The Loneliest Highway in America
Short Fiction
Nelson had the car packed, the oil checked, and his half-gallon water bottle filled by 11 am. It wasn’t the earliest start of all time, but even as recently as last night, he hadn’t been positive he would go at all. When he woke up, though, it seemed like the clear thing to do.
Nothing was keeping him in town. In fact, it’d be nice to get away. A couple days away, or even a week, if he decided to extend his stay once he got there, would do him good. Would shift the perspective, remind him that there were other things out there.
So, all packed up, pretty sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, he hit the road.
His first stop was the grocery store for a couple provisions: a pre-made ham sandwich, a flavored redbull (watermelon), a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
He knew that he should ration these, so he wouldn’t be tempted to buy more at every gas station along the way. But, about one minute after leaving the store, he opened the bag of chips, put a couple inside the sandwich, and ate about half of this new creation in two or three hasty bites. To wash it down, he pounded two thirds of the redbull.
When he got on the highway, it stretched out too far in front of him and he had his first pang of wanting to turn around before he’d even really begun.
It wouldn’t be ridiculous, what he’d already done: got himself a somewhat shabby brunch, ate it in the car, drove five minutes in the wrong direction, then went right back home. Arguably, this behavior would make more sense than driving halfway across the country to see a few friends just because they happened to be in the town he used to live in and he didn’t want to miss out.
He decided to put second guesses out of his mind, though. They were dangerous. He decided to keep on trucking.
The best way to do it (he’d had more than a little experience) was to consider each coming town as a checkpoint to look forward to and, in this way, make up the entire monumental drive out of 20-80 mile chunks. Take it town by town in his mind. That way, he might be able to trick himself out of discouragement.
He knew the next few towns pretty well: Farmington, Gunnison, Price. Then, at Salina, he’d see the huge truck stops, which would be his signal to get on the interstate, heading West. By that point, he’d be an hour and a half into the drive with still quite a ways to go.
He reminded himself not to think of it as a progress bar on a software update, not to consider how much loading still had to be done.
He gave himself permission to get a candy bar when he got to the truck stop in Salina. Or a bag of peanut M&M’s; M&M’s would last longer and thus provide prolonged diversion.
Nelson drove with shoes off and his right arm holding up the weight of his head. His arm, in turn, rested its own weight and that of its dependent body on the center console by way of the tip of his elbow.
He looked forward to arriving in the city in California he used to live in. He imagined a king’s welcome for himself. Hopefully, it would be easy to pick right back up where he left off with the friends he hadn’t seen in a while.
The anxiety he felt for his car took the form of a constant, background prayer that nothing unexpected come into his immediate stretch of roadway, causing a skidding, swerving, sliding collision. A secondary form of the prayer ran alongside the first: that no banging, sputtering, or gasping noises would be heard from the old engine. These thoughts were not top of mind. It was just, he could tell his mood contained a tenor of vague, low-grade, foreseen doom. If he pressed himself to name its origin, fear for the car would be it.
He spent his first hour and a half in such a state: a little worried, trying to take each chunk as its own worthy drive, and skipping five songs out of each six that came on shuffle until he found one he could sing along to.
At Salina, he pulled into the Flying J. There were 44 pumps, to say nothing of the truck stations around back. He parked at pump number 7. While trying to run his card in the machine, he hopped from foot to foot because he had to pee.
The pump kept saying, “see attendant,” so he said, “screw it,” and hustled in to the bathroom.
After he’d relieved himself, he slyly pocketed a small bag of M&M’s and went back out to the car. When he got there, he realized he still hadn’t put any gas in it.
“Damn it,” he mumbled.
He tried to run his card on the pump one more time just in case, and one more time it said “see attendant.” He couldn’t very well do that. Who knew if the attendant had seen his little candy-in-the-pocket trick? So he twisted the gas cap back in and drove across the way to the Chevron.
At the Chevron, their machines didn’t even give him a chance to run his card. A paper with the words “pay inside” was posted over the screen and card slot.
He went in to the service station and stood in a line of three.
