Saturday, 4am

Someone folded a newspaper clipping and placed it under his wiper while he was away. The Drifter came back, fresh from an outdoor shower at the beach, holding his dripping flip flops in his right hand. He paused in his tracks upon seeing the car, then leaned in: the clipping from the want ads listed several business addresses. He twisted his head to read them, then reached out with his left hand to pull it closer. One of them had been circled in black ink. When he lifted up the flap, he saw scrawled across the newspaper a date and time.

No. 168

Freshen Up

He took the same booth as always, in the sunroom of the Wendy’s, still not remodeled over the years. It took him back to grandmother trips: French fries that tasted like salted waffles when dipped in chocolate soft serve.

His eyes monitored the bathroom, flicking up from his laptop plugged into the wall, loaded job listings to scroll through that he ignored. 

The lock clicked and a man that looked familiar exited. He closed the laptop, packed his things, and ran for the door. Inside, a quick rinse: washcloth under the arms, electric razor on the neck, dabs of face wash rationed for weeks, a brush of the teeth. Afterward he felt human, looking job-ready; the self-pity ran down the drain with the soap. 

The familiar man had taken his booth. He found another outlet and began to job hunt again. The cashier behind the register stared at him, but did not move to say anything or confront him.

No. 130

Asleep

Windows down, the calming sound of ocean waves crashing carried him into sleep. The easterly wind came through the open windows, cooling him, forcing him to pull a blanket up to his chin. Carried along it came the shrieking cry of a mountain lion. He sat up quickly, heart racing, sweat breaking out on his forehead. The follicles on his arms contracted, sending goosebumps down the flesh. Through the rear window he looked out at the mountains, trying to determine the location of the mountain lion. Instead only the stars greeted him.

No. 095

Arrival

With a turn of the key the engine quiets. He sees the pacific through the windshield, sun approaching the horizon line. Driving all day, then all night, then all day again. Muscle fatigue set in, glycogen stores depleting. Stale air, recycled air-conditioning, comforted him at first, and now left his stomach sick. As the car rests, he begins to hear the rhythmic coming and going of the waves. His eyes roam to the rearview: pale brown mountain range hiding everything behind them.

No. 086