NanoWriMo 2009 - Fic 27

[deathpixie]

Dennis Rodman couldn't have told you why he took the exit off the freeway.

He had been on his way home after a conference; all that was in his mind was getting home and washing off the grime of travel and having a rousing bout of 'welcome home' sex with Marian to wash away the memory of that rep from the LA office going down on him (rather inexpertly) in a bathroom stall. Another perk, like the bag of goodies and the discounted drinks and room service, something he'd earned with his hard work and cut-throat business practices. That and nothing else had been on his mind as he drove, until some unspoken urge pushed him to veer right and take the off-ramp, the sign overhead indicating he was on his way to the Mojave National Preserve.

I must be crazy... The thought had drifted through his mind as soon as he'd acted, but even then, he didn't change his course. He couldn't have said why, but the detour had to be taken.

***

Night had fallen, the sun going down in spectacular shades of red and orange and violet that had briefly stirred him the way nothing in nature had stirred him before. Around him the desert stretched for miles, nothing but sand and rocks and Joshua trees stretching their clubbed arms upwards in supplication. Dennis was tired, his eyes gritty with the drive and sleeplessness. Doubts were beginning to filter in, the impulse that had gotten him this far near-exhausted and reality creeping back. He should pull over, call Marian, get some rest before heading back... Then a light, clashingly artificial in the wilderness, became visible on the horizon.

"What the..." Dennis squinted, but all he could tell was that the light was stationary, not another oncoming vehicle. He kept going, ignoring the red arrow that was creeping closer to "E" on his gas tank, eyes fixed on the light ahead.

Inconceivably, emerging from the gloom, was a phone booth.

The engine coughed and died as he approached, the gas tank empty. He stumbled out of the car on legs that were cramped from driving too long, staggering unsteadily towards the rectangular box. The desert air was delicious on his grimy skin and he shed his suit jacket and tie, trying to allow more access. The small rational part of him whispered that he was seeing things, there was no way there could be a phone booth all the way out here, but he ignored it. Something was driving him on, pushing him towards this moment and now he could hear it as well, the shrill ringing of the phone. He picked up the pace, moving into a shambling half-run to answer the summons before it stopped. The receiver was cool under his sweaty hand and he almost dropped it, the smooth plastic slipping out of his grip. Bracing it with his other hand, he lifted it to his ear:

"Hello?"

A gasp and then a voice, female and young and quite obviously alone. He could hear the desolation in her voice, her tones slightly muffled as if she'd been crying for some time.

"H-hello? Is somebody there? Really there?"

"Yes." Dennis felt foolish for a moment, standing here in the middle of nowhere, holding a phone receiver to his ear and talking to some silly kid. But the raggedness of her breathing triggered something in him, prompted him to ask: "Hey, are you okay?"

There was a pause, a hitching of breath, and then the strangled squeak: "Not really, no. I'm really not."

Dennis hesitated, then from somewhere, he heard himself saying: "Do you want to talk about it?"

Impossible hope crept into her voice. "Yes. Will you listen?"

And in that lonely phone booth, under a desert sky, with only the distant howl of coyotes and the rustle of the wind, Dennis Rodman sat down and listened.


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