Out of the Mist

After three hundred twenty some miles of rainy highway driving I pulled into a brightly lit urban convenience store to gas up and finish my journey. I was tired, beyond tired, having slept only a few hours after a solstice party the night before. My eyes were dry from too much caffeine and too many miles and I did not trust them to fully deliver the truth of what I was seeing. So it was that I wondered if it were really J. when a man emerged from the shadow behind the dumpster. He walked the walk of a man beaten: hunched, stiff, uneven gait, eyes shooting from side to side. I saw recognition bloom in his eyes as he surveyed the car, a car he had driven many times to make parole meetings or other errands. That was before craving overtook the need for shelter, work, friends, love. He stopped by the driver's window and peered in at me. I rolled the window down. Hello J. I said. What's up he said. Back from a long trip. He nodded at that. You doing OK? I said. Great, he said, ironic bitterness rising at the edges of his smile. Just great. Yeah, I said. Nobody is these days. I have some brand new sauce pans and cast iron griddle if you want to buy them, he said. I said no and put the car in gear. It would be nice to have some spare change, he said, as the window went up and we drove off into the night, windshield wipers going hard.