This isn’t my story, it’s his. He talked, I listened. And I tried to quiet the skeptic who lives inside my brain.
The tale takes place at night. There are hardly any cars on an old two-lane highway near the Louisiana-Texas line.
He is a middle-aged ironworker, walking the shoulder with a sack over his back. An army duffle bag, olive drab. The same pack he’s been carrying since Korea.
The steelwalker’s personal life is a mess. He’s left his home and his kids. He cries a lot. He has pushed away his family. He’s isolated himself. And he’s tired. Tired all over. Tired of being alive. Tired of… Everything.
But he likes to walk highways. And he particularly loves the Milky Way, which is his travel companion this evening.
In most cities you can’t see the “River of Heaven,” as it was known in ancient Japan. There’s too much skyglow in urban places.
Last year when he was working the iron in Detroit, he never saw the Milky Way, the bright city lights obscured it. He did a stint walking
skyscrapers in Tulsa, too. Couldn’t see stars there, either.
But in quiet parts of Texas, the ribbon of the Milky Way eases through a pristine purple sky and puts on a perfect show. Yes, tonight is a perfect night.
And if all goes according to his plan, this will be his last night alive.
A truck stops beside him. The brake rotors grind, blue exhaust coughs from a tailpipe. A white-haired guy in a crushed cattleman’s hat kicks open the door and says, “Need a lift, pal?”
“Nah thanks, I’m alright.”
“You sure? Be glad to carry you somewhere.”
The ironworker thinks about the stranger’s offer. His feet are sore. His knees aren’t what they used to be. He glances at the sky one last time. “Hell... Why not.”
He throws his bag into the bed and crawls into…