Eskota II: Changing Tires in a Rain

He remembered seeing her for the very first time, and how it felt like when you have fallen in love with a song and it suddenly plays on the radio without any warning at all.

He hadn’t really seen her clearly, just a fast buzz-blur of hair from beneath the open hood of a car. He was on 95…not the big one, the little one east of Austin that cuts through Bastrop State Park with its stands of Loblolly pines, a pretty little spread of color against the tannins of the land. It was April in the Hill Country, the wettest month of the year and it was spitting rain already.  Nothing major, but ahead he could see the traditional bruising in the sky that signaled some storm was about to be unleashed.

The flashers on her Jeep Wagoneer were on, and in this particular version, the 1974 version, the spare tire was on the front.  He slowed so he could see the trouble and that’s when he saw her. 

Trouble that is.  Lean and coming out from beneath the hood like a bird flushed.  Her eyes widened as he pull alongside her car and he rolled down the window.

It’s going to rain he said. 

She cocked her head around the hood, looked up.  Perfect she said.

She had a very angular face set off by two lengths of blondish hair that hung straight above her shoulders.  I’m almost done, she said, bracing her hands against the spare and starting to unloosen the bolts.

You haven’t even jacked up the car.  Do you mind if I pulled over and helped?

She moved towards his window and looked in, a sprig of her bangs falling over one dark eye. 

I’m not dangerous he said. 

She crooked on corner of her mouth.  I wasn’t worried. 

It will be raining soon he repeated and before she answered he pulled up past her and turned off his car.

He had a moment, listening to the ticking of the engine still counting off seconds, and he looked at the storm ahead, with the road perfectly seeming to rise right up into it.  What the fuck am I doing?

 

He had helped her out when the rain came swashbuckling down, huge crates of it.  In one flash of the storm’s lightning he had been on his knees, undoing the jack and he saw her looking out at him through the driver’s side window.  The pane was rivulets of water streaking down, and her hair was still wet from when she was outside until he almost pushed her into the car.  He remembered thinking that she looked sad, not grateful, not really anything but feeling like she was lost.  Or locked.  At least that’s how he described it to himself.  Rain pouring in streaks across the glass in front of her face.  No smile, no anything.

He took the jack and opened the back of her Jeep and set it down on the carpeted bench.  As he was closing the door her heard her say something, not quietly but noticeable but it was cut off when the door slammed home.

He was going to walk to the driver’s side when he saw her open up the passenger side door.  It’s pouring she said, clearly hearing her as he walked over.  Hurry up.

He closed the door behind him, dripping wet and breathing a bit faster than normal.  He pulled a hand through his hair, drops falling onto his soaked body. She sat there looking at him.

I probably could’ve done all this myself, she started.

That’s a hell of a thank you.

Well…thank you, she murmured quietly.  I was getting around to saying it.

The strobes of some lightning played in, and he saw her a little bit better.  Her eyes were almost the same color as outside.

Well you’re welcome.  Probably the nicest thing I’ve done today.  He let out a slight laugh.  Probably the nicest thing I’ve done in a hell of a long time.

You changed a tire, you didn’t give me a kidney.

He looked at her with his head tilted.  You must really have a high bar for gratitude.

She smiled and said, I think you’re probably correct.

Well…he let the words take hold and fill the car… think I’ve done enough.  He cracked the door open and let himself into the pouring rain.  It was abating a little bit though, and as he walked to his car he didn’t quite feel it.

He turned on his car and saw that her flashers were still blinking.  He shook his head and pulled out into the highway.  As he drew away he looked back in his rearview mirror.

She had left her car and was standing in the middle of the road.

From where he was she was a slight frame…in a minute she would be a dot.  In another minute she would disappear from view.

He had a moment, listening to the growling of the engine still counting off seconds, and he looked at the clearing clouds ahead, with the road perfectly seeming to rise right up into it.  What the fuck am I doing?

He slowed down, feeling his heart pick up a bit, and at the same time feel angry at his loss of control.  He pulled over, and realized he couldn’t see her from the angle of the road.  Goddamnit.

He turned the car and from the rise he could see her still next to her car.  Actually she was in the middle of the road, a light color against the blacktop.  The storm had broken up and now and again a filtered beam of sun came out. 

Hello she said as he pulled up next to her.  He waited, car engine on, waiting for her to explain.  Or define.  Or say something longer than a sentence.  He had no idea why he was there, but something felt like a rescue.  Something felt like he had a fish-hook in him, that he could tug and pull and drive away as far as he could but he would still be winded back up and brought to her.

Why are you standing in the middle of the road?

Why did you come back?

I came back because you were standing in the middle of the road. That’s why I came back.

She continued looking at him, hands in her back pockets.

I wanted to see if you’d come back.  I wanted to see if you noticed.

