The hitchhiker still owes Smokey his cut of the loot. Technically, they are out of Las Vegas proper; but he’s not sure to what extent standing out amidst a celebrity’s party counts as cover.

Looking around, there seems to be a good amount of Grade A tail, as well. The hitchhiker decides that the Hollywood life is one he can enjoy, if only for a night. Picking up on the scent of possible mischief-to-be-had, the hitchhiker strays from the other two, who don’t notice anyway. They, too, are equally absorbed in observing the goings-on around them. The luxury -and the way these people can’t even see it, because it is their norm- is utterly alien. It tells them that neither one should be there.

Neither of them rank anywhere near the social or economic heights that would enable them to imagine, let alone understand, soirees such as this. The driver’s skin color entitles him to certain luxuries that the black teenager –all black teenagers and by extension, all blacks- would never dream of; but class renders them both outsiders here. The two have known exclusion as a way of life, but the similarity ends there.

The driver exiled himself from the factory-bound routine of working-class security because its family life is dysfunctional, often unbearable, and he refused to have the same for his children. The teenager, on the other hand, could be the story of black America itself; in that the only sentiment lavished on him is scorn, and all he is ever given are the scraps no one else is willing to eat. Unlike the driver, the teenager’s problems can hardly be remedied by simply picking up and moving to another state. First: his livelihood has already been established here in Las Vegas, and for a person facing such little life opportunities, a shot at some dough, no matter how it’s earned, can not be passed up for anything else. Second, and more damningly: his mortal failure is etched into his skin, on his body, and is therefore certain to replicate itself wherever he goes.

The gulf between two –the driver and the teenager- is as impassable as that between the Negro’s shack and the blue-collar cottage. When the driver stands next to the teenager, that’s as close as their worlds get. The virtue of being outsiders does not make them allies, and their convergence of paths has just about spent its purpose.