3. Boy with the Arab Strap

                                    

                                          
"Day upon day of wandering gets you down. Nobody gives you a chance or a dollar in this old town . . ."
                          
While I wait for Miles to pick me up, I decide to write my dad a note to let him know where I'm going since he left his phone at home. I'm sure he won't be happy with me when he finds out, but it might help when I tell him that I was just taking care of my friend.
                          
Naomi has always been an independent girl, but with that comes great responsibility. She's never been the serious or logical type, so it's like a double-edged sword: it will protect you when you need it, but you can get hurt if you're not too careful.
                          
I run upstairs and check myself in the mirror to make sure that I look presentable. I'm not dressed up to go to a party, that's for sure. I'm still wearing what I wore to school: a t-shirt and jeans, followed by my worn-out Chuck Taylors.
                          
I hear a knock downstairs and look out my window to see an all too familiar pickup truck parked in my driveway. I rush downstairs and grab my phone before opening the door. I instantly smile at what I see, or rather, who.
                          
Miles leans against the doorway, clad in a plaid button-down shirt and jeans. My eyes travel down to his boot-covered feet, then back up to his face. His mouth is set in a crooked grin, blonde hair disheveled from the wind.
                          
"Ready to go?" he asks, smiling even wider.
                          
I return the gesture and nod. He turns, pressing his back against the door to give me room to pass. I exit the house before following him to his beat-up pickup truck. It's a dull shade of red, its color faded from spending numerous hours out in the sun. The paint is chipped in places, revealing the cold gray metal frame of the vehicle.
                          
Miles walks around to the driver's side and hits the hood with his hand as he says, "Hop in."
                          
I open the passenger door and climb inside, settling into the torn leather seats. Miles fires up the ignition as I pull my buckle across my torso and click it into place.
                          
"Where is this party, exactly?" he asks as he pulls onto the street. We're surrounded by pastures and fields, with no other cars in sight. It's a limitless expanse of grass, animals and country all in one.
                          
The absolute definition of the Middle of Nowhere.
                          
I give Miles the address to the place that Naomi had described, and soon we're on our way. It's a long drive, about twenty minutes, so we spend the time catching up on each other and what we've been up to.
                          
We haven't seen each other in a while, mostly due to me being in school and him graduated and working on getting a job.
                          
He tells me that Mrs. Hansen, a widow that lives to keep her husband's farm running has offered him a job as a farmhand. Now that she's old and no longer has her husband's help, she could really use someone else's. And she thinks Miles is perfect for the job.
                          
"That's very kind of you," I say to him once he's finished. He shrugs slightly in response, but I know how much this means to him.
                          
He's moving out of his house and onto a ranch where he will work and make a living of his own. He will be able to pay his bills, and put food onto the table, but just barely. In his mind, he has made it.
                          
That is not the life I would choose for myself.
                          
"It'll do for now," is all he says.
                          
But he and I both know better. Right now he's pretending that he'll have this job for a while before moving off to something better when in reality, he'll be stuck in this town doing exactly what his father did before him: he'll work as a farmhand until his back aches and his fingers form rough calluses to the point where he can bear it no longer. But that point never comes, because when you live in a small town as cold and frozen as this one, time stops. Everything stays the same; nothing changes.