Buddies Camille Vettraino   © Copyright 2025 by Camille Vettraino

Photo by Jack B on Unsplash

We've been on the road for hours. It's night; the only light comes from the headlights of oncoming cars as we pass endless mile-markers in the rural Michigan landscape. I have never met the driver before, tall, with little to say to me and hard-pressed to crack a smile. The one riding shotgun is an old high school classmate of mine. Small of stature and mild-mannered, he often endures the "good natured" teasing and jeers from his more macho pals. If he ever does, it will be years before he gets his fill and grows a mind of his own.

The driver is recounting, to his captive audience of one, his exploits with women, his run-ins with teachers, cops and other authority figures, all stories of dirty deeds he is so proud to have gotten away with. His buddy sits passively, nods in agreement.

In the midst of a tale of some girl he once had his way with, the driver suddenly breaks off in mid-sentence as if the gears in his head have begun to turn. My classmate remains quiet. The road noise is all I hear for miles. It begins to lull me to sleep when I hear the driver speak in a low voice. "You know, we could pull off anywhere here and drag her out of the car, do whatever we want. She wouldn't be able to do a thing about it."

My heart starts pounding. I open my eyes. Just as quickly, I close them again. Pure instinct. I fear the skittish one in the passenger seat will turn his head and discover that I am actually awake. After a disturbingly long pause, he responds. "If we did, Dennis would kill us." Another pause and he adds, "You know that."

The driver snorts his laughter, as if resentful at the prospect of consequences. No one says a word for miles.

Then, I feel the car speed up as it leaves the highway. I remain lying down across the back seat, aware that we're driving further into desolation as there are no more passing cars. "Why are you going this way?" my old classmate asks tenuously. I want to get up, but my instinct to keep still and silent is too strong.

"Oh…well, I know this area. There's a gas station down this road run by a buddy of mine." I hear no response from my classmate.

Time passes slowly in the darkness until, finally, I begin to sense approaching light through closed eyelids. The car slows down and pulls into a driveway and alongside a gas pump. The brightness of the lights shining into the windows and the noise of the car door tell me it's time to act like I am just waking up. I open my eyes and sit up.

The driver has just left the car at the pump and gone inside. His companion turns around in his seat and we make eye contact. "How're you doing back there?"

"I'm okay." I dare to ask, "Where are we?" I look around hoping to spot a telephone somewhere but I see none. Then again, what excuse could I come up with for using it? I can't think. I'm summoning all my strength just to appear calm but I fear my thumping heart will give me away.

"A buddy of his runs this place. I guess he wanted to stop by," he answers inertly.

I find myself looking him straight in the face, not saying a word, trying to get a read on my old classmate. Something is wrong. Something in his eyes. I think he knows I know. He lowers his eyelids as he looks away. "Getting hungry?" he asks.

"A bit," seems like a safe answer. "Do you know what kind of time we're making?"

"We're getting there. Why, is Dennis expecting you by a certain time?"

I can't tell if he's asking out of consideration or fishing for useful information. Guessing that it's well past 9 p.m., and in hopes of indirectly lighting a fire under the driver, I'm about to say that yes, I told him I'd be there by 10:00. That would seem believable considering our 1:30 departure from Detroit. But before I can answer, the driver is back in the car, having filled the tank.

Two dark menacing eyes ogle me in the rearview mirror. "Have a nice nap?"

I realize instantaneously that everything will be acting from here on out. "Sure did." Silence.

He starts up the car and peels out of the station like an angry dog. "Well, my buddy wasn't there but I think there's a place where we can get some food."

"You hungry?" he yells to me in the back.

What an idiot I am for admitting to his companion that I was a bit hungry. Now I have to say the same to him.

"A little, I guess." And with that, I realize there is no chance of avoiding another stop and just driving straight through.

When we pull into the restaurant parking lot, though, I begin to wonder if someone is looking out for me. The place is closed.

"Screw it! Let's just get this over with."

Or maybe, things just went from bad to worse. I sit back, hug the door, and look straight ahead. The driver pauses, gives a glance to his sidekick, and we squeal out of the parking lot.

I know better than to try to make conversation, nor does my "brave buddy" up there seem compelled to engage the driver. Taking no precaution against hitting deer or anything else, the guy behind the wheel speeds through the night. As we approach the 25 miles of isolated, pitch-black swamp, known locally as the Seney Stretch, I feel my temperature rise, my body tighten, my teeth clench. The clothes under my parka are damp with sweat.

Thirty minutes later, as we're coming through the Stretch, he realizes that radio reception has returned and turns it up—high—as if he's the only one in the now-reverberating car.

Finally, after enduring another hour of what feels like uncertain captivity, I see the lights of Marquette, like my own Statue of Liberty, welcoming me to safety, sanity, and home.

When we arrive at my dorm, my fellow passenger helps me carry in my things while the driver disappears to who-knows-where. "Quite a character, isn't he?" he offers. I look at him, for a second time, wondering what my seemingly compliant classmate would have done if things had gone differently, but I say nothing.

After the weekend and their departure, I secure a promise from my boyfriend, Dennis, before telling him what happened—or came too close to happening. I make him promise that he will never mention the name of the driver again for the rest of our lives. Somehow, I get him to understand that if he seeks revenge or engages him in the least argument about the incident, it could put me at risk. He reluctantly agrees and neither of us ever see the guy again. Nor do I ever hear his name mentioned in conversation with Dennis's friends.

*****

Forty years later, Dennis passes away after a long illness. I have traveled four and a half hours downstate to the funeral home where I am preparing to eulogize him. I am standing alone by a display of Dennis's photographs when my eye catches a glimpse of someone across the room and a chill runs through me. It's the driver, looking at me. I avert my gaze, but it's too late. He is heading my way.

My heart pounds in my ears as those same menacing eyes shorten the distance between us. He leans in to speak. "That's too bad about Dennis.”

I look at him without a word of greeting or response. He looks puzzled—for a second. But I just can't do it. I can't talk to him, exchange pleasantries as if he were a friend of some kind. And I'm not about to make a scene at a funeral home—though, secretly, I think Dennis would have appreciated that.

"Isn't it," I say flatly, and turn to find someone else—anyone else—to talk to. My hands are trembling. I hope he doesn't notice.

What the hell! It's been forty years since he and Dennis had any contact. Just what is he doing here?

As I distract myself by speaking with one of Dennis's friends, I look up to see the man retreating to the far end of the long room. I realize that I have actually forgotten his name. This gives me odd comfort as I have heard that when we stop speaking a person's name, they become dead to the world even if they are still living. I find my center again and deliver the eulogy.

Later, in the company of others, I go out to my car, get behind the wheel and head for home.

I'm the driver now.