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The concrete sears as painfully as every other surface under the penetrating white glow of the afternoon sun. Nicholas Carreure’s neck sloughs the sticky residue of one dried bout of perspiration after another. His blonde locks have become saturated, as has the headband keeping the sweat off his brow. White skin has yielded to reddish burns, excepting that raccoon-ish area around his eyes, thanks to a pair of dutiful sunglasses. His muscles burn, not only from the temperatures, but from having pushed this far. But the day is not over, and motivations are as peaked as the mountain ranges just barely coming into view on the horizon.
This service station, which may yet prove to be nothing more than an oasis, is sufficient–at least for fixing a flat. The meager shade of the overhang provides only minimal relief from the direct sun; escaping the sweltering winds is another challenge altogether.
Nobody occupies this island among wastelands save the attendant, a man far too weathered for his age, whose soiled blue baseball cap seems more at home on his head than his own hair, which takes its directions from the whims of the wind. His long-sleve cotton plaid hangs loosely from his dehydrated body as he shifts his weight into a stance of equal parts curiosity and disappointment, knowing he won’t be making a sale from the pedal-powered fellow who just walked his cycle up to the curb. It is possible that few bicycles ever pass through this desolate desert-within. Or perhaps they never make it this far…
Hands covered with grease and road grime, Nick begins to work the bead off the rim when a dusty red pickup truck slides into the closest parking space, raising a choking cloud of particulate, and letting loose a shower of gravel which plinks and ticks itself against Nick’s helmet and shins.
“Heya there, a-migo!” says the driver as he trades places with the vehicles door. He is dressed not unlike the attendant, but his curly black hair is uncovered, and is as dusty as Nick’s has recently become. A matching black moustache curls the corners of his mouth but is well trimmed. He moves with the haste of someone who is used to dodging sunlight, making his way into a sliver of shade–the same under which Nick found refuge.
Leaning in for a closer look, he exclaims “I’m Cal…you havin’ tire trouble?!?”
