That's it, then.

He stood watching the ride shrinking before his eyes, and it was almost by the horizon before traveling on and out of sight. He felt it an eternity, until the ’89 Lincoln finally lapsed into nothingness, as he waited for the desert silence to engulf it's purr and again he waited as the dusty, greyed, squared silhouette of the All American, of which he’d grown somewhat familiar and fond, abandoned his world. That’s it then, he thought to himself affording a sigh.

His right hand shielded his stinging eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, it was July and the summer kept it high for extended hours in the light blue sky, as he scanned the final reaches of views he could make out beyond the golden fields and plains bleached by sustained shine. Satisfied by the emptiness, he turned to look from where he’d come; and he had come some distance. The road mirrored almost perfectly; to the degree that, beyond the scattering of dilapidated farm houses, it converged on itself, lined by burgeoning copper cornfields, as far in one direction as the other. Despite not knowing exactly where he was, traveling east for so long had bothered him greatly and necessitated a change.

The surrounds were barren but he didn’t doubt the assurance of life; the number of pickups and old four-doors in respective yards vouched for a community of a decent descript. Standard Southern affair of red state America was unnatural and unfamiliar, and he as wary as he was curious in seeking out the unknown. By custom he had always avoided these parts and these people his entire life; of white picket fences, modest homes, dusty pickups, and washed Cadillacs prepared for the daily or weekly (whichever it is) church commute. 

He was best served prepping for when the folk do appear; he knew they’d be wary and think it queer to have a man of his portrait appear alone, on foot, out of nowhere. It was surely a matter of time before he was greeted and offered some assistance.That was one thing he knew first-hand from Southerners; when they saw something unusual or unfamiliar, even when it was threatening, they confronted it. He recited his familiar alibi, strolling down the road on slight edge, passing huge barren lots of brown grasses and dirts and black-grey gravels accommodating small brick houses and fading barns of peeling white, his rubber soles heavy on the steaming tarmac. 

He felt a sensation of great sickness and stickiness about him as beads of sweat collected and rolled off his forehead. There was little to distract from the suffocating heat: a small trad-brick house of the two bedroom variety fronted by a wooden porch shaded by an acutely slanted roof; three cars at idling out the front amongst a yard of gravel and dirt; two Ford pickups of maroon and white, a silver Chevrolet van. This is American oblivion. Sitting opposite, on his right, another brick house of similar size but with a kind of thatched roof was obstructed from view by a cluster of frail ironwoods and elms: the cluster of struggling, fading beings somehow heightened the desolation he felt. 

A sign by the roadside up ahead read in bold thick black print “Harry Hickey’s”. Finally, perhaps something abstractly representing civilization. It was the finest house on the street; a two story colonial with unspoiled white paint and its windows and doors intact. He trudged hopefully up the gravel frontage, watching his feet in ditches carved by thick-wheeled workers’ trucks, and onto the porch. The front door was open and he could see through the screen door a spacious restaurant floor. It appeared empty, as did the bar hiding in gloom along the back wall. He entered upon finding the door unlocked.

It was cooler inside, a corner fan sat on the wall slowly oscillating, quietly murmuring. The restaurant was homely and the liquor bottles along the wall behind the bar beckoned his attention. ‘Hey - hello - is there someone here?!’, he waited as no response was forthcoming, ‘what kinda people leave their restaurant open! Hey!’ Damn it, just great.  He walked behind the bar and fixed himself a drink of bourbon, cola and a ton of ice. What kinda place is so deserted for lunch anyway.. how the hell do they survive?  He must have a day job. He knew he could be waiting a while for company and made his way to a table that viewed out the generous windows onto the road. It was comfortable.

This place is alright: eight tables plus a space at the bar; and you could fit more in. And heaving on a July evening: with Southern tunes of blues, jazz, rock n roll - whatever they’re feeling; young waitresses in wispy dresses taking orders, collecting bills and workin’ hard for their tips; the whiskey flowing as round after round is shouted round the room by the local sycophant. Hell, after dark it could flow out onto the porch, into the yard. It could be something. He drew a long drink, the ice had already taken hold, and rejuvenation flew around his nerves. Within moments his eyes closed and his head tapped the window pane.

The sound of a rumbling ‘76 Chevy shifting gravel had his eyes alert and expending a moment to retrace his movements. The dull canary yellow Malibu pulled up slowly beneath the porch. A man of his forties, in blue flannelet and jeans and heavy boots, got out before bending down to release a discernibly younger and thinner man from the backseat. A woman in a floral dress emerged from the passenger side, also younger, tanned, with long wavy blond hair. He watched her as they approached the house and took another drink; it wasn’t as refreshing, there was no longer ice.

The young woman entered followed closely by the young man, they greeted their guest with a smile and a nod as they continued on into the back. The woman’s red heels caught his gaze as they clicked on the floorboards past the bar. ‘How do you Sir, can I help you?’ the old man offered, appearing at the door, as he considered the image of the young man with the disheveled thin, black tie over a soiled, white button-down, with sleeves half-rolled up, half-tucked into tanned slacks resting over brown leather shoes, that rested at ease on top of table eight. For sure you can.