The sky is split open now, hanging thick with anvil clouds. Way up farther than I can see, the air, it purges indiscriminately, guilty of something tragic and unforeseen, but I’m no stranger to that sort of thing. Darryl yammers on in the passenger’s seat, he’s got girl troubles, and I’ve got troubles of my own. There are no spring chickens in Iowa this morning, and it’s about a six pack to Davenport, in the snow. Go! Go! Datsun, Go! The engine drones on like drums of war, only less dramatic. Muffled by our stocking caps, sound waves break from trough to crest, freezing up and dropping to the floor. Every now and then the piston clanks up against the cylinder head, and I’m reminded of the baby blue Datsun and all of the things that Darryl said to me about his grandmother’s brain turning to mush just enough, her life savings under the bed. Darryl yammers on in the passenger seat, he’s got girl troubles, and I’ve got troubles of my own, like one too many microwaves burning in my brain, confused morals, it’s all the same, in the snow, Go! Go! Datsun, go!
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