HE FORGETS NOT HIS OWN by Edward L. Woodyard

He Forgets Not His Own Part One

Scott McCulloch peered over at Maya Noguchi as she put down her cell phone and threw her head back on the passenger seat. She exhaled, smiling at him. She had been on her phone for almost two hours while Scott drove his black BMW sedan through a snowstorm along I-80 in eastern Wyoming. WYDOT snow plows were sanding and salting the roads well, so Scott was able to drive the speed limit and still make good time. They had a deadline to meet.

Scott put on the defroster to try to dislodge ice forming on the windshield wipers.

"Let me know if it gets too hot in here," he said.

Maya had been talking to her new firm in New York, discussing procurement teams, perceptual mapping, and creating brand identities. With the technology available on her cell phone screen, she felt she was almost physically in her new office and contributing to the team, helping to ease the pressure she felt to have a client presentation ready by the Monday after Thanksgiving.

"How's the driving?"

"Pretty good. No problems. I'm originally from back east so I learned how to drive in all this white stuff," Scott said.

"The storm seems to be getting worse," she said.

"It comes in waves."

Scott wiped the condensation from the inside of the windshield with the back of his right hand. Snow was swirling around the car as it went east on I-80. Maya had put in her ear buds and begun a playlist on her cell phone when Scott reached past her to grab a clean rag from behind some CDs in the glove compartment. 

Driving in and out of the mountains, Scott thought they were either below the snow or right in the middle of it. A WYDOT plow passed the Bimmer in the opposite direction, spraying thick slush into its lane. As Scott started to wipe condensation from the inside of his windshield, Maya took the rag from him and cleared fog from the glass.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The windshield wipers of the Bimmer were now sweeping away more snow and slush heaved at the windshield by tires of the vehicles in front of them. When they passed the last exit to Laramie, the traffic began to slow down. Ahead of them on the interstate were flashing red and amber lights of emergency vehicles.

A large blinking orange arrow on the back of a WYDOT truck was pointing Scott into the right lane. He saw a Wyoming highway patrolman directing traffic; he was bundled in a neon yellow reflective parka. Scott lowered his window as the patrolman approached his car.

"Two overturned semis blocking the overpass. Interstate's closed. It's going to take several hours," the patrolman told Scott.

"Anyone hurt?" asked Scott.

"Slight injuries. Both drivers will be okay."

"That's good to hear. Is there a way around it?"

"Just follow these vehicles, please. It'll take a few detours. Or you can wait it out up there off the exit."

The highway patrolman motioned for Scott to drive up the exit ramp. As Scott raised his car window and turned to Maya, they both shrugged their shoulders at the same time.

At the top of the exit ramp, they both saw a young hitchhiker huddled against the elements. He was wearing a lightweight nylon jacket over a hoodie, with a green baseball cap peering under the hood; it was obvious to them that he was underdressed and freezing.

"Why's no one picking him up? Especially in this weather?" asked Maya.

"We are," said Scott.

Scott stopped on the right shoulder past the hitchhiker as Maya moved bags and gear to the driver's side of the back seat. The hitchhiker held a backpack in front of him as he bounded toward the passenger side of the Bimmer. He waved at Maya who was motioning for him to get in the back seat as she reached from inside to open the door for him.

He shook the snow off his jacket and hat before he got in the back; Scott thought this act was courteous and considerate. He figured that if the hitchhiker was thoughtful of others, he would not be a risk to them. Snow swirled into the car as the hitchhiker sat behind Maya, shut the car door and placed his backpack on his lap.

"Aces! Thank you! I am all gratitude," he said, then asked, "About your plates. Where you from in California?"

"San Francisco," said Scott. "Both of us."

"Kewl," he said, then laughed, remarking. "I was hoping this wasn't a stolen car."

He had to be in his early twenties. His face was ruddy from the cold and unshaved. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, trying to make himself presentable. He used the cuff of his red flannel shirt to wipe his mouth and teeth, allowing himself to manage a smile. Scott noticed that he had probably been a high school athlete but had most likely not gone to college, instead working for an hourly wage in some form of manual labor.

Scott cautiously accelerated the Bimmer into the traffic, its rear tires skidding somewhat until they accepted the confidence of asphalt. Scott spied the hitchhiker in his rearview mirror. He wasn't wearing gloves and was exhaling hot air from his mouth into his hands. "How long have you been out there?" Scott asked.

"Over an hour. Got dropped off there. Some trucker was only going far as Laramie."

"I'm sorry that we don't have anything warm for you to drink," Maya said.

"This inside is warm enough. Dang it, please, ma'am," he said. "People don't like to pick up hitchhikers regular. I can understand that. I'm surprised you picked me up. People driving these foreign cars usually buzz right past you. I am appreciative for sure," the hitchhiker said, "Where you headed?"

"New York," said Scott. "Yourself?"

"Florida. It's where I live now. I'm a carpenter. I build decks on houses mostly."

"Florida, huh?" Maya said, "It's no wonder you're so cold."

"We can get you part way," said Scott. "We're headed straight east on 80."

"I'm obliged."

"You want to get off at Cheyenne and then head south to Denver?"

"Now I'm thinking Chicago. Never been there."

"Think we can do that for you. Name's Scott McCulloch."

"Kevin Metzger."

"Pleasure. This is Maya Noguchi."

"What happened to your car?" Maya asked, nodding to him.

"Long story, ma'am," Kevin replied.

"Where are you coming from?"

"Idaho."

Kevin got himself settled in the back seat. folding his hands on his backpack. Scott glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Kevin was praying and then mouthed the words, "Thank you, Jesus."

Scott adjusted the defroster on the dashboard as Maya used the rag again to wipe condensation from the inside of the windshield. He looked in the rearview mirror again at Kevin. He was asleep.