Southern Legitimacy Statement: Born and raised in Virginia.
Riders
She and I split a single at The Swallow, a motor lodge midway to her aunt in Cape Cod. Come sunup, we walk a treeless block to an asphalt drag. Setting our satchels down, we mill around. As semitrucks barrel by us, I dip my thumb in their wake. The traffic light cycles several times before a grizzled man in a caramel pickup pulls over and asks where we’re headed. Providence, I say, pointing to the hillside city just within eyeshot. He cocks his head for us to get in. As the crow flies, our destination cannot be but five or so miles, yet time dilates with each detour he takes, snaking us through a maze of industrial waste, culverts and tank farms and switchyards, rambling on about a unit he stores buzz saws and bar clamps in. Mid-drive, she side-eyes me. I tap the ivory penknife in my pocket and mull if I’ve got the gall to draw it on this guy if he coerces us into his lurid locker. Heavens, he lets us off at the hilltop tavern, as he said he would.
