How to Be a Man: Chapter One

            By the time Alfred saw the man's body lying in the freeway, it was too late to stop. The front, left tire of his Chevy bore down on the man's head, and though he could have imagined it, Alfred thought he heard a distinct popping noise, not unlike that of biting into an over-ripe cherry tomato.             Alfred slammed on the brakes and pulled over. He sat there in the growing dusk, both hands clenching the wheel, a film of sweat cementing them in place. His foot was still on the brakes, and a country song mixed with static crackled out of his speakers. He put the truck in park and forced himself to look in the rearview mirror. Both his grandmother and his aunt claimed to have run over people, despite all evidence to the contrary. In this moment, he hoped that he was suffering from this same peculiar family trait. But he wasn't. A silhouetted body lay in a growing pool of darkness.             Alfred opened the door with the intention of getting out. He willed his legs to sweep out of the truck, to place his boots on the desert-warmed pavement, but he remained motionless. Perhaps in an act of self-soothing, or sheer muscled memory, his fingers fumbled into his shirt pocket, produced, and lit a cigarette. Alfred looked to the mirror again. His green eyes were hazy and he could see the little red veins in stark contrast to the white around them. His gray hair was greasy, and his thin mustache was surrounded by a growing constellation of stubble. The cigarette burned his fingers, and he looked down at the long line of ash on his jeans. He'd forgotten all about it.            A black SUV careened past in the left lane, oblivious to Alfred and the body. This struck Alfred as particularly callous and motivate him to action. He slammed the pale green door shut and walked over to the back of his truck. He rested his left arm on top of the bed, his right producing another cigarette. It would be fair to say that the body was that of a man, though some might dispute it would be better described as a boy's. Alfred edged closer and bent down. He stretched out a timid hand, taking in a deep breath before actually touching the corpse, as if preparing for a long dive.             There wasn't much left of the head, not to mention the face, so Alfred left it alone. He reached into the back pocket for a wallet, which he found. There wasn't much in it. An expired college ID, a library card, and a debit card. No cash or driver's license. Alfred looked at the picture on the school ID. A pale young man with spiked green hair and a chain necklace around his throat frowned up at him. Next to the picture was the name Zak Hamilton. Alfred looked down at the body. From what he could tell, it was the same man pictured in the ID, though the hair was longer and blonde now. Alfred grimaced as he went through the rest of the pockets. All he found were a guitar pick, a knife, and a zippo lighter. Alfred tenderly collected these things and put them in his own front shirt pocket. He stood up and took a long look at the landscape. It was near enough to night now, and Alfred didn't think there'd be more than a few more cars for the evening. Even slimmer chances of a state trooper. He dug in his front pockets as if he were searching for the options available t him. He didn't have a cell phone, but he did have a shovel. Finally, Alfred sighed, grabbed the boy's legs, and dragged him to the truck.