I passed a man on the highway Sunday night as the sun set behind the lower Santa Rita peaks. He was striding toward the south in dark clothes and swinging empty hands without any sign of a backpack. He was far from anywhere and no man belonged out there alone without wheels that day even if his jaunty walk looked like he knew where he was going, and wanted to get there fast. I was going near 60 and saw him as the car crested one of the nameless humps of hills that bring green relief, still at sunset, from the depths of lower Pima County, where it burned a flameless 100 degrees Fahrenheit.
I thought too late to stop and ask if he needed any help, maybe because I didn’t see him until he was suddenly there around the climbing curve and walking in the cut of highway that gave him the last of needed evening shade. And then, too far past him to stop without using hard brakes, I thought to leave at least the car’s plastic bag of water that he might, as well, have some use for. I didn’t do that, but thought next time it would be a good idea.
The almost happy way he walked, I thought, was like he’d lain somewhere in the desert’s bit of shade throughout the scorching day, rising with the sinking sun and heading out wherever he was going. My own trip home was otherwise uneventful, except for thinking on how my government pension might be affected if I’d stopped to help the man and got caught, or if he’d pulled a knife and left me there. Maybe he needed a ride that bad.
Maybe he was just a Mexican who didn’t belong here. Maybe he was out on the road looking for a ride and didn’t care who took him, or where. But he did it with a spring in his stride.