A broken down Chevy Impala was pulled into a dirt shoulder off a side road that very much looked like a side road. Looking under its hood, a man fuzzier than Fozzie was scrunching his nose under the charcoal smoke fluttering on by. This man was Sergeant Peaches, a singer, or, according to his critics, someone trying to be a singer. Yes, that was his real name, Sergeant Peaches. Although to be more accurate, it was Sergeant James Peaches Junior. This Peaches character held onto the hood, more or less leaning his weight on his hands as he looked down. He didn't know the first thing about engine repair and yet he kept staring at the inter-twisting mechanism like he did. By this time, his pinky showman's suit was thoroughly soaked in the smoke's aroma. Biting his lip, he slammed down the green vehicle's hood. There's really only one thing left to try: sticking out his thumb and hoping for the best.
Hours passed and he was still there on the side of the road. What a shame! Not a single soul wanted to help Mr. Peaches. At some point, he grew too tired to stand and opted to crouch-sit on the dusty dirt. He would've cared a lot more about his suit getting mussied up 5 hours ago, but, considering his pit stains have reached his waistband, he didn't mind. It was awfully hot for early April and even hotter now that it was just past 1 PM. He missed being in his car. Even though his ride didn't have any A/C, the wind was a good enough cooling agent. At least his glittered jacket wouldn't have been dripping with sweat in the car. Oh, his car… Why'd it have to break down now? A 16th birthday gift ran ragged through the years. It was only a matter of time, he supposed, but what great luck he had that it decided to bid its farewell on the day he had an actual gig.
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It was 4 PM now, according to his watch, and there hadn't been any new automobiles speeding by with drivers only lending a passing glance. Peaches hadn't heard any birds in a while either; they must've abandoned him too. Whatever roadtrip snacks and drinks he had were all gone now. He was picking at the little grass that was between the border of forest and road like he was junior league soccer's worst player, legs planted and spread fully against the ground. He remembered the time his parents forgot to pick him up from band practice and that other time they left him behind at the market and that one time they accidentally left him home alone for a week's vacation… Well, anyways, that same hurt from all those times manifested very familiarly in his gut. He rested his head, or, rather, banged it, against the dead Impala. So much for the job. He might as well be one with nature and live like Tarzan at this rate. He closed his eyes, feeling sweat trail down his cheeks.
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He must've been half-way to sleep when he heard an encroachment. The quiet on his western front dissipated as clipping and clopping reached his ear alongside a creaking. As he was opening his eyes, he was racking his brain on what could possibly be making those noises. He turned his head toward the source with focusing pupils. His jaw went slack. He must've been transported to 19th century Oregon because, trotting down the road, came a prairie schooner. It seemed that God had sent him the Amish to help. Far too heat-exhausted to care, he hurried up onto his feet and waved wildly at the approaching wagon.
"Hello! Help! Help!" Peaches yelled, practically running towards the whitetop. "I'm in serious trouble over here!"
There was a sole man guiding the horse-drawn wagon. He didn't look Amish, at least to Peaches, but, to be fair, he hadn't really interacted with many Amish people. Did they wear sunglasses now? And a wrist-watch? His hair certainly wasn't Amish. It was styled long but in a hip way, a long haired weirdo kind of way that was very androgynous. Although, this character wasn't that androgynous considering the beard laid thick upon his face. Maybe he was a Mennonite. Either way, he was silent.
A sound weak and pathetic gurgled in Peaches's throat. Keeping pace with the schooner, he tried talking again. "Hey, man, I'm kind of in a bind. See that green Chevy there? Er, I guess you don't know what a Chevy is. Well, it's a long machine you drive a lot like your wagon except the horses are a smaller machine inside of it. Anyways, that's mine and it's run through, let me tell ya. Absolutely dead. I really need a ride to the nearest town 'cause of it. Well, not just to get my car fixed but also because I need to call my boss. Well, not my boss but someone very similar. I'm a singer, you see, and I have a gig coming up in a couple of hours. This is my first real job as a singer and, man, I really need it. Oh, please, can't you help me out? I won't be in your hair for too long, just a quick trip to civilization!"
The man stayed on track, not a glance spared. No reaction, but Peaches could've sworn his grip on the leads tightened.
"Oh, come on!" Antsy couldn't even begin to describe Peaches's state right now. "Can't you show a little humanity for your fellow man? I would help you out if your wagon broke down!"
Even though the sunglasses were pretty dark, they were translucent enough for Peaches to catch a side-eye by the rider.
"Is that what you want? For me to do something for you? Cause, I swear, I swear it man! I swear I'll do anything! I'll do anything if you just lend me a stop on your journey or whatever! Please! Cross my heart and hope to die!" At that last statement, he actually motioned crossing his heart and dying.
"Know anything about transcendental meditation?" spoke the wagon man, bending down and over at Peaches. Peaches could barely register the Texan accent he was sporting as the question hit him.
"Huh?"
The wagon man turned back to his original position.
"Wait! Wait! Give me a chance! I can… I can feed your horses!"
"My horses are already fed."
"I can oil your wheels!"
"My wheels have already been oiled."
"I can keep you less lonely!"
The wagon man snapped his head towards Peaches, a nasty expression on his face.
"Not like that!" Peaches scratched his head. "Man, you're really caught up on this transcendental medication thing."
"Meditation," corrected the wagon man.
"Yeah, meditation." Peaches wracked his head for a bit. He was pretty sure he heard something of transcendental medication- sorry, meditation- before. He used to hang out with the real hippie types during college. They were constantly going on and on about Eastern philosophies and religious practices. At least a very western interpretation of Eastern thought and spirituality. He snapped his fingers into a finger gun. "Y'know, I think I might know someone who could be knowledgeable on that stuff!"
"Do you, now?" the wagon man questioned in a very annoyed tone.
"Yeah!" said Peaches assuredly. "I just need a phone, man, and once we get to one, I should be able to call them." Whoever they were was something Peaches was trying to come up with. Many faces, barely any names, and definitely no numbers.
The wagon man clicked his tongue in contemplation. He adjusted his sunglasses before stopping the horses pulling forward. "Let's hope you're not lying."
Peaches was already climbing into the empty seat next to the man before he said anything. "What did I say? Cross my heart and hope to die." He was praying the death part wouldn't come to fruition.
The horses were cracked back into motion. Peaches practically melted into the, albeit uncomfortable, wood settee, a deep embedded sigh escaping his esophagus. He turned to look behind them. His Chevy Impala convertible faded slowly amongst the forest's greenery. There was relief, but also panic. He looked forward again.