He Got Lost

It was sunny and warm, the day he got lost.  As the car rolled to a stop in the weeds beside the road, coming to rest against an ancient telephone pole, he opened the door to step out, and fell.  He scraped his knees.  The blood soaked through the linen.  He swore.

The road was little more than a gesture to asphalt.  It twisted its way through the scrub and dust, pretending it went somewhere.  "Just like me", he grunted, "and I'm damned if I know which way to go."

A passel of trees hunched over the road a few yards beyond the pole.  The shade they offered seemed more like the minimum needed to be polite, but it was shade just the same.

He sighed, and pulled a knapsack out of the back seat of the now dead car.  The dusty bag held two bottles of water, a map of Canada and some beef jerky.  From the glove compartment of the car he took a tire gauge, a Pez dispenser (cherry candies, his favorite) and a well-thumbed copy of Dave Black's What To Do When The Shit Hits The Fan.  The irony of the title was not lost on him.  Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he walked to the trees to sit in the shade.

It was warm.  He was lost.  And he knew by the ragged gnawing in his gut, spiked with panic, that he had no fucking clue what to do next.