The second person is a portly woman in a filthy apron and a hair wrapping, kind of cowering in the corner by the door. Her eyes cannot come anywhere near the sopping-wet, naked hitchhiker, but her hand motions towards a plate stacked with food on the dressing table.

“I, I, Mista Tilly a’told me ta bring you-a somethin ta eat….” She stutters in an overly put-on, deferential way. She holds a hand before her eyes. “Oh, excuse me, mist-ah.”

She makes to go for the door, but the hitchhiker holds up a finger and tells her, “Hold on. Wait jess a minute.” He runs back to the bathroom, where he has kicked his clothes into a pile in the corner. His white ass warbles for all to see as he rummages through his jacket. He returns with a five-dollar bill, not even attempting to cover himself with the towel. The hitchhiker comes closer to the woman and her discomfort grows to a mortifying degree. She squirms in the corner, straining her head away as far as it will go. Her legs march in place as if they are gearing to leave her, but there is nowhere to go.

“No, no, I cannot,” she insists.

The hitchhiker raises the bill closer to her face. “Go on.”

She is eager to get out of there, away from the damp things this pale, naked man is dangling in front of her.

“Oh thank you. Thank you mist-ah.” She reaches out for the dollar bill with a quivering hand and scoots out the door. The hitchhiker turns toward the man in the chair and grabs a hold of the pink bathrobe on a hook. It’s like wearing the warm breath of schoolgirl. He pulls the tie around his waste and grabs a leg of the sickly looking chicken on the plate. The cold grease runs down his chin and he hungrily slops up a stray piece of skin.