Page 7 of Grease & Grips
“It can be peaceful,” I offer, voice unsure.
“More than that. Hope starts in the dark, right?” He asks, gaze still trained on the dark nothing of the world passing by us “Pretty sure that’s how the saying goes. You look out at theblackness, and you either get swallowed up by it... or you spot the light and follow it where it leads.”
I don’t know what to make of that. Why he’d say something like that to me. What sparked it. Just the two of us sitting here in the truck driving through the dark, I guess.
It’s not far off from the kind of shit Gary’s always trying to drill into my head, but hearing it don’t make it true. Not everyone finds the light. Some folks just get stuck in the dark, no matter how hard they squint.
“That’s one way to think of it,” I mutter.
The radio’s still going, low and lazy, crooning out some old song I probably know but can’t place right now. Too busy watching the tic in his jaw, the crease in his brow.
That jaw’s doing a lot of work for him and none of it’s good. Pretty safe to guess that wasn’t the answer he wanted.
For a second, I think he’s about to argue. Possibly deliver some half-preached sermon about positivity from a man who’s never had to wonder if the power bill could wait another week.
But he just sighs and slumps a little. Shakes his head like he’s tired of carrying of whatever’s weighing him down.
That’s so much worse.
Another few miles pass before he wheels around in his seat, angling his body to face me. “You could be a little nicer to me.”
My head snaps toward him, eyes wide, eyebrows practically hitting my hairline. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sure it sucks that I couldn’t fend for myself and had to ride with you,” he says, fast and frustrated. “But we’re stuck in this truck for God knows how long, and you’re being so short. I’m trying to be friendly. I’m trying to make the most of a shitty situation, and you can’t even… what? Say more than one or two words to me when you say anything at all.”
He folds his arms over his chest.
“You’d think they’d send someone a little friendlier if they expect them to help people.”
My mouth opens then shuts. Then opens again like maybe the words’ll come if I just try hard enough. I rub the back of my neck like that’s gonna knock some sense loose, like maybe if I scrub hard enough I’ll figure out how to say something that doesn’t make it worse.
He’s just sitting there, arms crossed, looking at me like he’s trying real hard not to say more.
“I’m just…” I glance at the road. At the gauges. At literally anything but him. “I don’t do well with... talking. I mean Ican, I just... don’t. Not a lot.”
Still nothing.
“I’m not usually like this,” I mutter. “I mean, I am. Iamlike this. But I don’t… God, never mind.”
Embarrassment is written all over me like I’m a damn billboard. My face is burning up, and I swear it’s like my the flush in my skin is out here airing every thought I’m trying real hard not to say.
“I don’t really know how to act around you,” I say finally. As soon as it’s out, I want to eat the words. Choke on them. Die.
The tension in his shoulders shifts and when he looks at me again, he’s smiling. I thought it might be smug, but it’s soft and undeniably dangerous.
“Well…” he says gently, “This is a start.”
I pull myself together long enough to inhale, then let it tumble out.
“Sycamore is what it is. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known. I mean, I’ve been other places. Atlanta, Macon… even popped down to Tallahassee once or twice. Used to vacation in Panama City Beach. But when it comes to living and the world?” I shrug. “I don’t know that my life extends much beyond I-75.”
The words just kinda sit there way heavier than I meant and now all I can hear is the engine humming too loud and him saying nothing. Probably should’ve kept my big mouth shut, but instead I told the truth.
Life’s always easier when I let silence do the talking.
“I’m not…” I start, then stop.
How anybody manages to talk about anything real is a mystery to me. Why would you willingly let someone know stuff? Why would anyone even wanna know?
