HIGHWAY
By Skyler Hutchison
The fading yellow ‘M’ stood against the clouds jutting up over the distant tree line. “The Golden Arches,” as his friends sometimes referred to them back… uh, in Maricopa. Yes, Arizona, where he lived. Mak-Don-Altz, it was pronounced here. They pulled up to the window. A girl opened the window and batted her large, acorn shaped green eyes. Ventsislav shoved an elbow into Ivan and gave the girl the expected money, with a smile. She shut the window, smiling in return.
Ventsi curled up his lips into a wicked grin and exclaimed, “She’s cute! You should get her number, man.”
Ivan leaned, placed his right hand against the passenger door and pushed his body leftward, trying to get a better peek into the drive-thru window. He was tired. No actually, he was exhausted. He had flown over the entirety of America, across an ocean, and then glided over all of Europe, and was drained. The only thought that kept him awake was food, but the idea of a girl roused his spirits as well. She opened the window again with Ventsi’s change and their drinks. Ivan found himself still leaning, she glanced at him in his awkward position and replied with a tender, welcoming smile. She shyly dipped her head back into the window with a giggle.
“She likes you dude,” said Ventsi, who was growing more determined.
“Eh, maybe,” replied Ivan.
When the window opened again, two grease-stained paper sacks were handed across the gap between the car and the window. Ventsi grew bold.
“My friend, Ivan, wants to ask you something,” he said, snapping his gaze to Ivan.
“Hi,” said Ivan, sheepishly. “Can I um…get your number, I think you’re…nice.” The words tumbled and awkwardly fell out of his mouth. His jet lag was to blame, but despite his reluctance to admit it, his tongue was already tired from speaking Bulgarian.
The girl let out an adorably audible laugh. “You talk funny,” she observed.
Ten minutes later Ivan was engaged in battle. His eyes desperately desired to close, to rest, to sleep, to quit their duties of seeing, but he, Ivan, wanted to see – to observe and take in the beautiful countryside. He wanted to let it wash over him the way an old, comfortable worn-out blanket does after a long day in the cold. The rolling hills and unkempt wilderness swept by his tired stare. He gazed across endless sunflower fields, rows of maple, walnut and fir trees. It was indeed a splendor of color compared to the Arizona wasteland he was used to. His eyelids fought valiantly, and after no more than an instant, won the battle. Ivan dozed, his belly heavy from a Big Mac with cucumbers (the Bulgarian way) and fries mixed with a little Coke.
He woke to the sound of D2 blaring over the speakers. He stretched his neck and punched Ventsi in the arm. Ventsi shot him back a blow of equal sharpness.
“What the hell, man?” shouted Ivan over the blaring noise of their favorite Bulgarian band.
“Gotta get you back in the Bulgarian groove, bro,” he said, rhythmically swaying his head and torso to the pulsating drums and bass of D2’s Тук и Сега (Here and Now).
Ivan smiled. He and Ventsi had known each other for years. They were, in fact, cousins, although neither was precisely sure how their bloodlines met. They didn’t care. They were brothers. Ivan had moved to the States when he was only three or four, and every few years had come back to Bulgaria for the summer to get to know his relatives and friends all over again. “It’s good for a Bulgarian to know who he is and where he comes from – what he’s made of,” his father would frequently say to him. He would often make these visits alone or with his mother. His father had come only once, when he was twelve. He was eighteen now and had come alone as somewhat of a graduation present for finishing high school and getting accepted into Arizona State University, of which his parents were gushingly proud.
Ventsi was nineteen, and every summer Ivan had visited, Ventsi had served as his omniscient guide. Ventsi took pride in breaking Ivan in to the Bulgarian way of life each time he returned. It gave him a peculiar kind of joy to see Ivan’s reactions. It was like culture shock, only not so much a shock as the reaction of seeing an old friend in an unexpected place – a familiarity in unfamiliar territory.
As they sang along and played their air guitars to the music, adrenaline coursed through their young adult bodies. This summer was going to be one for the ages.
