Gay hitchhiker

They looked lifeless, like ghosts merging into the faded sepia tone that enveloped everything inside. The landscape is barren, haze and dust, when you leave the truck the dust and sweat accompanies you into the bathroom.

Beneath the meagre shade sat a young boy selling candy, or some local fruit. The child was called Jabez, the native Mayan name means grief, but they all said his name was John. The dirt and heat are inescapable, it keeps you in a permanent state of fatigue.

He wore faded red shorts, a washed out T-shirt and blue plastic sandals, he had a scab on one knee, the left. In 's rural Ontario a closeted gay man encounters a hitchhiker at a gas station. The globule of body fluid teetered precariously, then dropped, only to be caught on the edge of one bushy eyebrow before falling off and splattering a dirty droplet onto the discoloured newspaper he had on the counter in front of him.

I followed the sign indicating the bathroom and exited through a back door out into the searing heat. He shifted his head to the left, it was the least possible movement necessary to indicate to the boy where to look.

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A handful of people were gathered inside, most sitting on the dirty wooden plank that served as a seat next to the entrance. In 's rural Ontario a closeted gay man encounters gay hitchhiker at a gas station. I was about to disappear in the shadow of the building, my back was hard against the wall while I was staring at the washed out colours on the bill board opposite.

He scratched his belly, then scratched his balls, mumbled something unintelligible to the guy behind the counter, then walked out. As if every word, every gesture or movement required an enormous expense of energy, practically nothing was said, nothing moved.

I stared out through the grey window at a parasol with writing that once proclaimed some brand of soft drink. He wore a dirty white shirt, half open, the top buttons were missing, the lower half was stretched taught around his ample stomach.

When he offers the hitchhiker a bed for the night, he is forced to confr. A man picks up a little more than he bargained for. The hitchhiker to the building was open, I could have sworn that the place had been abandoned for ten years, the facade was way beyond worn and faded.

Aramberri was deserted, a desolate spot, vile and corrupt. He had wiry black hair, a thin moustache and small beady eyes that darted about. When he offers the hitchhiker a bed for the night, he is forced to confront his own suppressed desires.

A half starved dog crept slowly past the doorway, stopping to lift its head and smell the stale odour emanating from inside, before moving on uninterested. Another boy with long straight black hair opened the cooler across from the counter and lifted a can, quickly re-closing the lid as a mist of coolness evaporated without leaving a trace.

I turned, watching him leave, blinking my eyes against the sunlight. The same black wiry hair curled around his chest disappearing behind his shirt. I watched, my view fixed on a tiny bead of sweat that was about to fall as he leaned forward on the counter.

A large man of about fifty, with white hair and yellow teeth, stood just inside the entrance. Only the boy seemed possessed with enough force to move and gather the tamarind.