[ WP ] Hitchhiker

The sun spits a fire across the hood of my car as we barrel down Route 17. Twisted hunks of metal side-railings swing past us; ghostly remnants of rubbed-off paint flashing and scorching in the heat. Tuneless echoes of America's glory days hang in the air, threatening the drought like an attempt to call some presumed bluff. 
 
 The hitchhiker sits there looking to his right out the window like a battle-worn demon-hunter -- tired but ready to fight at any moment. 
 
 I say, `` It's a great day. I'm glad that the sun is finally out.'' 
 
 There is no movement for a moment. The sun beats. 
 
 I say, `` Where are you headed?'' 
 
 He says, `` Camden. You can drop me off wherever, though.'' 
 
 I say, `` Camden. Huh. I could probably drop you off about a half-hour down the road from here, if that's okay.'' 
 
 He says, `` That's fine.'' 
 
 The A/C is broken and I push the engine a little harder. 
 
 Signposts scatter in front of us, spelling out our fragmented futures. Sharp turn ahead. Children playing. 
 
 Hidden drive. 
 
 I say, `` Do you like music? Do you mind if I put some on?'' 
 
 He says, `` Sure, whatever.'' 
 
 I hit play on my cd player. It's Kodaly. The haunting Hungarian cello curves it's way out of the stereo. 
 
 I say, `` I hope Classical is okay.'' 
 
 He says, `` Sure.'' 
 
 I look at the clock. The half-hour is up. There's a gas station approaching. 
 
 I say, `` You know what, I'll just take you all the way to Camden. I'm not doing anything today.'' 
 
 He looks out the window.