The lush, wild, ungroomed countryside rushed by as they zoomed down the highway. Ventsi had picked up Ivan from the Sofia International Airport in an old beat-to-hell white 1994 Mercedes. The engine roared as they drove down the road. Most of the highways in Bulgaria were two-lane roads, just wide enough for two cars to fit next to each other. They rapidly approached an old Soviet Moskvich (a miracle of a car really – they never had much guts to begin with, but being sturdy bastards are still ubiquitous). Ventsi pressed the brakes and cursed. The Mercedes slowed and quickly jerked across the middle line, looking to get by, but immediately resumed its place behind the trudging Moskvich. A massive truck steamed by, rattling the windows. Again, a peek around the butt of the Moskvich. A car was approaching, but there was space, at least so Ventsi thought.
The gas pedal met the floor, the clutch violently engaged and disengaged, and downshifting, Ventsi jerked at the wheel and they lurched into the opposite lane. Ivan’s heart pounded. He had forgotten what absolute suicide it was to drive along these narrow highways. He’d forgotten the rush. The approaching car was coming at them head on. Ivan’s eyes widened. The Mercedes’ engine roared blisteringly loud, drowning out the stereo. The Moskvich stayed its pace stubbornly, refusing to slow for the Mercedes to pass. Ventsi’s grip tightened on the wheel. His knuckles whitened. He hunched over the steering column like a ram about to charge. His lips turned into a tight white grimace. The approaching car began to pound on its horn, its headlights flashed. Ivan’s stomach turned. He felt queasy. He was certain his life was about to end. Ventsi jerked on the wheel. Tires screeched below them, and the approaching car growled by shaking the windows. Once the storm of tires screeching and windows buzzing ceased there was an immediate calm that floated over the road. They both let out yells and hollers celebrating their triumph. The Moskvich had been forced off the road slightly, and was swerving back from the non-existent shoulder in the rearview mirror. D2 continued its serenade.
The low standing wild raspberry bushes and the sunflower fields with their rows upon rows of golden-ringed sun worshippers coasted by Ivan’s window. He missed this place, this land. He had been born here. He was of this earth. He reflected that his mother had carried him in her belly over this same soil. This sky above him was the first he saw when he was forced from the comfort of the womb into the harsh existence called life. His eyes were first blinded by Bulgarian sunshine. His skin was first exposed to Bulgarian air. His first steps were Bulgarian mobility. Bulgaria was what? Home? Home-land maybe? This was not the first time he had pored over these questions. When new friends would meet his parents their accents would inevitably prompt the question ‘where are you from?’ His parents insisted he was Bulgarian. The truth was, he felt every bit Arizonian as he did Bulgarian. The desert was bleak, yes, but it was what he knew. When he was there he felt at home. When he was here he felt…happy.
He had considered making Bulgaria his permanent residence, but was torn. It would be as if he were undermining his parents’ hope to present him with more opportunities in life, which he had been taught exist in abundance in the States. Are there no opportunities here? At least people here pronounced his name correctly, saying ee – VAWN instead of the American I – vin. He had never made a scene about being called one way or the other, but inside he had always hated the way most people in the States said ‘Ivan.’
Ventsi, noticing Ivan had become dazed in thought, turned down the music and turned to him wearing a sly grin. “You wanna see some hookers? We’re getting close to Pazardjik,” he asked excitedly.
Ivan remembered the prostitutes from the last time he had come three years earlier. They were gypsy women who advertised themselves on the side of the highway near the small city of Pazardjik.
Ventsi pushed further, exercising his salesmanship, “They flash you if you slow down.” He was grinning ear to ear now, exposing his jagged teeth. “And,” he laughed, “if you stop they start running toward your car like hungry dogs!”
Tantalized by the idea of seeing exposed women on the side of the road, Ivan smiled mischievously.
Sure enough, as they neared Pazardjik they spotted four figures standing to the side of the highway. Ventsi nudged Ivan, even though both of their eyes were already fixed on the approaching women. Ventsi slowed the Mercedes to a roll and proceeded past the grubby, disheveled women. Ventsi hooted with enthusiasm as two of them proved him right by lifting their unwashed shirts, and exposing their breasts and bellies as the car slowly drifted by.
