"You know I've been keeping an eye on you and--"
"What …?" Mark's mind finally jolted into forward gear. "What … keeping an eye … you’ve been watching me? What the hell are you talking about?" Mark dared to look into the mirror. The hippie looked back at him.
"I don't mean following you around, man, or spying on you all the time, you know, like Big Brother, nothing like that." He took a long drag from the joint, his eyes squinting against the smoke. "I mean just for tonight, you know, it's like, you've been 'zeroed' for this occasion."
"Zeroed … occasion … what the … WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?" Mark turned and looked into the back.
Again, nothing.
Then back to the mirror … the hippie was there, a cloud of smoke wafting around his head, a dull red coal burning at the end of the joint.
"Pretty cool, huh, man," the hippie said, a little coy now. "I didn't want you to think I was just some passenger from the streets that hid in your car and bummed a ride with you. It wouldn't quite have the same effect, man, you know what I mean?" The hippie paused. "Now turn around and look at me."
Mark did. He could see him now, face to face, this strange looking time traveler.
Mark’s fear was suddenly and completely replaced by anger. He now surmised this situation and this thing to be real, (at least, now that was the approach he would take in dealing with it). This ghost-person had invaded his car, his personal domain.
"Who are you? What do you want from me? And what the hell do you mean 'zeroed' for the occasion?" Mark stared at him, composed now, eyes burning with malice, ready to take on this ghost-thing, ready to handle it the best way he could. "Talk to me, goddamn it," Mark snapped.
"Hey, now that's pretty good, man, you got it together quick. I like to see that kind of control, considering the circumstances and all.
"What I mean by 'zeroed'," he said, "is that you've been targeted, you know, zeroed-in-on, so to speak."
Mark sat there for a moment, trying to read the hippie's eyes through the tinted granny glasses.
"So what is the occasion? You said I've been zeroed for the occasion."
"Your dad sent me," said the hippie, and waited for a reaction.
Mark was stunned. Maybe he didn't hear what he thought he heard. "What … what did you say?"
"Your dad, kid, your old man sent me."
Mark turned back around and stared out the windshield of his second-hand Chevy into the blackness that enveloped Highway 20. Could this really be happening? He tried to collect his thoughts. How the hell would he respond to this?
“Why didn’t my father come himself?” Mark said, finally, the only logical response.
"No, man, you can't do it that way. They won't let you. That's just the kind of shit you see in the movies."
"Well it just seems that if it was important enough for me--"
"Easy, man," the hippie interrupted, "it's not my fault. I'm telling you they won't let you go back to see a relative for something like this. It's not big enough."
"Who are they?"
"They … well you'll find out who they are in your own sweet time, pal, everybody does. And it’s cool, man, where you end up. You’re going to love it. It’s nothing like you hear about form all those doomsday merchants on Sunday morning."
"Well, I guess I'll just have to take your word for it."
They both sat quietly for a moment. Mark shifted in his seat and looked out into the darkness thoughtfully. Then turned back to his passenger and said: "How do you know my dad, and why did he send you?" He leveled a suspicious stare at the hippie.
"Your old man and I served in Nam together. He was a hotshot pilot and I was in Special Forces. We witnessed a lot crazy shit together, me and your dad, things nobody should ever have to see. We also did a little R-and-R together and became good friends. Quite a character, your old man."
"And the why part?"
"He wanted me to give you a message."
"A message?"
"Yeah, he said he was sorry and he wants you to forgive him. Said you'd know what it was about."
Mark paused for a long minute. "Geez … my old man, always late for the party," he said bitterly, and turned back toward the driver’s window.
The hippie took another drag from the joint and considered the situation for a moment. "Hey … look, man, I don't know much about what happened with you and your dad. He never said a whole lot about it. But he did tell me that he wished he could have had more time with you, you know, like doing father and son stuff together."
Mark continued staring out the window. No movement, no reaction.
The hippie said, "One other thing you might want to know; your old man only had one picture taped to the instrument panel of his jet. It was a picture of you. He showed it to everybody who would stand still long enough, and then he bored them with stories of how proud he was."
At that Mark turned to the hippie. He was surprised and, strangely, felt a little embarrassed.
"Are you serious," Mark said. A tear formed in the corner of his left eye and rolled down his cheek.
"Mark, your dad really did love you. He just wasn't very good at letting it out, you know. He always said he wished he could be one of those men who could show his feelings when he was with you. But it just wasn’t in him."
Mark turned away again and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. His emotions were running in too many directions at the same time.
Silence.
Finally: "Okay … look, I can hardly believe this is happening, but I'll risk it anyway. Tell my father I forgive him and … and tell him that I'm sorry too. And, uh, tell him it was good to hear from him. I guess he really did try."
"Okay, man … you're all right," said the hippie. He paused, the said, "You know, Mark, I wish I'd had a kid like you."
The hippie inhaled deeply on the joint, and exhaled, filling the car with smoke. The smoke hung in the air momentarily, then slowly vanished, taking the hippie with it.
Forty minutes later Mark Hampton pulled in beside the gas pumps of a Texaco station and got out of his car. He stood there for a moment, dazed and disbelieving, trying to make sense of what had happened. He pulled out his wallet and opened it. He flipped through the plastic sleeves to find his only photograph of his father, a little tattered around the edges but the image was sharp and clear. Captain John Hampton, in his dress blues, smiled happily up at his son through the clear plastic cover.
Mark smiled back, and said, "Thanks Dad.”
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