That Night, at Pit 41

by Charles C. Cole

My car ran out of gas one Maine winter night along the turnpike. With the nearest offramp miles away, I called the highway office. They sent someone to assist me. They have staff dedicated for this sort of thing. They don’t like the liability of civilians on the shoulder of the road when people are flying by. I know this because I used to work for them.

A green truck with yellow flashers pulled up behind me within twenty minutes. Snow was spitting down so, initially, I waited inside instead of stepping out to greet my rescuer. When the driver didn’t immediately exit the vehicle, I impatiently jumped out and approached it.

His dome light was on. He had a full red beard, with generous amounts of gray, and tears down his face. “I gotta go,” said Mark, who I knew was a retired state cop, into his mobile phone. “Somebody needs me.” I felt like I’d interrupted.

I reintroduced myself to him. “I’m Charlie. Used to work weekend overnights.”

“Sure.”

“Sorry to drag you out in this weather,” I began, feeling apologetic about my carelessness.

“It’s not you. I had to finish shoveling the remains of a deer. And the unleashed dog that had been chasing it. Blood and guts make tourists uncomfortable. I don’t mind roadkill when it’s foxes or coyotes or woodchucks: furry skid marks.

“But when a couple of baby deer jump in front of a monster tractor-trailer... or when a dog, somebody’s supposed best friend, follows a primal instinct because its master didn’t want to get off the couch...”

“Not fun,” I agreed.

“I usually have a full can of gas, but I just used it up on another guy. And he wasn’t even grateful.”

“I’m grateful.”

“Hop in. I’ll fill up at the service plaza. Get us some coffee. Then we’ll dump the cargo and come back. You good with that?”

He put a pair of flashing cones behind my car on the shoulder and reported in. I climbed in the passenger’s side.

His truck’s interior was roasting even though he had his driver’s window all the way down. He caught my confused look. “I like to keep warm, but it makes me drowsy.”

“Sure,” I said.

He looked me over. “You worked the West Falmouth exit,” he said, thinking back. “Had a little yellow car.”

“Right. Quit six months ago. My wife wanted me to find a day job. She didn’t like sleeping in the house alone at night.”

I sat in his truck with the engine on and the heat cranked while he filled the gas can and got us warm drinks. The coffee cup was too hot for me to hold but not for him. All his cup holders were full of empty power drinks, so I stuck the thing on the floor between my feet, inches from the smelly gas can. I was glad for the fresh air.

“Feel free to open your window,” he said. “I’m used to it.” I just smiled. “One more stop.”

“Pit 41. I’ve heard but never been.” Named after its nearest southbound mile marker.

“It’s easier at night. Less to see. The DEP’s talking about making us close it. They think it’s bad for the environment: too many dead bodies rotting together. I guess next year we’re supposed to just drag ’em off the shoulder of the road. So long as they’re out of sight.”

The smell of fuel made me lightheaded. I cracked my window open, but too little, too late. Mark slowed and took a sharp right through an open metal gate, down a grassy path along the edge of a dark field. He eventually backed up and turned the lights off.

“You don’t want to see it. Use your imagination. It’s like an elephant graveyard, only less romantic.”

I sipped my too-hot coffee, forced myself to avoid the actions in my sideview mirror, and listened to Mark grunt repeatedly, disdainfully, along with occasional thuds and splats. He slammed the tailgate closed: the end. The truck rattled.

Mark opened his door. The dome light popped on. Fresh tears streaked down his face. “Give me a second,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Turn the music on, will you?”

A CD: classical piano, haunting. “That’s crazy good,” I said. “What is it?”

“That’s what’s left of my boy. He was gonna be famous, so he said. Do the whole sex, drugs and rock-n-roll thing. Then he got the bright idea of being a superpatriot, like his grandfather. It was at my father-in-law’s funeral. All these proud, sharp-looking soldiers. He joined the Marines. Died in combat two months ago. Still stings.” He threw his cigarette at the ground and climbed in.

A mist moved toward us. To bury the newly dead? “It rolls off the Nonesuch River sometimes,” he said. “Paying its respects, I guess.” He put the high beams on, tested the accelerator.

Shapes moved in the mist. Silver shadows of roadkill past enchanted by the music. A herd of ghostly deer, their eyes faintly glowing. A couple of enormous moose. And, lastly, a rugged shepherd mix, its chin up and head tilted the better to listen.

“Your son’s music is magic,” I whispered.

“Maybe they recognize the siren call of one of their own.”

They kept their respectful distance, probably twenty feet back in a semi-circle. A one-antlered buck moved to the front, sighed and lay down in the glare of our lights. We could see through it. The others followed.

When the song ended, they faded away. The CD popped out on its own.

“It’s not my boy, but it’s something,” said Mark.

“Maybe he sent them.”

“I’d rather have him,” said Mark. “Time to get you home. Your wife’s probably worried.” We drove away in silence.

He gave me the CD. “I got others. Keep it. Make copies for your buddies. Keep him alive.”

I never saw Mark again. I’ve shared the CD with a dozen friends but, until now, I’ve never told anyone about that night.