. It’s easier that way. He avoids the memories of his ex-wife Chris, how she’d lift and swing their son, Nathan, over the side of his crib in the morning, swaying and dancing him over to the changing table. She was an athlete in high school, and even with the pregnancy and all, she remained an improbable collection of angles and curves, sinew and softness.
And there he was, lumbering down the hallway to the kitchen, shaking a pill bottle to see how much Vicodin he had left. Bad back, bad knee, but no medals to show for it. There’s no heroism involved in rear-ending a truck in an Iraqi sandstorm. He pictures her at work, out-earning him in an administrative job at an insurance company, efficient in low heels and a designer outlet suit, while their son whiles away the hours at daycare. And here he is, late for work, sitting in the lot, chatting with a blind kid headed cross country, alone, on a bus.
“You see your boy much?”
“Not enough.” Jerome pulls out his wallet. “Let me give you some cash.”
“Oh man, you don’t have to. I’ve got a debit card for the ticket.”
“No, let me help. Most of what you planned on bringing is sitting in a backpack in the middle of a field.” He could spare a twenty, a ten, and some ones. He sorts the bills and sets them in Phil’s hand.
“These are all singles?”
“No, there’s some bigger bills.”
“Just the singles, that would be great. I can’t tell what I’m giving people, and they’ll cheat me. I’d just as soon not waste your money.”
Jerome took back the cash and left Phil with seven dollars in singles. The thought of people cheating a blind kid made him want to put the truck in drive and take off to Oklahoma. Why not? He’s probably unemployed already.
The rain lifts, and the two enter the terminal, say their goodbyes, and shake hands. Jerome returns to the truck and stays after the bus pulls out, thinking about how easy it is to imagine two guys hanging out. One is going on a trip, and the other is giving him a lift. The guy going on a trip asks about the other’s family. The guy giving the lift responds and talks about his ex-wife and son. The guy traveling says he’ll never have a family, look at a son, or wonder about the curve of an ear or a nose or who he takes after. It’s easy to imagine the two are friends, talking, tallying up what they have in common and what they don’t. Each one thinks it’s the other guy who’s blind.
Jerome opens his eyes to see steam rising off the pavement in the sunshine. The bus station parking lot is empty, save for the row of cars off to the side in employee parking. He wonders how he got there, as if he’d woken from a nap, and is startled by the crumpled wrapper on the floor next to an empty water bottle.
A week later, he finds work doing construction, a friend of a friend sort of thing. The job site is on the other side of town, and parking is scarce, so he takes the bus, which lets him off a block away in front of a church. Days pass until he notices the missing person flyer taped to the back of the bus shelter.
Jerome goes to the police. He’s done nothing wrong; there’s a video of him at the Sheriff’s substation, so they acknowledge he tried. He thinks the foster people are covering their asses with the posters, but he knows he’s being unfair. Phil’s a handful. He’s not missing, though. Phil’s somewhere. He’s sure of it. He’s only missing if you’re looking for him.
The following day, he steps off the bus, averts his gaze from the poster, and walks the long way around to confront the church, with its crumbly concrete steps and black iron railing leading up to a pair of tall, grey doors, the handles weathered and oxidized, the brass worn by countless hands down to a dim green. He thinks of the cool darkness of the churches of his childhood, the musty essence of old paper, dust, and incense, the memory of being welcome, the quiet simplicity of silence, and the stained-glass windows providing a different perspective on the world. Climbing the steps, he wonders if the doors are locked.
