The driver takes in what is undoubtedly a careful selection of words. Chosen for efficiency and clipped for effect. It is no wonder why the old boy took so long to respond. It’s not that he is mute or dimwitted; just the opposite. He’s one of those lucky and rare men: skilled in the selection and performance of phrases to evoke whatever he pleases in the listener. Even the way he wobbled between “working” and “the ducts”, suggesting the hesitancy of an alibi, could have easily been tacked on for flourish. One never could tell; yet there is something about the overall affect of an accent –definitely from up North, but even more familiar than that- that doesn’t sit well with the driver.

“Least th’somofabitch can talk,” is how the driver puts it to himself.

The gloss from his passenger’s words dissipates in the base of the driver’s spine. As he enjoys their last glimmer, he forgets exactly what the hitchhiker said.

“Sumin to do w’ducks?” the driver has to ask himself, but decides upon an unconvincing, “Erherrrrrr.”

That settles that conversation. It covers where he’s been and what he’s been doing. The driver wonders if he should reciprocate.

“V’only juss been through there m’self.” Compared to the hitchhiker, the driver’s voice is gruff, like that of a lifelong smoker and drinker. His words are sloppy, as if they’ve had to topple over each other in the fight to escape his slack lips and tongue. The driver is suddenly embarrassed at the hollowness and irrelevance of his response. Thinking he can save it with an addendum, “Juss now, acsh’ly.”

The hitchhiker’s return to silence allows this retort to hang in the air. It’s possible that he’s picked up on the driver’s uneasiness with forced small talk. Silence is no better. The driver squirms and his face flashes in a tic, while the hum of the asphalt draws the awkwardness out further. This delights the hitchhiker and he lights up a cigarette to further his enjoyment.

“Smoke?” The hitchhiker holds out a fresh pack. He allows himself to fall –comfortably but not with abandon- into the bond which humiliation tends to form between perpetrator and victim.

“Got m’own, thanks.” The driver waves him off as a retort. “But m’happy t’join ya, though.” He too feels drawn into the complicity that spills out from those few, hastily spurt out words. It’s an unlikely form of comfort, warming like the cigarette smoke that fills his chest and the car.

The thought returns, “Mayn’t be such a bad ride, f’terall.” Or at least, not as lonely. Ninety-eight miles to the state line.