… even though we ain't got scratch …
To: The Boss
Date: August 13
On the return trip I picked up another hitchhiker, this one an AWOL from the brig at Camp Cajun. Sometimes, you don’t want to ask too many questions. He had ditched his uniform a hundred miles back. Had a two-day-old stubble and burr haircut, khaki torn-off shorts and Tee-shirt, black military oxfords. I almost sped up to leave him in the dust, once I saw his features when slowing down for the pickup. But I didn’t and we were, for whatever purpose, traveling mates. “I’m going to Canada,” he told me.
“Good luck. I mean that. I wish you a hell of a lot of luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
He was neither Italian nor Greek, Inca nor Viking. He wasn’t even Yankee. I have no idea what else he could have been. Am I thinking too much along socio-ethnic lines these days? What can that mean?
The full Big Inca versus a New Pony Express Rider novel is yours at Thistle/Flinch editions.