The first man, a working man by the look of him, trying to buy his midday caffeine, moved quickly through his purchase.
Next up, though, was a young father who had no control over his young kids.
The guy behind the counter waited patiently for the father to get his crew in order, but Nelson had an itch to get back on the road. Plus, part of his mind was outside on his car, which was unlocked and just out of view. Every moment he spent in line was another fragment of a percentage point increase in likelihood that his car would be stolen or pilfered out there.
He leaned to one side, around the father, hoping to get the gas station employee’s attention. The guy behind the desk didn’t seem to mind the delay though. He seemed amused by the domestic episode that was taking place on the convenience store floor.
The father had two medium-sized toddlers beside him, one tucked under each wing, strategically herding them inward so they couldn’t become part of the problem. He was turned to his right, verbally engaging with a kid weaving among the snack aisles who sounded to be the oldest.
“But daddy, I didn’t get to pick out one,” the oldest whined.
Daddy said, “Not this time, sport. Come back over, please.”
“But daddy, why?”
“I already told you why, Cooper.”
“But tell me again, please.”
“You get to pick out next time. Now, come back over, please. There are people waiting behind us.”
“But I’m the oldest.”
Behind the father, the baby of the bunch, who looked to have about 1.5 years under his belt, was practicing his reversing. He backed it up a few shuffles, holding his hands out in front of him for safety. Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet realized he had to will the rest of him backwards along with the legs, so, just before running into Nelson’s shins, he stumbled, ended up on the ground, and wailed.
The father spun around to see who had shoved his baby, releasing the two previously restrained ones, who split in opposite directions.
Nelson indicated that he had no time for these untrained children and the father let him pass with an apologetic and embarrassed wave.
Back on the road with a full tank, the car felt just a little slower to reach top speeds. Maybe it was the 15 extra gallons of gasoline it was carrying or Nelson’s inability to press down as hard on the gas pedal after tiring his calves out standing in line for so long.
For diversion, he called his sister. No answer. She was always either at work or asleep during his waking hours even though they lived in the same time zone. Usually she called back at 1 or 2 am, at which time he would be long asleep.
He called his mom.
“Hello? Nelson?”
“Hi mom.”
“Nelson! How’s it going out there?”
“Ohhhhhh fiiiiiiiine. How’s it going with you?”
“Are you working this week?”
“No.”
“Oh, that makes sense. I was wondering how you were calling me from work.”
“Nope. Not calling from work.”
“Well where are you calling from, then?”
“Just driving. Thought I’d try you.”
“You got me!”
“Sounds like it.”
“Driving where?”
“To California.”
“California! Nelson, jeez. That’s a long drive.”
“I know it, mom.”
“And a lot of gas.”
“Truly.”
“Can you afford that much gas?”
“I hope so.”
“It would be a bummer to get stuck out there.”
“Maybe. Then again.”
“Then again what?”
“Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“Oh, Nelson. You’re silly.”
“Mhhmmm.”
“Are your friends out there?”
“Yeah, some, I guess.”
“You guess? You’re going on a guess?”
“I mean, some, yes. For sure. But mom, I-”
“Any of the good ones?”
“Not sure what you mean by that mom, but I think I’m-”
“Oh you know! Drew, Avi, Tyler.”
“I think I’m heading out of service pretty soon so I really should go.”
“Phoebe?”
“Not sure, mom. I think I do have to go, though.”
“If Phoebe is there, tell her I say hi. And good luck Nelson.”
“Ok, mom. Bye.”
“Let me know if you make it.”
“We’ll see.”
“Call me when you get there. Love you.”
“It’ll probably be too late to call. Love you too.”
Eventually, he crossed the border into Nevada. Nevada could be taken long or short. It could be barely clipped at the bottom or scaled and then traversed the long way, up North.
Option A included a pass through Vegas, which could only serve to slow him down, and then many more hours driving through California, which would be discouraging. It’d be nice to almost be at his destination when he entered that state.
Option B included countless miles on “the Loneliest Highway in America,” long stretches of identical, brown land, and a few mysterious fenced off areas that some people online suspected contained alien life forms.
