There Is Nothing New Under The Sun

The railroad ties beneath me are the closest chance I got to finding a town.

The sweltering heat is never-ending.

Not yet July, the sun seems hell bent on melting anything and everything in its line of sight. The waves of heat visualize further down the track, rippling through the humid air. The sides of the track are devoid of trees, and brush lies in place before the sprawling hills of browning wheat. The nearest sign of civilization is to my right, a post of weathered cedar marking the start of a split rail fence. It must have been there for a long time, for the plants seem to think of it as their own. Weeds of all kinds coil up the pickets, trying to claw it back into the dirt.

Each step feels more strenuous than the last. Loose rocks shift underneath footfalls. I should’ve tempted fate with the ticks instead of being cooked alive in these sticky jeans. My clothes cling to me. Damp. I can feel the beads of sweat rolling down the nape of my neck. The sun's near blinding. I hang my head. Sweat stings my eyes. My bag sags off my shoulder. The sun doesn't yield.

The railroad ties beneath me are the closest chance I got to finding a town. Long worn by weather and painted in smears of black, a tacky, viscous substance boiling under the sun, oozing out of lumber like the sweat from my pores. It clings to the wood, then latches to my sole.

I stall, huffing. I lift my boot, and the tar is like melted chewed bubble gum—all stringy and sticky. I take a crack at scraping it off against the rusting rail, but it doesn’t budge, only aiding the spread further. I go for the pocket knife nestled in my jeans pocket. It's a release assist that once had a polished grain handle, now nicked and well-loved. Mark had scraped together enough cash from his first job at the bait and tackle shop to gift me it for my fourteenth birthday. Felt all grown up with a knife to call my own.

The point is now smudged black. The shiny steel is tarnished, perpetually illustrating my feeble attempts at scrubbing that tar away from my reddening skin.

Something iridescent catches my eye, shimmering in the hot sun, and such a stark contrast against the matte, viscous oil engulfing it. The odd glimmer grabs me right away. Not far from where I have my leg propped up. I straighten out, folding the knife away back into the safety of my pocket.

Leaning over the puddle is when I recognize the shape lodged. A beetle, the type that is shiny, green, and gleams purple in the right light, with legs that cling tightly to you when you try to flick it away. It must have landed in the tar, unaware of it liquifying in such heat. The more it struggled, the more it got caught up, sinking. I know it died wriggling with all its might. Just an empty shell stuck, it’s close enough to an amber fossil.

I pull my eyes away. I'm bigger than a beetle. My boots are thicker. The tar isn't going to keep me from getting to where I need to go. Nothing will. The scarce gusts of wind that sweep through the valley remind me of what’s ahead.

Mark owes me one. His nineteenth birthday is in a week. I've been with him for all his birthdays since we met. I don't plan on missing one just because he moved to New Jersey of all hellholes.

We were like brothers.

Are.

I spent more time at his house than my own, commandeering his garage as the designated hangout spot. We hooked up a TV and carried back an old couch. Decorated it with cheap Christmas lights, along with a nudie poster that his dad probably shouldn't have gifted him. Various knick-knacks accumulated there over the years. We used to fight over who got the best seat on the couch—the one without the ambiguous stains.

It all feels miles away from where I stand now.

I push on like there are flames of hellfire lapping at my heels. If I stay in one place too long, the only remains of me will end up scattered in the wind, and I’ll never make it.

It sneaks up on me. So focused on willing my legs to move, I don't realize the train tracks a couple of feet ahead run to a railroad crossing, intersecting a dusty, gravel, and dirt road.

I would cry if I could. I’ve never been happier to see a janky road, and I don’t think I ever will be. I follow the dirt till it smooths to asphalt, a new wave of energy thrumming through me.

Roads mean cars. Cars mean people. People mean rides. And that means the closer I get to Jersey.

It’s the type of back road where one car has to pull up and past the shoulder to the grass if they want to stand a chance against an incoming vehicle’s need to pass. Or they take a gamble with a hefty mechanic bill and the drop in credit.

The splintering pavement feeds into a swelling lane that appears to be a straight shot downhill towards the graying clouds and thickening trees. It’s the offer of shade underneath the canopy of limbs reaching for the sky that pulls me forward. The little things mean the most now—a breath of relief from the heatstroke creeping up on me.

My stride soon falls back to the shuffling of feet. Boots scrape against the pavement, kicking unassuming pebbles strewn in my way. The novelty of finding shade after being soft-boiled on the open stretch of tracks dwindles fast, faster than I would have liked to admit.

Billowing oaks and hickory selflessly shield and wave me on. The few streams of light that peek through the swaying branches overhead paint the road in an array of oblong, fractured shapes. The sun begins to sink.

I lean against the trunk of the nearest, comfortable-looking tree. Its roots are sprawled vast, clawing at the dirt. A prickly grass blanket is all that’s left. With my knees pulled close to my chest, I rest my head against the pillows of moss, bark scratching my scalp.
Fleeting bugs come to circle around me. One lands on my bare arm. I swat at it, smashing it in all its spindly-legged glory until it's reduced to a small black blot staining my skin.

