Starry Night

“Knock, knock, knock.” A sharp metallic sound jerks me awake. Is someone knocking on the door of the truck? My brain is pea soup after just half a sleeping pill. OK, so not the brightest idea, true. Tell you what was bright: millions of goddamn stars. So damn bright.

Them‘n the wind made sleep impossible. Ironic since that’s why I stopped in the first place, hence the pill. Well, half a pill. Funny how I had no problem falling asleep when driving. The back tire slipped off the Patagonian highway a few times; the bed was empty. I fishtailed pretty hard on the gravel, so I figured it was smart to stop and take a rest.

The really smart thing to do would be to leave tomorrow at first light. But not me. Smart and I aren’t exactly what you’d call close. Stupid, now, that would have been to stay. See, I got my break per contract; the local guys didn’t. Big find last week: another megaraptor. The institute needs a win; funding is low, as usual. No holiday for the Mapuches, who haul the back dirt and now glare in my direction 24/7.

Screw that. Three lousy hands of truco, some kind of lying Spanish poker knock-off, and half a bottle of Criadores, the local excuse for whiskey, and I hit the road. Two hours of desert, gravel, and endless stars later, I start slipping, nodding off. So I parked back here behind another bunch of rocks, not that anyone would stumble across me fifty meters off the road. Long-haul rigs use the coastal highway, and there are only two sheep stations between here and the dig; God knows where. This big shiny truck belongs to the institute; it’s mine for the week. Damn good thing, 'cause it takes six hours over this shitty, stony steppe to get a decent steak, a beer, and a skirt. Once you do, it still ain’t Texas.

The stars make it so bright outside, it almost looks friendly, which is a lie ‘cause it’s lonely as fuck out there. The wind has died down now. Brain’s still fuzzy. So I swing my legs off the backseat where I’d been napping and unfold my stiff knees. I sit up. A dull, painful pressure shifts in my pelvis.

“Hola, ¿quién es?” I holler, trying to sound as gruff as possible.

Nothing. Diddly-squat.

Do I climb into the front seat? Lift one knee, impossible, too big. I reach over the back of the front seat to the driver's door and press the unlock button; the front doors click. I grab the handle next to me and open it. The door doesn’t respond. Fucking child locks back here, not that there are any kids at the dig.

Silence. More nothing. Gotta take a leak; whiskey’s more than filled the pigskin. Shit. So thirsty too. Reach into the cup holder for a little bottle of water from the gas station; it’s half empty. The big bottle on the floorboard of the passenger seat up front is full, but it’s out of reach. Chug, crumple, lower the window, and toss. It's a reflex; I can’t help it.

Overhead light on, squint to adjust; there’s nothing out there, not that I could see it lit up like a Christmas tree in here. Roll down the back window. You’d think a nice truck like this would have power everything, but no. Argentines are cheap fuckers. Grab the back door handle from the outside through the open window. Its latch releases. I push it open, breathing deeply.

Fresh air makes me need to pee harder. Bushes, rocks, and stars, as far as I can “see” in the bright darkness.

Staring upwards, I turn my back into the breeze, drop my fly, and release a thick, loud stream. As I do, there’s a rustle over my shoulder, a patter of hooves. Vicuña, maybe? They’re like little llamas; they don’t usually come up to you, though. It’s too heavy; it must be a horse.

I can’t stop peeing. I turn, like a sprinkler, to see a dark shape slide across the front seat into my spot at the wheel. The dashboard lights up as the truck rumbles to life. I can make out fleeing hoofbeats for a second, but they are drowned out by someone revving the motor.

“What the f…..” I stuff my dripping penis in my boxers as I try to spring forward. Four steps to the truck. I dive to grab the chrome side runner. The motor roars again and shifts into gear. I lose my grip. Gravel fills my mouth; my scream dies. My face slides across sharp rocks as I skid to a stop.

I spit hard several times and roll over, crushing the plastic bottle I emptied and discarded minutes before. We lie there, my trash and me, crumpled and tossed God-knows-where in the endless Patagonian steppe on a cold, starry night.