A Dusty Memory

Winnie Lugerson was on her way home from the Christian Women’s Circle luncheon when her car began to shimmy and make a loud flapping sound. A flat tire. She pulled alongside the county highway in the pouring rain and contemplated walking or waiting. The lack of umbrella forced her decision; she would be waiting.

After a few cars sped by, a beat up truck pulled up behind her. She recognized the driver: Hippie Juan. Or “Hippie Dippy Juan”, as Dusty, her husband, called him. The rock and roll tee shirts, ripped jeans and a failed pottery studio inspired his nickname. He lived alone in a mobile home and drove a truck piled high with scrap and junk he pilfered out of dumpsters. She watched him approach in the rearview mirror and tried to recall the last time she held a conversation with him, if ever. He tapped the window and she rolled it down, about an inch.

“Say there, Mrs. Lugerson. See ya gotta flat. I can’t change it being I’m not that mechanical and all, but I can give ya’ a lift.”

Winnie thought for a minute. “Well, I suppose. Just drop me off at the lumberyard. Dusty should still be at work. He’ll have to come back and change it.” She clutched her purse and followed Hippie Juan to his pickup. He held a cardboard box over her head as she made her way to the passenger door.

He tossed a dozen plastic coat hangers, a cookbook, a skein of orange yarn and a bag of aluminum cans in the back to make room for her.

“Make yourself at home,” Hippie Juan chuckled.

Winnie sat, knees pressed together, hugging her purse, hoping she hadn’t used poor judgment in accepting a ride from him. Before he drove off, he fumbled under the seat and held up a cassette tape.

“Aha, found it! Like Led Zeppelin? This here’s my favorite. Led Zeppelin II.”

“I can’t say I’ve listened to them since I was a teenager.”

“Not since a teenager? Why the hell not? Why did you stop listening to Zeppelin?” He looked into her eyes.

Winnie was startled. That’s a damn good question, she thought. When did I make the leap from Led Zeppelin and The Rolling Stones to George Strait and Conway Twitty. Dusty, I suppose. It’s all he ever listens to.

“You know, got married,” she replied.

“Bummer. That’s why I never got hitched. This one’s my favorite: ‘Ramble On.’ Check it out. It f—ing rocks. ” Hippie Juan turned up the volume and launched into the lyrics.

He’s right. This song does ‘f—ing rock.’ She had forgotten how the low pulse of a bass guitar could reverberate through the seat cushions and snake its way into her pants. She rather enjoyed it, but to be safe, she shifted over on her left side and crossed her legs.

“Makes me feel young again. Know what I mean?” Hippie Juan smiled and nodded.

“Uh-huh. Be nice to do all over again, wouldn’t it? Maybe do it different the second time around,” Winnie said and stared out the window. The truck stopped at the intersection before the lumberyard. He hit the eject button and handed her the cassette.

“Here take this. I got plenty more where that came from.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

“No, take it. I got a feeling you need it more than I do.” The windshield wipers scraped across the window, over and over: a shudder and a thud.

“Thanks. I’ll surely give it a listen.” She slid the cassette into her purse. “You can just drop me off over there.” She pointed to an empty space in the parking lot.

Hippie Juan pulled in. “Say, what’s the occasion anyway?” He pointed to the pink carnation drooping on her lapel.

“It’s a birthday corsage from the Women’s Circle luncheon. Mine’s coming up next week.” She shrugged.

“I got the perfect birthday present for ya.” He reached in the back and handed her a book.

She read the title, The French Chef Cookbook by Julia Child.

“I can’t accept this. You already gave me the tape and a ride to town.”

“Take it. Maybe you can repay me sometime with a home cooked meal.”

“Okay then.” Winnie smiled but wondered how she would convince Dusty to invite the town junkman over for dinner. She stared down at the book. “French cooking? Oh, I don’t know. I only make things like pot roast and meatloaf.”

Hippie Juan leaned toward her. “Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” He winked and jumped out of the truck to open the door. She tucked the book inside her jacket before she stepped into the unrelenting rain.

“Well, then, thanks for the ride, Juan.”

“Happy Birthday, Mrs. Lugerson.”

Winnie watched Juan pull away. Her fingers traced the hard outline of the book underneath her jacket and she hurried for cover as the rain threatened to soak through.

Christine Baerbock writes short fiction from her home in Wisconsin.