Suitable Distance

Mitch had known that the cabin wouldn't be perfect. The pictures on the rental company's website couldn't hide the fact that it was light on luxury, just a one-room cottage with a sparse kitchenette and tiny bathroom. And the hiker in him was disappointed that it wasn't nestled in or even near Mt. Pleasant, but rather just off I-25, near Ladson, which meant he'd be near the steady noise of interstate traffic, not to mention the hour commute to his seminar appointments in Charleston.

However, the tiny cabin had a rustic charm that he appreciated immediately. It smelled of cherry oak and a bit of dust, a nice alternative to the chemical odor of most hotel chains. Mitch also liked that there was a small patio where he could grill dinner or just sit back after long days at WISEC, otherwise known as the Wayford Institute for Supportive Education Conference.

The week had gone by fast, a whirlwind of workshops and team building exercises, which Mitch's company expected him to relay to his coworkers back home. He had expected a few days of trust falls and silly logic puzzles, but the program also required psychology evals and a surprising amount of yoga. It was more tiring than he'd imagined going in. Mitch was pretty sure his coworkers back home would have no interest in any of the stuff the conference covered, especially the physical fitness criteria. But he daydreamed about some of the more weasel-like members of his department trying to scam their way through a lizard or warrior pose, always good for a chuckle as he himself struggled with his balance.

If the conference was a bit of a bust, that went double for Mitch's idea of a pseudo-vacation. The exhausting days and long trips back to the cabin obliterated his "best laid plan" to enjoy his nights and maybe give the grill some use. Each night around eight, he practically fell out of his old Volvo, greasy paper bag in hand from one of the fast food places near the cabin's interstate exit. Trudging toward his tiny shack, he'd manage a wave to the elderly people who were staying in a nearby cabin, a nice older couple who seemed to be spending their vacation sitting on lawn chairs and getting blasted on margaritas. Mitch couldn't help but feel envious of them.

His last night in Ladson, Mitch forced himself to pick up a nice sirloin steak and some vegetables from a real grocery store in Charleston. Back at the cabin and bolstered by a real meal in his arms, he confidently waved to Mr. and Mrs. Margaritaville, camped out as usual on lawn chairs next to their blue SUV. Mitch decided that if Norman Rockwell were still around, they would have found their way onto Saturday Evening Post's cover more than just once. Picturing the results, he smiled to himself as he walked into his cabin.

Mitch dropped his keys, cellphone, and the last of his conference work pages on the tiny table in front of the couch. Grabbing a few items from the kitchenette, he brought the groceries out to the back patio area, still within view of the drunken couple. They waved to him again. Mitch repeated the gesture and they both lifted their cocktails, delighted by the recognition.

Well, there's the pose for the cover, Mitch thought. They looked to be in their sixties or seventies, but their cabin was just far enough away that it was difficult to tell for sure. He was glad for the distance, as the fogies seemed a little desperate for company. Why else would they spend each evening camped out on those lawn chairs, other than to invite conversation and/or company from surrounding cabin dwellers?

Mitch set the grocery bag on the patio table, along with some plates and silverware he'd brought from the kitchen. He gave the charcoal a sheen of lighter fluid and was about to fire up the grill when a man appeared from around the corner of the cabin.

The man was perhaps in his forties. His face was as dirty as a chimney sweep and there were dark stains, grease perhaps, on the front of his pants. He saw Mitch and froze, except for a jerky arm movement that might have been a wave. A silver chill found its way to the base of Mitch's skull, but he still managed a friendly smile.

"Hey, how's it going?" Mitch asked the stranger.

"Yep, pretty good," the man replied as he looked over the food on the patio table. He nodded, confident in his appraisal of the situation. "You about to cook out?"

Mitch tried to not stare. He readjusted some of the items on the patio table and nodded. "Yep. Just a sirloin. I'd offer you one, but..."

The man waited patiently for Mitch to complete the sentence.

"Well," Mitch said, followed by a weak laugh. "I've only got one."

"Hey, that's cool," the man said as he sat down on the bench of the picnic table, facing Mitch. "I was wondering though if I could trouble you for a quick lift. My car broke down down the road a ways up and I need to pick up a part from a place about four miles from here."

Mitch looked down at the wet charcoal, still nodding, and desperately wished that he would have been inside the cabin and out of sight when the man passed by. Fast food never sounded so good.

The filthy man continued. "Please, man. My wife and kid are still with the car and it wouldn't take you more than twenty minutes."

"Um," Mitch said, now standing by the grill. Time seemed to have slowed somehow, all the more passing moments with no idea of what to say. "You couldn't call a cab or something?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I did, but the guy said it would take them two hours to get somebody out here." The man positioned his leg so that his foot was on the bench and began to chew on his thumbnail as he awaited Mitch's response.

Thoughts swirled in Mitch's head, clamoring for a logical end. He didn't believe that this guy had actually called for a taxi. Two hours wasn't probable, he likely just wanted a free ride. Or maybe he didn't...maybe he wanted Mitch's car, or money. There wasn't a wife or a kid or a broken-down car. And maybe getting robbed would only be the beginning. Mitch wanted to be wrong, but he knew it simply didn't matter because he wasn't going to give this man a ride.

However, making that decision wasn't the problem; the problem was getting this information across to the stranger without pissing him off.

"Look, you got to understand where I'm coming from," Mitch started. "I can't give you a ride. I don't know you." For a second, an unmistakable expression spread across the man's face, and it was bad. But the man quickly caught himself and began to plead his case again. Mitch cut him off. "I'm sure you're a good guy and all, but I can't do it. I could bullshit you and make up an excuse, but I'm just gonna tell you 'no' and say good luck. And I mean it, I hope you find somebody that can help you out. It's just not gonna be me. Sorry."