Nelson cut North towards Option B.
He came through a town. It wasn’t far from Utah or Arizona, so its only purpose was clear: a gambling haven for citizens of those states.
Nelson considered walking into a casino, drinking a Margarita, and putting $20 on a random baseball game or tennis match. If he did that, though, he knew he’d end up sleeping in his car in the parking lot, turning around, and heading home tomorrow morning.
Instead, he pushed on and gave himself permission to stop at another gas station.
This time, he didn’t even try to use the machine, but went inside, bought a large coffee, and put $60 on number 3.
$60? Yikes.
It crossed his mind that each dollar he spent to get out there was actually two dollars, if you took into account the drive back. At this point, if he turned around, the $60 he just spent would be the partners of 60 of the dollars he spent to get out this far.
The words “sunk cost fallacy” entered his mind, but he couldn’t remember if obeying that concept would mean he should keep going or turn around.
After a few more miles, the coffee caused his foot to press down harder than ever and he felt he was propelling himself through Nevada at a satisfactory pace that could be kept up for many more hours without boring him. The music was hitting and there was no one else to call.
But then the landscape started repeating itself and the mile markers stayed pretty low.
It was a wide place, Nevada. He knew what he had to look forward to: a few more miles of Northbound highway, a slight merge left, many miles West, and then, someday, far off towns like Reno and Truckee.
Even then, even if he made it that far through vast Nevada, he’d still have mountains to navigate and 3-4 hours of California to cross. And then, after a short visit, which was beginning to look less necessary every mile, it’d be the whole thing in reverse. He’d have to drink even more coffee and flavored redbull on the way back to distract himself from how many miles were still to come.
He made progress through repeating Nevada. How much progress? It was impossible to tell. He took the slight left onto the purportedly lonely highway.
Every song that came on spotify sounded stale and there was nothing on the radio but ads and Jesus stuff.
There was a gnarly gurgling and low, sour broil within his chest that he attributed to hours of junk food and immobility.
Deciding he couldn’t take any more for the time being, he moved the car onto the shoulder.
He climbed over the center console and got out the passenger side door, in order to not get blown over by 18-wheelers whipping past.
He wanted to walk, but there was a fence. Even if he hopped the fence, the other side consisted of high brown brush that certainly contained pricklies.
He walked back and forth a few times on a short, imaginary track between his car and the fence.
He opened the trunk of his car, shoved all the stuff back there to one side, and curled up, using bags and blankets as cushions. Something pokey was jutting into the muscles lining his spinal cord. He tried to ignore it.
He opened a book, but couldn't read more than a few words. Reading seemed just as tedious as skipping every song in his music library and watching the same flat, dead hills pass by again and again.
He got out, slammed the trunk, did a couple knee-tuck jumps right there on the side of the highway behind his car to rile himself up and get the blood circulating for another few hours on the road.
When no cars were coming, he scampered to the driver’s seat. He fired up the car and put it back on the road.
His foot felt looser and stronger than before. It pushed down on the gas pedal with gusto.
The car gained speed.
He would power through and punch it hard all the way to Reno and beyond. It wouldn’t be too terrible if he focused on go go going.
He kept pushing down.
The angle between his foot and the floor became smaller and smaller. The car sped up, in accordance with what Nelson’s foot instructed it to do.
The way he saw it, the harder he pressed, the faster he would get there.
Not in the rational way, that if he went 10-20 miles per hour faster, he’d cover 10-20 more miles each hour. This was true, but difficult to wrap one’s mind around.
The way he saw it, the harder he pressed down through his foot, through the pedal, onto the gravel roadway inches below, the stronger the message it would send to his vehicle and wide, boring Nevada that he needed to be done with this particular journey, and as soon as they could allow for it. It was like biting down on a spoon when getting your leg sawn off or stretching your arms way up on your bedpost in the morning to push through the grogginess of waking up.
He kept pushing, then. The blood he’d warmed up with those jumps kept pumping. He pushed through until there was no more down to push; instead his butt popped up a little from his seat. The phrase “pedal to the metal” crossed his mind, but it didn’t really apply because the floor underneath his gas pedal was carpeted. He pushed still, though, trying to achieve full pedal-to-carpet.
