We could see the smoke from the freeway, miles before we reached the spot. A column of black, tall and angry, spewing into the sky. As we got closer, we saw the lapping tongue of flame on the ground.
         "What the hell is that?" I asked.
         Rudy looked but didn't say a word, just steered his black truck around an old Bonneville, into the fast lane. I took a sidelong glance at his babyface, his goatee and dark eyes, and wondered why. His only conversation now was with other drivers heading up 5 North on this insane Sunday-after-Thanksgiving cattle drive.
         "Come on, asshole, are you gonna let me pass or what?" he snapped. These were one-way conversations. When I'd first met him, he talked in jokes, yet now he seemed to have run out of them. What happened? When did it change?
         Today everyone in California was returning from their family rituals, escaping places they no longer lived but still referred to as "home". Rudy and I had taken off from San Diego around noon, heading back to San Francisco; we both had to work the next day. He had gone to his parents' house and I'd gone to mine.
         I could tell that Rudy was closer to these other drivers, in their SUVs and Japanese imports, than he was to me.
         "These idiots don't know how to drive!"
         After all, we'd only been seeing each other for two months. These idiots behind their wheels, they'd always been there. He had a good grasp of his relationship with them.
         I kept my eyes on the thick dark smoke up ahead on our left, recalling the burning Iraqi oil wells I'd seen on TV at the end of The Gulf War. I could feel our silence creating a vacuum inside the truck; sucking out all the oxygen, draining us of our connection to each other. It had been less than love, but more than sex.
         Rudy exhaled hard, the way you do when your lungs are full of frustration. The Four Tops' "Same Old Song" was on the radio. He reached for the dial, changing it to Merle Haggard, to a Mexican ranchera, to loud static. He turned it off.
         "You're even pickier than I am," I told Rudy, trying to make a joke out of it, but actually annoyed. I clicked the radio back on. Turned the dial, but only found static. Then a commercial for Christmas shopping somewhere. Driving up the Grapevine, between cities, searching for radio stations becomes dicey. I had a fear of coming across some awful Anne Murray song, one that would surely cause us to plow our vehicle into the nearest roadside Wendy's. Finally, the Four Tops battled bravely with the barrage of static for the airwaves.
         We were now neck and neck with the fire. It stood back from the freeway maybe fifty feet. Spread out around the gushing black clouds, the other oil pumps looked apathetic; skeletons of giant birds, no longer bobbing up and down. We were rubberneckers, all of us guilty, traffic moving like sludge in sewer pipes. I knew that fire would be burning for days, for months, maybe. Up above, the greasy smoke blending in with the approaching twilight.
         "Rudy," I venture, "I've gotta take a leak. Can we make a stop?"
         "Sure, if we can ever get through this traffic. I need to get gas, too," Rudy added. "Look at that dumbshit trying to cut me off--What the fuck is he doing?!"
         Gradually putting the fire behind us, we picked up our pace, back up to 70, looking for an exit. We found one near the turnoff for Fresno. A minute later we were pulling into a gas station of huge proportions, a station for big rigs.
         Did something happen with his family?
         Does he have some other guy?
         Is it my breath?
When I got back to the truck, Rudy was getting his change inside the little convenience store. In seconds, we got back onto 5 North.
         "So Rudy," I asked, "what's going on?"
         "Going on?"
         "Well, what's up between us? It's funny--at first we talked on the phone nearly every day. Now here we are in the same car for hours, and you've got nothing to say."
         "Is that so bad? What's wrong with a little peace and quiet? I'm tired."
         "It's the bad kind of quiet."
         "It's not that I don't want to talk to you, it's just...you know how burned out I've been from work, and..." He looked at me as if he couldn't find the rest of his sentence, and was hoping I had it in my pocket.
         "Look," I started again, "If you're not into it anymore.... well, just don't leave me hanging, OK?"
         "Its not just you," he answered. "Ask my friends. I've been this way with everybody lately. I guess I need to hibernate. Be alone for awhile."
         We drove, we drove, we drove. Twilight stretched out California like slow motion flames, past scattered cattle and rows of grapevines, rows of cotton. Eventually these gave way to tall, brush-covered hills and power lines. The sky and the landscape gradually pulling away into darkness. Black silhouettes of strange windmills. We were gaining on San Francisco Bay. I kept looking out at the disappearing scenery. Watching as the oncoming headlights creased the lines in our faces. Something was lost, something good. Connection.
         Stuck in that moment when you realize that the spark you felt won't turn into a flame--in fact, it won't even remain a spark. I could feel it being snuffed out in my lungs. The harder I tried to hold it in, the faster it fled. What changed inside him? What happened? When did it change?
         The freeway exits grew closer to each other; the lights of Oakland surrounding us, leading us to the Bay Bridge. Pair after pair of red tailights, lined up to pay the toll. I pulled two ones out of my wallet and handed them to Rudy.
         "Thanks," he said, without looking at me. Paid the toll lady and we headed across, into the city. It seemed incredible that this bridge, the frigid water below, and the San Francisco skyline could all still be here, just as they were when we left, unfazed by our petty bullshit.
         Rudy didn't say another word until he dropped me off at my flat. As I lifted my bags out of the bed of his truck, I looked at him, his face bright under the streetlight.
         "So...will I ever see you again?" I asked him, only half joking. We hugged, I kissed him on the lips. A one-way kiss?
         "You'll see me." Rudy told me. "I need to go home and sleep. I'm gonna be busy this week--gotta work on my resume."
         I thought, "He snores like a bastard, anyway," but I kept it to myself.