A good fifty feet past the group Ventsi abruptly stopped the car. Ivan shot him a glance. His face showed a mixture of anxiety, curiosity, and horror. Two of the women broke into a run toward the vehicle. Ivan instinctively turned around to watch. One after another their grimy brown legs pounded the dirt shoulder of the highway, bringing them closer. Their stained and tattered, loosely fitting clothes bounced about their skinny bodies. He could not bring himself to lift his gaze to their faces. After a moment Ventsi punched the gas and the rear wheels of the car spun in the dirt, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. The gypsy women vanished into the brown shroud of dust. The car skidded forward and Ventsi laughed heartily. Ivan noticed a knot in his stomach. Probably the Mak-Don-Altz getting to him.
After the adrenaline rush of seeing naked women subsided, Ivan asked if he could drive. Ventsi pulled over and they switched roles. Ivan wanted to let go and step into his Bulgarian manhood – bullet down the open highway – leaving his Arizonian inhibitions behind. He wanted to feel the rush. He’d never been able to drive in Bulgaria before – he’d always been too young. He wanted to stare death in the eyes. His adventurous soul yearned to experience the thrill of driving in Bulgaria, the danger of the highway.
After passing a number of trucks and old beat up cars, they came upon a long, newly-paved straightaway that cut through the forest like someone had taken a massive black pen and drawn a line straight down a green sheet of paper. The line went on as far as the eye could see. Ivan leaned forward, shifted his weight from left to right, smiled, turned up the volume and punched the gas. The Mercedes surged on with ease. The outside world soared by. The trees, the brush, and the yellow of the fields blurred together becoming different shades of yellow and green. The engine thundered. Ventsi sat forward. He gripped the door handle. The tires whirred with soothing proficiency. The frame of the car began to vibrate. They sailed down the black pavement magnificently. Ivan slipped into a trance, allowing the country outside of his world behind the wheel to shimmer and glide by, lost in his thoughts, lost in his feelings, lost…
“Shit!” shrieked Ventsi, “Cops!”
Snapping out of his trance, Ivan spied up ahead a man dressed in blue waving what looked like an oversized lollipop. Ivan immediately let off the gas and slowly pressed the brakes. Ventsi turned off the stereo. The man in blue stood with his feet shoulder width apart, jerking his giant red and white lollipop – a red and white colored disc attached to a handle commonly used as a signaling device for Bulgarian policemen – from his knee to his chin. He motioned for them to pull off the highway onto the dirt shoulder.
“Pretend you don’t speak Bulgarian,” Ventsi suggested with a coy smile.
“What do you mean, pretend I don’t speak?” argued Ivan in a panicky voice.
“I heard that if you don’t speak Bulgarian they just take a few levs and let you go on your way. Trust me, just try it,” urged Ventsi, reaching into his wallet for some cash. He handed twenty levs to Ivan.
Ivan heard a tap on the window, and automatically rolled it down.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” asked the man in blue, carefully pronouncing his words in an authoritative sub-standard provincial Bulgarian dialect.
Ivan hesitated. “Uh…I don’t speak any Bulgarian,” he said in English. He felt trapped.
“You’re not Bulgarian?” replied the blue jumpsuit.
Ivan stared blankly up at him. He was fully committed now, he couldn’t back out.
“I need to see your license and documents,” he said slowly.
“I uh, I don’t understand,” replied Ivan, “I only speak English.”
Ventsi shifted in his seat.
The blue man looked desperately at Ventsi in the passenger seat and asked him if he could translate. Ventsi quickly looked at Ivan and confusedly shrugged his shoulders. The man placed the enormous lollipop under his arm and attempted to explain to Ivan through disorganized hand motions that he was going too fast, and that his headlights needed to be turned on at all times when traversing this section of the highway. He repeated himself and his gestures multiple times, convinced that repetition would supersede linguistic barriers.
Ivan started to make circular motions with his hands in response while saying in English, “I understood everything you said, I need to slow down and turn on my headlights.” He accompanied his confession with a shrug and a frown. Ventsi smothered a giggle.
