crinkle, the mouth came open, neck veins engorged with disbelief. The bland countenance before him offered the assumption of complete cooperation. . . eight-nine-ten. "Well, you want to let me in on the secret?"
"Bill," he said at last. "Billy Clay." The officer was close enough for him to read the name tag on the shirt, which he wouldn't forget, to hear the threatening creak of the thick cop belt, which tickled the hairs of his amusement center.
"Kind of a kid's name, isn't it? You aren't a kid, are you, Mr. Clay?"
He shrugged, goofy-faced.
The driver called out from the idling car, did George need any help out there? No, George did not.
"You want to empty your pack, please."
He leaned down and brusquely dumped onto the wet concrete, the dark puddles, a semester's worth of college textbooks, some wadded clothes, some packaged food, a pathetic pile of sophomore junk. The polished black toe of the state poked among Introduction to Western Civilization, Othello, Modern Biology. "You know there's no hitchhiking permitted on the interstate."
"I wasn't hitching."
The officer picked up General Accounting and read on the inside cover: B. Clay. He tossed the book back onto the pile. "What's this?" Nudging a squat metal container.
"Sterno can."
"This?"
He peered, as if examining the object for the first time. "Rubber mouse," he said.
The officer watched him. "All right, I'm not even going to ask." The officer stepped to one side. "Okay, Mr. Clay, would you mind assuming the position, please?"
He came forward, planted his feet, and leaned out over the warm hood inches from the smoking driver behind the windshield with shiny Raisinet eyes, under damp clothes flesh cringing at the touch of another's hands, the blue ice and baby powder scent of the officer's cologne. He endured.
The officer stopped and stepped back. "Thank you, Mr. Clay. Please retrieve your personal items and I'll tell you what my partner and I are gonna do. We go on down the road now to the Valetown exit, where we turn around and come back, and when we do we expect that you and your yo-yo will be gone from our highway. Don't disappoint us."
The officer stared back at him as if unbroken sight were a singular expression of will, the truest form of comprehension, the movement beneath the skin of their faces mirrored closely, face to face. A moment lengthened, thinned, broke apart into something new, less dangerous, a crediting of the unacknowledged in one another. The officer touched the brim of his cap and returned to the waiting cruiser, where he said something to the driver, who laughed until both laughed, watching him collect his belongings, restuff a tattered University of Florida backpack he slung over one rounded shoulder, to head out into the driving rain. But when the lingering patrol car at last glided on by, taillights slowly dissolving in the black solution of night, he turned around and went back, went back for that knife.
The empty light of dawn found him posted with extended arm on the grade of an approach ramp. A fine mist blew down out of the clotted sky; the sealed cars hurried past, regular as the motion of the wipers scraping at their windshields, the sound of tires on wet pavement like tape being ripped off a bandage. The pads of his fingers were drained and puckered, and the nail of the thumb he offered the world this gray morning was gnawed to the quick and badly tarnished, a chip of metal, indifferently applied. He had maintained his station through hours of clammy darkness and heedless traffic and was neither surprised nor grateful when a gleaming tanker, clean as the milk it carried, slid to a long sighing halt simply for him. He trotted up to the cab, where the door was flung open on a driver leaning across a cracked leather seat and inviting him to "hop in" over the pounding bass of an elaborate stereo system.
The driver was wearing a Cleveland Indians baseball cap and a red flannel shirt faded to a fleshy pink, one sleeve rolled
"Bill," he said at last. "Billy Clay." The officer was close enough for him to read the name tag on the shirt, which he wouldn't forget, to hear the threatening creak of the thick cop belt, which tickled the hairs of his amusement center.
"Kind of a kid's name, isn't it? You aren't a kid, are you, Mr. Clay?"
He shrugged, goofy-faced.
The driver called out from the idling car, did George need any help out there? No, George did not.
"You want to empty your pack, please."
He leaned down and brusquely dumped onto the wet concrete, the dark puddles, a semester's worth of college textbooks, some wadded clothes, some packaged food, a pathetic pile of sophomore junk. The polished black toe of the state poked among Introduction to Western Civilization, Othello, Modern Biology. "You know there's no hitchhiking permitted on the interstate."
"I wasn't hitching."
The officer picked up General Accounting and read on the inside cover: B. Clay. He tossed the book back onto the pile. "What's this?" Nudging a squat metal container.
"Sterno can."
"This?"
He peered, as if examining the object for the first time. "Rubber mouse," he said.
The officer watched him. "All right, I'm not even going to ask." The officer stepped to one side. "Okay, Mr. Clay, would you mind assuming the position, please?"
He came forward, planted his feet, and leaned out over the warm hood inches from the smoking driver behind the windshield with shiny Raisinet eyes, under damp clothes flesh cringing at the touch of another's hands, the blue ice and baby powder scent of the officer's cologne. He endured.
The officer stopped and stepped back. "Thank you, Mr. Clay. Please retrieve your personal items and I'll tell you what my partner and I are gonna do. We go on down the road now to the Valetown exit, where we turn around and come back, and when we do we expect that you and your yo-yo will be gone from our highway. Don't disappoint us."
The officer stared back at him as if unbroken sight were a singular expression of will, the truest form of comprehension, the movement beneath the skin of their faces mirrored closely, face to face. A moment lengthened, thinned, broke apart into something new, less dangerous, a crediting of the unacknowledged in one another. The officer touched the brim of his cap and returned to the waiting cruiser, where he said something to the driver, who laughed until both laughed, watching him collect his belongings, restuff a tattered University of Florida backpack he slung over one rounded shoulder, to head out into the driving rain. But when the lingering patrol car at last glided on by, taillights slowly dissolving in the black solution of night, he turned around and went back, went back for that knife.
The empty light of dawn found him posted with extended arm on the grade of an approach ramp. A fine mist blew down out of the clotted sky; the sealed cars hurried past, regular as the motion of the wipers scraping at their windshields, the sound of tires on wet pavement like tape being ripped off a bandage. The pads of his fingers were drained and puckered, and the nail of the thumb he offered the world this gray morning was gnawed to the quick and badly tarnished, a chip of metal, indifferently applied. He had maintained his station through hours of clammy darkness and heedless traffic and was neither surprised nor grateful when a gleaming tanker, clean as the milk it carried, slid to a long sighing halt simply for him. He trotted up to the cab, where the door was flung open on a driver leaning across a cracked leather seat and inviting him to "hop in" over the pounding bass of an elaborate stereo system.
The driver was wearing a Cleveland Indians baseball cap and a red flannel shirt faded to a fleshy pink, one sleeve rolled
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