by Cris Kane
Tate was speeding along his favorite back-route to Las Vegas, a desolate stretch of pavement where he could push his red Porsche Boxter to the max without worrying about a lot of traffic or cops.
With the top down, leather driving gloves and Skrillex blasting through his sound system, Tate looked like a consummate spoiled California rich kid with his mirrored sunglasses and his long blond hair blown straight back by the wind. In this case, appearances were not deceiving. He WAS a spoiled California rich kid. He was even driving shirtless in hopes of catching a few more rays to deepen his tan before he hit poolside in Vegas, and was foregoing a seat belt for fear that the shoulder belt would give him a tan line.
Suddenly, a figure appeared at the edge of the roadway: a pathetic-looking man with a raised thumb and a desperately hopeful smile. Tate slammed on his brakes, his tires screeching as they burnt smoking-rubber curlicues onto the pavement. What the fuck was anyone doing hitchhiking on this godforsaken stretch of asphalt in Death Valley?
Tate was terrified that he had hit the guy, when he heard the faint trot of approaching footsteps over the fine-tuned hum of his idling engine. Tate lowered his shades and took a look at the hitcher. No wonder Tate hadn't noticed him, as he was dressed in shades of brown and beige that thoroughly camouflaged him against the barren desert landscape. The guy must be burning up out here in a heavy jacket and corduroys. His floppy tan hat must have offered him a little shade, but in combination with his sappy face, it did give the unfortunate impression that he was auditioning for the lead in "Gilligan's Desert".

"Thanks for stopping for me!", the man said with a grin. Technically, Tate hadn't stopped for the dude, but was just stopping to make sure he hadn't killed anyone. Still, he saw no reason to be a prick and peel away now, leaving the sap in the dust. He had never picked up a hitchhiker in his life, but this guy looked totally harmless. The guy climbed in and was in the process of closing his door when he yelled, "I almost forgot my bag!"
The guy climbed out and jogged over to a gully where he had hidden a black backpack. He returned to the car, tucking the backpack between his legs on the floor. He took off his canvas hat and waved it to create a breeze across his face. Tate noticed the guy's big bald spot and figured he must be in his thirties if not older.
Tate asked his new passenger, "So, where are you heading?"
"I'll get out wherever you stop. I'm just trying to get back to civilization."
"I'm heading to Vegas, if you count that as civilization. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"
"Somebody stole my car and abandoned me."
"For serious? Shit, man, that's fucked up."
"I know. If you hadn't come along, I don't know how much longer I would have lasted."
Tate felt much better about rescuing this guy. He extended a hand. "I'm Tate."
"Neil," said the passenger, latching his seat belt. He looked admiringly at the car. "This is a beautiful car. How much did it cost?"
"I dunno. Seventy grand or something. Got it from my dad when I graduated college."
"Wow, cool. So what do you do now?"
Tate flashed a wide grin and said, "Drive my Porsche to Vegas." Neil braced his hands against the dash as Tate peeled out and roared Vegas-ward. Neil's floppy hat blew off and he turned to watch it floating in the air.