If I had more time, I could’ve spent a summer listening to interesting stories about Vietnam. For a seventy-year-old man he’s got the straightest back I’ve ever seen. Dean, the retired army colonel who lives down the block, just so I could borrow it. And I’ve suffered through eight weeks of lawn work for Mr. He taps the lighter hard on the dash, twice, and I glance over to make sure he hasn’t left a ding in the panel. “My gal, she’s waiting for me,” he says now in an excited voice, like he’s going to see her the minute we crest the next hill. Unsuspecting drivers probably pick him up out of boredom, thinking he’s just some college kid who reads too much Kerouac. The hitchhiker haunts a stretch of winding North Carolina road, bordered by unpainted split-rail fences and a whole lot of nothing. I know what to look for, because I’ve seen just about every variety of spook and specter you can imagine. Then again, I have an eye for these things. He belongs in a chorus line of dancing Jets and Sharks. And the way he keeps nodding and flicking his Zippo open and closed in rhythm with his head. So is the loose and faded leather coat, though not as much that as the sideburns. The grease-slicked hair is a dead giveaway-no pun intended.
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