Then: pop.
Or, rather: snap.
It wasn’t a sound but a feeling. For a moment he thought one of the push-tendons in his leg had snapped. He tried to push again, but there was no resistance to push against. His leg worked fine, but there was no satisfying push-back or surge of speed.
In fact, his car was slowing. He lifted his foot and put it down again and the pedal followed. It put up no fight. The pedal was completely flaccid, like a loose flap of dead skin on the palm of one’s hand, peeled off on three sides but still hanging flimsily by one edge and blowing around whenever the hand moves. Whether the pedal was engaged or not had no effect on the car.
Everything else seemed to be working fine: Nelson’s body, the engine, the brakes, the lonely road. The car just wouldn’t accelerate.
Due to forces Nelson mostly didn’t understand (friction, momentum, wind resistance, gravity), the car continued to slow down. With each moment it didn’t accelerate or maintain its acceleration on the flat, Nevada highway, its velocity approached zero.
At some point, still working the pedal up and down to no result, Nelson realized there would be no more going forward, no punching it through to Reno before he noticed how long the road was.
Instead, he pulled over onto the shoulder again; turned off the car, turned it on again, put it in drive, pressed most of the buttons, and twisted every knob. Everything worked except the gas pedal. Under the hood, everything was ticking and humming in its ordinary way.
With all other possibilities exhausted, it was time for some in-depth pedal analysis.
He tried pressing it with his hand. This required getting down in there. Since he didn’t want passing cars clipping his open driver-side door or running over his feet, he closed the door, kneeled on the driver’s seat, and hung the top half of his body down into the pedal area as if he was leaning over a river from a 2 foot rock, trying to catch a trout with his bare hands.
It wasn’t a comfortable position from which to perform a diagnostic test, but it did allow him to confirm that the gas pedal was completely untethered from any other part of the car. It went wherever he brought it: up, down, in-between, completely 180 degrees from where it would be if pressed down all the way. The pedal had no preference. It was completely free and useless.
As far as Nelson could tell, the pedal should have been connected to a long throttle cable that ran to the engine and instructed its pistons to fire. Instead, it was connected to nothing. Only a small, ripped portion of the throttle cable could be found dangling from the underside of the pedal.
Nelson sat upright, allowed the blood to return to the normal parts of his body, reclined the driver’s seat, and poked his feet through the holes in the steering wheel. Slumped in that way, he closed his eyes.
No matter how he spun it, this was the end of the line.
It didn’t matter. He didn’t feel anxious, only exhausted. He could think of nothing to do but sit in the shape of a “U”, wiggling the steering wheel with his ankles. He’d used up every bit of motivation he had left, trying to will his car to Reno. He wouldn’t be able to make it to California. He wouldn’t go anywhere, he couldn’t.
What did he need? Food? Water? Caffeine? No.
A Nap? Would that help? He felt it would be just as hard to sleep as it would be to fix his car and drive 7 hours in one direction or the other.
A hypothetical middle school football coach crossed his mind, yelling, “Give it all you got!! Leave it all out there!!” How silly. What a waste, for a middle schooler to use “all” of “it” that early in life.
That’s where Nelson figured he must be: all used up.
At some point, he would have to call his people in California and tell them he wouldn’t make it.
They’d pass the message along to Phoebe. She’d wonder if it was because of her, if he’d chickened out or decided it wasn’t a good idea to see her.
He would have to call his mom, tell her she was right. California was too far.
One day he’d tell his grandkids.
“Did I ever tell you kids about the time I drove across Utah, halfway across Nevada, got stuck, felt completely out of options for 15 minutes, then turned around and went home?”
What a shit story, though. There was no lesson in that. It didn’t convey any information about him or what it used to be like back in his day.
There were too many unexplained variables and unconnected details.
“Why were you driving to California, anyways, grandad?”
“To see my people.”
“Your people? What does that mean? You were going to see a girl, weren’t you?”
“Not exactly, junior.”
