I was Tom Joad pushing a loaded sedan westward, fingers white to the knuckle, back aching hunched over the wheel. I counted four white-out storms to cross my path. One delivered in northern Idaho established spindrifts across the roadway which bit into the wheelwells with the sound of sand.
Hadn't passed a night soundly in four revolutions... could count the hours on my fingers and toes. My eyes felt dry and irritated, drinking coffee like water. Sixteen hours passed like that; stopping once to watch the Steelers/Colts first half at the first Nevadan casino i could find. Ordered two beers and a burger and watched the game standing. I could sense discomfort all around me. The bar ghouls made nervous by my erect position. I couldn't sit though, my posterior numb and aching from the past six hundred miles.
I left the bar lighter, climbed into my car and pulled into the nearest station. While filling up the tank i noticed a curious drip falling near the toe of my shoe. Crouching down i inspected a slight gas leak to compliment further the demise of my vehicle. I lurched inside once more and gritted my teeth for the final two hundred miles, a constant eye to the gauge and remembering the mechanic's recent mention of a small exhaust leak. Wondering if i'd ever register the moment when my car blew sky high, gas igniting, a nearby bank of snow momentarily reflecting red and orange. Too much... I turned up the dial to sportsradio and played dumb the rest of the way to California.
"Three hundred thousand in California and more coming. And in California the roads full of frantic people running like ants to pull, to push, to lift, to work. For every manload to lift, five pairs of arms extended to lift it; for every stomachful of food available, five mouths open."
~The Grapes of Wrath
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