The highway dusty dry cactus and mile markers provides a flat panorama America has forgotten.
Frank stops at a two pump gas station, and buys a bag of pig rinds, a Nehi and a couple flesh mags.
On the road again, Frank spots rusted out cars left to die. His own mortality hits him like slants of freezing rain.
Making miles Frank pushes the thought of death out of his head.
At dark,lonely rest stops Frank has fingered his 38 tempted to exit the planet. But today he feels things right; the world is in order.
“Man, this shit’s a mess.”
“I hear ya.”
“Make sure you get the seats clean.”