On the Road
By Marcia Mascolini

1967. West Texas. Dusty. Dry. Telephone poles. Mesquite. Cactus. 2-lane road. VW. Illinois plates. Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa. Rear right tire?

Owner's Manual. Tire jack. Hubcap pryer-offer. Wrench. Bolt. Heave. Nothing. Again. Grunt. Sweat. It really is the heat, not the humidity.

Pickup truck. Gun rack. Flag decals. Hound dogs. Red face. Red neck. Straw hat. Love-it-or-leave-it t-shirt.

"Kin I hep you, little lady?"

". . . tire going flat." Scared. Wish I'd lost the bellbottoms in Chicago. Inappropriate for job interview. Inappropriate for Texas, period.

Ham fists on thighs, he bends, prods.

"Looks a'right to me. It's these here roads. Make yer tires sing."

"Thanks," I murmur, throwing manual, jack, pryer in the back seat.

"I'll follow you into town, have the garage check it out. Good drive-in next to the pawnshop. Unlimited iced tea. Looks like you could use some, little lady."

Pick-up line?

I drive 55 in case he's a deputy in disguise.

Town sighted, he waves, roars past at 70 in a cloud of dust. Hi ho.

Good old good ole boy.