The man hopped off of the patio table and shuffled his feet a little, perhaps hoping for redemption. Mitch stood his ground.

"Well, do you mind if I use your bathroom?" the man asked. "It's just a piss, I swear."

Mitch thought about it a second, but the question had such a pathetic quality that made him feel bad.

"Sure."

The man walked inside. Mitch listened for the bathroom door to close and then let out a sigh of relief. The final negotiation had taken place and he was back on track. Almost.

The man came back outside a minute later.

"So, you sure I can't get a ride?" the man asked again, unsurprising to Mitch.

"Sorry, man."

"Yeah, okay. Well, thanks and god bless." With that, he walked back the way he had come from around the side of the cabin. Mitch realized after the man was gone that his face felt a little sore. He finally allowed his fake smile to fade and stood motionless, making sure the man had left for good.

After he was convinced that the man wouldn't reappear with more forceful ways of asking for a ride, Mitch opened a beer that he'd stowed in the half-fridge earlier in the week. Between sips, he seasoned his steak and fired up the grill. He couldn't help but replay the conversation in his head, reasoning with himself that he would have given the guy a lift if he (Mitch) wasn't alone at the cabin. He just felt unprotected.

Mitch threw the steak on the grill and began whistling some trash pop song that the WISEC crew had used to motivate their groups all week. As his meal was starting to take shape, something caught Mitch's attention: the stranger had made his way over to the next cabin. He was now talking to the elderly couple, their hands blocking the late evening sun as he no doubt related his sad tale to them.

Mitch walked to the edge of his cabin's patio area and considered going over to ask the man to leave the couple alone. Perhaps he'd even suck it up and give the man a ride himself, though not likely. However, he reasoned that even if the older man wanted to help out the stranger, he'd be much too inebriated to drive. Surely he would use that as an excuse. Mitch was almost convinced that would be the case, but then the old vacationer hopped up, ran into his cabin, and return with a flipflop in each hand. The old man kissed his lady on the top of her head as he slipped on each sandal and no more than ten seconds later he and the stranger were heading off in his blue SUV.

Well, that's that, Mitch thought. The woman stood as she watched her drinking buddy drive off. After the SUV was out of sight, she looked over in Mitch's direction, who couldn't look away for some reason. He wondered if the woman would walk over with the remainder of her margarita to tell him about the dirty stranger. Maybe she had seen him talking to Mitch earlier, he wasn't sure.

Mitch had plenty of thoughts on the matter, but he didn't feel like to trading opinions with anybody. He just wanted to have another beer, eat his dinner, and go to bed. The woman, perhaps sensing Mitch's aversion to company, simply shrugged to the twilight sky and walked into her cabin.

Since he hadn't been paying attention to it, Mitch's steak ended up overcooked. He sat on the patio table and watched the sky turn dark as he ate, washing the tough, dry meat down with another beer and leaving most of his vegetables untouched. He considered hopping into his Volvo and grabbing a burger from one of the nearby fast food places, but all he really wanted to do was watch the old man's blue SUV pull up their cabin. He wanted to be proved wrong about the stranded stranger.

Mitch gave up on finishing his dinner and slowly began to gather up the half-eaten meal. He threw the leftovers into the paper sack and carried the garbage around to a bin at the edge of the road. He looked over and saw that the lights were still on in the elderly couple's cabin. Faintly, he could hear country music playing from that direction, which meant it would have to be playing pretty loud. Mitch sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to go to sleep until the old man had gotten back safely. He grabbed an emergency cigar from his Volvo's glove box and the last beer from the tiny fridge.

About ten minutes later, Mitch had drained the brew and was about halfway through his cigar. It was dark now and there were no lights outside. He sat on the patio table, just as stranger had earlier with one leg up to his chin. He rubbed his tired eyes for the hundredth time and was relieved to see headlights splash across the elderly couple's cabin before the SUV finally rolled back up to its spot next to the lawn chairs. Mitch smiled and realized that he didn't even want to finish his cigar, though it was pretty good. It had been a long week and he was ready for bed. He extinguished the cigar and tossed it into the grill.

Surveying the patio area one last time before heading inside, Mitch realized that the old man hadn't gotten out of his SUV yet. The silver chill returned to his neck. Mitch walked to the edge of his patio, staying close to the side of the cabin and watched the vehicle closely. He could barely see through the dark, but the driver was still sitting there.

Maybe he's deciding whether or not to pick up more tequila. Maybe that's it.

He waited until a figure emerged from the SUV, but the light from inside the cabin only allowed for a silhouette, and it had never seemed so far away as it did then. For the first time all week, Mitch wished he was closer to the old drunks. The driver made his way to the side door and opened it on the one dark room in the entire cabin. Mitch squinted as the door closed.

It's probably the old man, he thought. But it could also very well be the stranger returning to do to the old woman what he's already done to the old man.

No risk taker he, Mitch decided to see if a sheriff could check things out. He started toward his cellphone, which was in the cabin, but then stopped before his hand touched the backdoor. Mitch remembered letting the man go inside to use the bathroom and realized that both his cellphone and his keys could be gone right now. And, if that were true, then he'd have his answer. He'd already know who was next door, along with where he'd be heading next.

Mitch turned back to the old couple's cabin and listened. Someone had either turned off the country music or was searching for another song, but Mitch knew what he was really listening for. As he steadied his breathing, he recalled the expression on the stranger's face when he had first told him that he wouldn't give him a ride. It was rage that Mitch had seen there. Pure rage.