He lifts the receiver on the desk effortlessly, as if in a dream. In another instant, he’s on the phone once again to Mr. Warshansky.

“I won’ bother you an’more f’ya can tell me juss one thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“Wha’did Paula’s ex…you know the guy who….well, wha’did-ee look like?”

“Eh? Have you lost your mind?”

“Juss tell me.”

“An you won call here no more?”

“At’s right”

“Alright. Let’s see if I can remember, though I don’t particularly care to.”

“Please, Mr. Warshansky…”

“Ok, alright. Well, he wasn’t very tall, a little shorter than you, I suppose. Light brown hair, worn kinda long, in a mess. Blue eyes. And the sonnofabitch walked around like he was owed the world. There! Is that enough for you, ya crazy….”

The driver can’t hear the rest. A bolt of urgency snaps through his body and wakes him up. He has to get to that pickup and get back out on the road.

Peeking his head into the garage: “Hey, you gonna have my car ready any time soon?”

The sole mechanic, without removing his head from deep beneath the pickup’s raised hood, responds, “hold on, I’m working on it.”

The driver itches with the desire to take off with the man’s head still inside. He would press the petal down as far as it would go. The silos of the farmland and the towers of the cities alike would get blended into the same singular blur, whipping by the driver’s windows. Road signs would become meaningless –or even more meaningless- as they whisk by in a flash of green, no letters.

The driver can only tighten his fists in anticipation. The bulge of car keys in his front pocket burns his skin straight through the fabric.

“Fuckin’ hicks. How long’s it take ta fix a lousy car?”