Frank saw it. A bright light set against a black backdrop like a chocolate cupcake with white sprinkles in the Bakersfield
sky.Pulling up to the pumps Frank thought about Sunny’ butter beans, green little fuckers. Here he was out ball-in’ the jack with a
load of cattle pissing and shitting in their steel cages, while she grew butter beans.
Frank wiped grease from his hands. On the interstate mile markers flashing by Frank knew he was going to kill her beans–
and her too.
In his cell, Frank dreamed of the open road blue, gray diesel smoke cracks in the pavement. Lunch time, Frank hears the metal tray slide in to his lockup.
He checked the tray. He had gotten used to the grizzled, dry ham. Frank reached down to take a bite. He saw them; the butter beans. He saw Sunny’s face and he had to laugh.