My Car Broke Down In The Middle Of Nowhere, And Now I’m Pretty Sure I’ll Never Get Home

Knock, Knock… Knock. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated. Maybe a gut reaction.
There was movement inside the house. Morgan had parked his car in the driveway facing-in, which he was now regretting, wishing he had backed in instead in case he needed a quick exit. He figured these people don’t get many people knocking on their door, and he figured they did that on purpose. Some more movement behind door window. Just a shadow though. He couldn’t hear anyone inside. He cupped his hands to the window to get a better look inside when he felt something lightly land on the top of his left shoulder.

“And what might you be up to ‘round here.”

Startled, Morgan turned quickly and came face to face with a double-barrel shotgun. One barrel staring in each eye.

“Holy shit!” Morgan closed his eyes and instinctively put his hands up. “I was just looking for some directions!” Morgan leaned back from the glaring dark, metal hallways, and saw a small, older man peeking over the top. His hair was white and frazzled, and his beard had been left untouched for years. He wore a faded pair of jeans too high on his waist and a black flannel hanging around off his limber frame. He pulled the gun up by his shoulder and held it with one hand.

“Who are ya?”

“Morgan, sir.”

“…Ain’t that a girl’s name?”

“Not re-,” Morgan paused not feeling like defending his name today. “Yeah, it kind of is, I guess.”

Morgan was used to it. Too used to it. Years of grade school being “the kid with the girl name.” His Dad picked the name. It was the only thing he ever resented about his father. It got better in high school and college, though. People ran out of childish jokes, and no one really gave a shit in college. Especially in the North-Northeast where people were a bit more … “cultured”, as far as giving your kid a unique name went.

When he married Ronni, there were multiple occasions where people would get them mixed up. When applying for a marriage license the attendant called them over as “Mr. Ronni and Morgan Hatteward.” Uncountable sex jokes from his buddies, detailing which one pitches and catches (“Yo, do you guys ever get confused when you’re banging, like who should be riding who?”). The amount of times he had to correct people who assumed from hearing the names who was who —“No actually, I’m Morgan (slight chuckle),” — was too many to remember.

Ronni had a similar experience. Girls don’t get it as bad though. People are much more willing to accept a girl with a boy’s name than the other way around. Either way, it was another little thing they shared. And as much as it annoyed them having to explain, or correct, or defend, it brought them closer. Almost like it didn’t matter which one’s name was which- like they were one name- or both names.

“Well Morgan, not much to die-rect to up her’. Where ya headed?”

Morgan stood up a little straighter, feeling the threat of getting his head blow off get a little lighter.

“Uhh just to a — uhh cabin up in Jackson. At the bottom of the mountain there,” Morgan said and cleared his throat. “My car’s engine light came on and I’m not sure if I’m going to make it out there before it dies on me.”

“Hmm,” the old man growled. He looked Morgan up and down. “Well, I probly ain’t much help witha car — arthritis fuck’d me. Letcha use m’phone if ya want. Could make ya some lemonade, too. I make great lemonade.” The old man eyes turned upward, like a child asking his Dad to play catch.

The old man took a look inside his house and smiled. Morgan’s neck shivered again and his head coiled back.

“I’m okay. Thank you, though, I really appreciate it.” Morgan tried to lessen the rejection as the man no longer looked frightening. Just old and lonely.

“Well alright.” Seemingly disappointed, the old man stroked his beard and gazed out toward the mountains. “Seems I may know a place ‘bout 10 miles from her’— the Gregory’s barn. Pretty sher the son’s the only’on left. Might be able to help ya out.”

“How’s that?” Morgan asked.

“Kid’za mechanic.” The old man spat a lugie at Morgan’s feet. A little caught on his beard and hung there like a spider web. “…n’fact, he d’best damn mechanic I ever seen.”

Morgan slipped into the front seat, not taking his eyes off the old man, now staring at him from his front porch. The old man put up a hand and smiled at him, his yellow teeth and gaps still visible from Morgan’s view. He began to pull out and felt a chill in the back of his neck. The man was still smiling. He caught a glimmer from one of his teeth. Probably a homemade filling. He didn’t look at the road when he swung his car out of the driveway. What are the odds another car would be on this road passing at this exact time? Worth the risk. Morgan took one last look at the house as he drove away; his eye caught a figure standing in one of the windows, the sunlight behind the house creating a silhouette in the side window. He wondered why they didn’t answer the door, but the thought fluttered away — replaced by the “less-than-official” directions the old man gave him to get to the mechanic.

“Stay lef at ta first fork.”

As the mountains got closer, trees started to intersperse the cornfields. It was only 4 o clock, but the sun was beginning to fall below the mountain tops, throwing Morgan into the shadows of Jackson Hole Mountain Range.

“Lef onta the dirt road befoe the weird lookin’ tree.”

He had barely gone a mile down the “dirt road before the weird looking tree” when the valley dropped and he started driving downhill. The trees were springing up more often now. The protection from the valley had been aiding their growth.