“Was it grandma?”
“Definitely not.”
“What people then? Friends? Didn’t you have friends in Utah?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“Why tell us, then?”
Would they even care to hear about his past, anyway? The grandkids of the future would be too jaded for grandpa tales. If they didn’t want to hear about it, Nelson would have no one to tell his stories to. This moment, slouched and dejected halfway through the Loneliest Highway in America, would become forgotten to time.
Nelson opened his eyes and remembered that he was still there.
He noticed that his thoughts had been spiraling in a strange but not unusual direction. He wasn’t living inside a story that might or might not someday interest his grandkids or anyone else.
He was still there.
Still sitting in the driver’s seat of that immobile car on the side of a road in Nevada.
He felt like getting out of the car. One by one he unthreaded his feet from the steering wheel.
There weren’t any cars coming. None, in fact, as far as he could see in either direction. So, he opened the door casually and stepped out into the road without worrying about being hit. He wondered why he’d worried before. This road had a reputation as the loneliest one for a reason.
Outside, the sun had just dropped behind the farthest point he could see on the road that would have taken him into California. He was surprised that the sun had already set, but, when he thought about it for a moment, he realized it made sense. It had been a long day on the road. About time it was ending.
It was still bright enough to see everything clearly. The ground was mostly brown and orange on either side, with black and two stripes of yellow on the road; the same colors he’d been seeing all day. Above, though, the sky contained at least a bit of every color he could think of. Green? Yes, even a bit of green, once he looked for it.
He closed his car door and walked slowly for a while in the direction he’d been heading all day. This time, though, he wasn’t expecting the landscape to give way to any other types of scenery. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone he knew within 4 or 5 hours and wasn’t worried about how they’d receive him.
For a moment, with a pang, he wondered if he was forgetting anything in the car. A headlamp, a jacket, a water bottle. It was past sunset; sometimes those types of items were necessary for a walk past sunset.
But no, he wouldn’t go too far. He would be fine. Once it got dark or cold, he’d turn around and head back to his car, where he had everything he needed.
It was a bit chilly, but in a refreshing way, after spending all day in perfectly temperate but stuffy car-air.
He walked far, without thinking about much other than the colors of the desert. When he finally did turn around, he couldn’t see his car anymore. He remembered the last time he hadn’t been within sight of that car. It was inside the gas station, when he’d been so eager to get on with his drive and anxious to make sure no one robbed him.
How ridiculous that concern seemed now. If someone had stolen his car, they would have only made it a couple hours before snapping the throttle cable and becoming stranded on the side of an empty desert road.
Nelson imagined, now, that he wasn’t walking slowly back to the car he’d left on the shoulder, but walking from the gas station where it’d been stolen, to retrieve it from an unlucky thief who’d had no choice but to abandon it.
He felt a strange excitement to get back to the car. Even though it would be dark, he decided he would go through the trouble of pitching his tent, off in a flat area away from the road. He’d bring a few snacks to the tent. Maybe he’d even find a warm beer rolling around on the floor of his car. He’d make a home of it for a night. (Or two nights, if it came to that. But that would be a question for tomorrow.)
Underfoot, he felt a squish. Not a pop or a snap, like before. A localized, tiny crumpling.
He lifted his foot and saw a dead bug where he’d stepped.
As he contemplated the murder he’d committed, a couple other bugs scurried onto the scene to cart their dearly departed comrade away, presumably to a more dignified resting place.
Scanning slightly, in search of where these prompt pallbearers came from, he noticed there were many others of their kind in the vicinity. The more he looked, the more he saw. All around he found them. He couldn’t avoid them, once he realized they were there. He had to take especially careful steps not to kill at least a couple with each foot placement. There were thousands of crickets crossing that road. Thousands of them out at night on the Loneliest Highway in America.
If he had kept driving, how many crickets would he have killed? Nelson laughed, to think of it. He wasn’t usually one to place much value in the sanctity of cricket life, but he thought about it from their perspective for a moment. The snapping of his throttle cable meant the prevention of one of the great massacres in US Hwy 50 cricket history.