Commute

I finish class and walk out to the main road. I wait fifteen minutes before a truck approaches and I extend my thumb. It slows down and I run to catch up to it, jumping on just as it comes to a complete stop. I slip the front half of each foot onto the metal bumper that offers a narrow eight inches from the back of the truck. The heels of my feet dangle off the back but I use both hands to grab onto the frame of the truck and feel secure. I bang my hand against the side of the truck signaling to the driver that I’m ready to feel the wind. We depart.

The truck has a flat bed that extends ten feet from a small two person cab. The frame of the bed is six feet high, solid metal along the lower half and three one foot metal sheets spaced six inches apart surround the upper half. The bed is, unfortunately, filled with a very fine, dry dirt and as the driver shifts into second and third gear, the increasing speed sends the dirt through the cracks and spaces of the bed frame. When we reach a healthy speed, the tires kick up the dust of the parched dirt road and I am completely engulfed by earth. Dust from the road and dirt from the truck is all I breathe, hanging off the back of my hitchhiked ride.

I close my eyes, trying to escape, but the darkness throws off my fragile balance. I look down towards the road and the cloud is less intense but the road dizzying, quickly passing below. There is no respite from the cloud. It throws its dirt into my eyes and forces its dust into my mouth. I decide the best option is to stick my head around the side of the truck where the dirt blowing out of the bed is less intense. I squint my eyes and imagine what the driver sees in his side view mirror. A decapitated head with narrow eyes peeking out from the side of the truck.

I struggle to hold on. Putting my head to the side of the truck makes my grip less secure and my arms are quickly fatigued. I curse myself for sticking my thumb out and accepting the 15 minute ride into town on the back of a large truck filled with dirt. I swear to only hitchhike rides from pickup trucks. To wait longer for the bus. To buy a bike. To walk.

We reach the paved section of the road and the dust subsides. I don’t dare take a hand off the back of the truck to wipe the dust from my eyes which are barely open, still shielding themselves from the truck dirt. As we get closer to the center of town, I hear the familiar cries of “Oye, David!” from those in the street and I blindly return the greeting. The truck stops at the park and lets me off. I wipe my face off with the inside of my shirt and slap my chest, legs, shoulders, and book bag. Giant mushroom clouds emanate from each slap. I walk to the cab of the truck and look the driver in the eye.

-Thanks for the ride.

-Any time.