He took a long pause. 

I noticed.

He watched as a glint of sun came out and landed between them, the day tinged yellow with a glistening along the dark pavement. 

I figured it would show up.  I just wanted to wait.

She was looking over his car, and he couldn’t see from inside so he got out.  High above them was a perfectly brilliant 7-colored rainbow. 

You rarely see the indigo and the violet.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this close.

He listened to her and watched and somewhat foolishly realized his mistake and his assumptions.

I’m sorry he said.  I didn’t know that you were waiting for that.

Oh I was waiting for you too.  I just wanted to have both. She smiled at him and in the crisp bright air he couldn’t help but see her against the sky, against the colors.  And framed against the afternoon he realized that in returning to her he had simply surrendered without even knowing.  And she had known it the moment he had stopped to change her tire in a rain.

Lightless Star, Scentless Flower

Uneasy sleep, so easy to sleep, collapsing in the middle of a muddled afternoon, gray dim light spilling in as the tips of high-up oak leaves strain in colors above the ground.

Fall is the decaying drift back into the ground; the fallen fruit discarded to return to the earth.  It is the graying air in the mornings, split by low suns a minute later in each new dawn, and a wind that bites cool.  It is an evening that seems guided by a lightless star, breaking in colors of a scentless flower. 

Fall is the cocoon of an afternoon, pale daylight streaming through holes in the trees, a silence like wet-leaves across the day.  Slumber comes easy as pillows grow warm and time blows dandelion-like in languid suspended air. There are covers and coverlets, lazing dust motes and somewhere the television may flicker emptily.  It is an afternoon, weightless as a lightless star, calming as a scentless flower.

Fall is the char of the wood, burning and crackling as it folds and immolates into itself, burnt oranges and blues to lick the air around it.  Fall will wrap itself around me, entangle me as its once green-garden vines now turn golden, slowing my movement and pulling me downward.  Fall is an afternoon nap, in the mid of September, as I try to hold onto the last sunburnt day in summer.  Somewhere between colors, somewhere between days, somewhere where I find the lightless star and the scentless flower.

Eskota

And she had asked in that casual way of hers if he knew Texas.  And he had stopped, there in the copper-colored dusk, and said he did.

No, she shook her head as the words tumbled out.  I don’t think so.  I don’t think you’ve seen the low moon.  I don’t think you’ve woken up to stand in an evening with enough stars to make you feel small.  I don’t think you know Texas at all.

He watched the fence line disappear down the horizon, a black line cutting a fine swatch against the field.  The road shimmered in slight waves in the distance, and he could just barely detect the faint soap smell of her. 

What am I supposed to know, then?  Is this a place?  Is this some sort of fucking attitude?  Can I learn it if I wasn’t born here in some sort of sacred ritual?  He walked the short space between them, her one arm across her holding the elbow, a slight cross against her chest. 

What do you see in me? she asked. 

I see everything.  I see blank canvass, I see unknowns.  I see an ocean that I would gladly drown in.  I see a storm that never goes away. I see a world on fire.

He reached out and held the tips of her finger.

 I see something no language would adequately describe.  I see you. 

She stared, a few blinks.  I am as much a part of this place as…trailing off she waved her hand across the expanse.  I’m as much a part of this place as anything.  I am the smell of salt air in Galveston, and as dry as the river bottoms near El Paso.  I am open, unending.  You cannot just simply try to contain me.

I’m not trying to contain you. 

You’re trying to shape me though.  Into something that you want.  It’d be like catching rain.

It was growing purple in the air, the evening tinted and tattooed with dark spots.  A little bit of orange remained, burnishing the edge of the flat horizon. 

Do you know how they make honey? He asked.  She turned her head to him.  He could barely see the colors of her eyes, dark against dark.  But he knew she was looking at him.

Honey?  You mean like bees?

Yeah, exactly.  You take this perfectly shaped…structure.  This work of art almost.  And you tear it in half, you crush it and you extract the honey from it.  It’s only sweet when it’s broken.

Is that what needs to happen?  She approached him and he could see her eyes much better now.  And there was a hint of storm in them.  I need to break to be better? 

Not you.  Us.  If I can’t be the other part of you, then maybe I need to be broken off.  Ruptured.

She was silent and her silence was darker.  It was almost pitch-black in the air but he could feel it heavy against him.  It was like the moments between lightning and thunder.

I don’t know if that is what I want.  I only know what I am here, what I have here.

He inhaled the cool air and watched her disappear.  She had never really been there, rather, he remembered the last time they had spoken.  He remembered how she had left, the contrail of her departure.  He still came out here now and again, turning off the road and stopping in the flat low land.  He remembered how he had tried, and in trying he remembered how she had pulled away.  How ultimately they had broken, and how it never was sweet at all.  In fact, it was exactly the opposite.