The lollipop slipped out from under the jumpsuit’s arm as he grew more agitated in his gestures. He bent down to pick it up, and when he stood his face was flushed with frustration. He tried to reach through the open window to show Ivan where the headlights were located. In order to free his hands he swiftly placed the lollipop between his teeth. Ivan held in a chuckle. Ventsi nearly lost all control and was spasming in silence. He hid his face in his hands and turned in the opposite direction. Ivan observed the strangeness of having a cop reach into his car through the window to fiddle with the controls. He looked at the man. His face had flushed red, and his blue puffy jumpsuit swished with every movement. The lollipop still hung from his teeth. Finally, his fumbling, infantile hands found the switch for the headlights and Ivan let out a sudden “aha” of understanding. Ventsi guffawed. The nylon jumpsuit swished as the man withdrew from the car and removed the childish treat from his mouth.
The blue man stood flustered, his arm cocked at the elbow, palm up as if expecting something. Remembering the money, Ivan reached through the open window and in one slick symbiotic exchange handed the puffy man the twenty lev bill and began to pull away.
Ivan and Ventsi laughed hysterically as they watched the immense lollipop grow smaller in the rearview mirrors.
After numerous jokes and fits of laughter, the fun of “Mr. Puffy” – as they had dubbed him – died down. The sound of the tires and the air rushing by was all that was heard.
“Ah man, bro, I can’t wait ‘til we get to Plovdiv,” exclaimed Ventsi, still smirking a little, “You’re gonna meet some really cool girls. Plovdiv girls are known throughout the country, man. They got a reputation. Talk about gorgeous.”
Ivan was aware of the mythical beauty that all Bulgarian women supposedly possessed. It seemed to him that each city claimed to be primordially endowed with two things: the purest language and the prettiest women.
The sun was starting to duck beneath the horizon, and dusk settled over the highway. Ivan reached down to flip on his headlights, but remembered they were already on and smiled to himself.
“Good thing my headlights are on,” he said mockingly in a careful, authoritative voice, mimicking the blue man’s dialect. They both laughed, and Ventsi turned up the stereo.
A few minutes later they pulled up behind a shiny black car. The sky was getting dark and it was hard to make out exactly what kind of car it was. It was sleek and appeared to be new. It seemed to be fast. Ivan crept up behind it, getting uncomfortably close to the tail of the black sedan. In the headlights he saw the indisputable symbol of a Jaguar. Ivan grinned. Who would drive such a nice car so slowly? Probably a mafioso or someone connected. After a brief moment’s scrutiny Ivan ducked into the oncoming lane, and quickly returned. A car zoomed by. Again he popped into the other lane and again returned immediately. This time a truck barreled past. Relentlessly, Ivan once more swerved into the opposite lane.
This time he saw no one and immediately drove his foot into the floor. The Mercedes jumped forward, RPMs climbing. Clutch. Downshift. More gas. The engine let out a tumultuous wail as Ivan shifted again. They were overtaking the Jaguar. As they were about the clear the nose of the Jag they heard an abrupt growl to their right. The Jaguar was speeding up. Ventsi cursed, and told Ivan to slow down. Ivan, however, was not about to let this fancy car get the best of him. He continued to press the gas. The Jag inched forward. Ivan could feel his lead slipping away. Up in the distance two headlights appeared at the top of a hill. Anticipating the incline, Ivan downshifted again, the engine emitted a deep, guttural moan. The Mercedes pulled ahead. Ventsi gripped the door handle and clenched his teeth. The headlights were approaching rapidly. They started to flash off and on in warning. Ivan, unflinching, gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fully open, unblinking. The moan of the Mercedes meshed with the roar of the Jaguar. The wind outside howled. There was a space opening now. Ivan could feel the space to his right. He shot a glance to the right, the Jag’s nose was still too far up. The lights were all but upon them. Ivan’s heart pulsed in his ears, his hair stood on end. His chest tightened and froze as he drew in a sharp breath and held it. The guitars of D2 rang through the cool night air.
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