My next door neighbor growing up once caught a grasshopper and plucked its legs off one by one. He laughed as we watched it wriggle on the sidewalk. He wanted to see if it could still fly away. An older girl put it out of its misery before we could find out. It crunched, all wet and brittle, beneath her shoe. Looking back, it was a better fate than being left vulnerable to the morbid curiosity of children.

I wet my thumb and scrubbed away the gummy guts.

By the time the sun dips below the trees. The sky bleeds orange and purple. The air is still thick and muggy, but the retreat of the sun lessens the force. I begin to come to terms that this tree will be my bed for the night. It could be worse. It could be pouring, the heavens opening up and drenching me where I lay. The small things.

A hum of wings buzzes by, and the chittering of cicadas grows deep among the trees. Soon dwarfed by the advancing rumble of an engine. The only sound left standing is the sputtering exhaust and the crunch of asphalt.

I get up and scramble back to the edge of the road. I hold out a hand, pointing up my thumb like time and time before.

The pickup slows and idles in front of me. It's a sun-faded maroon. Dried mud is splattered up around the rear fenders. The back tail light is cracked.

A hazy silhouette is all I make out in the dying light until the window is cranked down. His features blur, but the choking stench of tobacco remains with the brown of his goatee.

He motions me forward, all charming and fatherly.

I hesitate.

The droning swells from the trees once more. I ignore it in favor of rounding to the passenger side.

When I open the door, I am greeted by the blasting A/C that enables me to ignore the wriggling in my gut and climb into the passenger seat. Slamming the door closed, it puts a stop to the rising cacophony beating outside the cab.

He smiles, a sprawling crack of wrinkles.

“Where you headed so late?”

“Jersey,” I reply, too tired and too worn to think of a lie.

I drop my bag under the dash, stretching my legs in the rest of the space. The peeling vinyl seat squeaks under my weight.

He chuckles, a throaty rumble that jiggles his beer belly.

“Ain’t that a trip!”

Exhaustion lies heavy in my bones. I don’t grasp what’s so amusing. I smile weakly in an attempt at politeness.

He rattles on for the first few minutes, asking mundane questions I’ve heard time and time again.

How are you doing?

What’s your name?

Where are you from?

I nod when I can, and respond curtly when needed. The conversation eventually dwindles off, replaced by the rumbling truck and soft country melody spilling from the radio.

The road is jerky, full of bumps and potholes. The old clunker of a truck pushes on, bucking over the cracks. Trees roll past, the sky now a darkening bruise. I gaze out my window for any pinpricks of stars peering through, but it all blends.

The high beams illuminate the way, slicing through the darkness. Bugs tap against the windshield, just poor fools utterly infatuated, devoted to the light. They are blind to the untimely demise in the shape of the vehicle hurling towards them. They collide and smear in streaks of brown and black, piling up in clumps of twitching membranes. He clicks on the wipers. Their remains are gone in seconds. Not a trace of their quaint, insignificant existence.

He shifts and glances over. Again. I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, focusing on the tinny radio and trying to make out words through the country twang.

A heavy paw rests on my thigh.

My chest jerks. The muscles in my legs feel like pulled taffy, unconnected and wobbly from the rest of my body. They barely shift under the touch. My neck snaps to him.

He doesn’t stall, eyes fixated on the road, one hand drumming along the wheel, and the other glued to my leg.

He hums along to the radio. He shifts in his seat, stealing a glance over, “You alright there, son?”

My tongue feels welded to the roof of my mouth. All too dry.

Something festers in my gut, alongside the churning of maggots and bile.

The truck crawls to a stop.

My joints are rusted in place.

I could recognize a weapon in front of me. So unlike my Pa’s rifle, nevertheless, just as threatening.
It was jutting, angry, and hard against denim confines.

I can’t pry my eyes away. The whole truck is vibrating, and he’s as still as a statue.

He shifts again.

I think back to that iridescent beetle’s empty husk frozen in the oily amber. How it must have jittered aimlessly, beating its wings desperately, with such force, they tear clean off. Any hope seized with.

I lurch, colliding with the door full force. My body rams against it in some desperate force, shaky hand fumbling for the handle. It doesn't budge. The knife in my pocket digs into my side.

I can't reach. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

The creature in my chest slams itself repeatedly into the cage of my ribs, seething desperately for escape.
Thick fingers choke the roots of my hair.

He wrenches my head back and bashes my face down against the dash.

Humiliation stains my pants.

The cicadas screech.

—

Gravel bites into my cheek. The buzzing doesn’t fade. My vision swims through the thick syrup that replaced my brain, stuffed my lungs and head so full it overflows, clogging the back of my throat.

I don’t know how long I lay there, gasping along to the lullaby of pests. When I rise, the sun follows suit, lagging behind every step.

It’s hot. For not yet being July.

The railroad leads through rolling hills that now lie barren.

My boots feel like they're made of lead, weighing me down, a burden growing with every step. I hitch my backpack higher.

The road looks as tempting as ever, lush trees grasping for the slumbering sky.

I go towards it.

Before my legs buckle, I plop down against the towering hickory.

An unlucky bug skitters across my arm. It crushes like nothing beneath my hand, but the tarry guts won’t scrub off.

An engine sounds up the fading road, leading me to scramble to the shoulder.

My arm raises automatically.

Thumb already up.

“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9)