The Junction
By
Robert N Stephenson
Three hours driving the dirt tracks just to get to the T junction didn’t seem such a hard thing for Barry. He liked to drive, he liked the dusty, dirty roads and the smell of earth and hot air, and he loved his friends; though he wouldn’t say love to them, they’d get all strange if he expressed this emotion openly. ‘This was their big adventure,’ John had said, ‘the one they had been waiting for all their lives,’ well, at least twenty three years, Barry liked to correct. He thought they had at least another twenty three years until they were old and incapable of enjoying life. His mother was fifty two and miserable, and he wondered what he’d be like when he got that old.
“Road’s bad,” Hank said from the passenger side of the truck. John sat in the middle, his legs near the gear shift. The 4X4 was only a few years old but the road was rough and little used since the new tarmac road was laid down fifteen years back. The dirt road brought back memories and for now Barry needed a few of them to keep him moving forward.
“It’ll be okay once we’re at the junction.” Barry knew the truck didn’t really like the back roads but according to his Dad, Ford didn’t make a bad truck and most of their failures were bad drivers and poor maintenance. “Need only get their by sundown and we are done for the day.”
“I need to pee,” John said, moving about nervously on the seat. “And I can’t wait until you find a tree or bush.”
Barry pulled over to the side of the road, keeping clear of the soft edges. A thick dust cloud that had been trailing them flooded forward blocking out all sight for a moment. John waited until the dust had settled before getting out after Hank and moving to the rear of the truck to have a pee. There was little fear in anyone coming along, these back roads were seldom used anymore and the only reason they used them now was because none of their parents would consider checking this junction when supper time came and went and they hadn’t shown.
Hank lent into the cabin looking at the leaflets Barry had got in the mail several weeks back; images of white sand and sea seemed to sparkle off the glossy paper and a young woman in a bikini looked far more enticing that some of the cattle girls in town. To Barry leaving the town was a way of escaping his family, the hard-nosed, righteous man who made it clear he always knew he was his father and often exaggerated the point with a slap or a solid fist punch to the guts. Barry loved his father, the man was tough and rugged, a straight shooter and the best he’d ever seen with a skinning knife, but he couldn’t live with him. If he just moved out and boarded on the ranch where he worked he would never really be free of his influence; he had no choice and even if that image of blue water and white sand had been of barren rock and sewage he would still be making his way there. He thought of the city as well and for now he still had a choice, but he really wasn’t just thinking for himself anymore and that bothered him the most.
“I think John’s having second thoughts,” Hank said, keeping his voice low. “In two years his father was going to hand over the hardware store to him and he still thinks he’d got a chance with Becky.”
“You know Old Frank won’t leave the store, and he’s been playing that line ever since John turned eighteen.”
Hank carefully folded up the leaflets, offering a quick glance to the back of the truck. “I know, but he still thinks Becky will see the light.”
“She sees the light alright,” Barry snorted. “She’s been seeing it shining from Brewster Dray’s eyes since high school.”
“Brewster?”
“You spend far too much time combing hair, everyone in town knows it.” Barry checked the rear view mirror and saw John was heading back. “Let’s get back on the road.” Hank stepped away from the truck and let John climb in.
“Man, I needed that, shouldn’t have had that 6 pack for breakfast.” John settled into the bench seat making sure he didn’t knock the stick shift with his knee. “We sure this is the right thing?” He asked, once Hank had climbed in and slammed the door.
Hank offered Barry a knowing look and by his face it was expected Barry would also have to offer an affirmation. It was true the whole running away from their home town had been his idea, but the other two hard urged him on and signed on for the trip without hesitation. Barry knew anything planned over a case of beer wasn’t really any kind of committed contract but they had done worse things on less drink.
“If you’re thinking about Becky again, she’s committed to her church, John, and unless you are going to be a fully sworn in and head wetted Baptist you aren’t even close to in with a chance with her.”
John said nothing but out of the corner of his eye Barry could see he was thinking, his lips were pressed tight and his hands were two clenched fists in his lap. Maybe he had gone too far in mentioning Becky but John did have to look at the immediate reality, even if he didn’t know about Brewster. Barry had to stay focused on the old pot holed road. The brown dirt of the road was sticking to the red of his truck and dusted the windshield to give everything a softer view; every now and again he would use the window washer to clean the glass, creating first an impenetrable smudge on the glass before clearing to two large half circles before his eyes. The clock on the dash said four thirty three and he knew his father would just be getting in from the ranch, his face stained from dirt and sweat and his back aching. It was his mother he really felt for, she didn’t know he was going but he was sure she would understand what he had done and accept it for what it was. She was a struggling woman, thin and weary, hair long and pony tailed during the day and her jeans well-worn and boots scuffed till you could see the metal in the toes. The horizon was flat just like the stares he would see his mother give his father after a full hour of moaning about the world after dinner. Barry wanted to never see flat again.
“Which way we gonna go when we hit the junction?” Hank held up two leaflets, the one with the sea vista and the other with tall, glass-fronted buildings and what looked to be a snaking river in the foreground. Hank’s smile was forced and his ruddy face and blue eyes said he was trying to distract John.
“I could be one of them Baptists if I wanted to be.” John said. He slapped his now open palms on his thighs. “Becky would appreciate a man who would do that for her.”
“I’m sorry, John, but you could never be a Baptist,” Hank laughed, but John’s face reddened and his dark eyes seemed to smoulder with anger. Barry had to stay focused on the road, he had somewhere else to be and he wanted to be there much sooner than the conversation suggested.
“Could you ever give up beer?” Hank said as he slapped John on the shoulder. A little cloud of dust rose up from his brown, plaid shirt. “What about whisky, do you really think you could spend the rest of your life without another shot?” With that he opened the glove compartment to show a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Could you say no to this?”
The grumbling was answer enough for Barry and the subject of Becky was expertly put aside for now and he would make a definite effort to thank Hank when they got to the junction. They wouldn’t head off into the night either way, the journey was to be contemplation under the stars with a case of beer and the bottle of Jack, and then after a cook-up on the side of the road they would make the big decisions, city or coast? He hadn’t decided yet but he knew what the others needed to do. The sun was still screaming down heat and given they were on daylight savings time it wouldn’t really be dark until after eight, just about the time their parents would be ringing around to find them. Barry had insisted none of them bring their mobile phones so they couldn’t be contacted and threatened to return. The air-conditioning in the truck blew warm air but it was better than the open window and the hot, gritty air off the road. His green Batman T shirt was wet through and he
figured they all smelt about the same, only Hank seemed to wear the weather better than most, his cropped hair always looked neat and his collared, black cotton cowboy shirt had the eternal crisp look about it. Hank was the town’s barber and hair dresser and while he got a lot of lip from the punchers about his sexuality Barry knew he was gay and needed to be well away from home if he was ever to have a normal life. Some folks accepted him without ever saying so, but most of the old hands and the young men taunted Hank daily and he didn’t know how Hank could take the open and hidden abuse.
With wrists starting to ach from the vibrations of the road through the steering wheel Barry considered handing over the last leg of the driving to John, who was about the only person he would trust to drive his truck; Hank could drive but he had only ever seen him in a Hyundai hatchback and didn’t trust the man with a big V8 4X4. He wiped at his eyes, pulling at the strain of driving into the sun and wishing for the hundredth time he just buckled and put on his sunglasses. ‘Real men don’t wear sunglasses,’ he father would say if Barry ever went to put on a pair.
“Hank,” he said as the ache behind his eyes grew stronger. “Next to the Jack you’ll find some glasses, hand