Hammerhead Ranch Motel

Jethro took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. “A man must sometimes summon patience when there is no reward for doing so.”

“And no Hemingway in here either!” said the old man.

As the clerk talked, Art noticed he had clumps of hair sprouting like pods of lichen from unexpected anatomy, and he knew it would be an image he would have trouble shaking.

“You wa

The sound of the old man’s voice became softer and softer inside Art’s head until there was no sound at all-just his lips moving. Art’s stare tightened to tu

“Hey! What’s wrong with your friend?” the clerk asked Jethro. “He’s actin’ kinda weird. I don’t think I like how he’s lookin’ at me… Both of you, outta here!”

They backed out of the store like gunslingers retreating from a hostile saloon.

Jethro turned to Art in the car. “There are many roads to dignity, and one is called character-”

“Just drive,” said Art.

Jethro pulled back onto U.S. 19 and Art turned on the radio.

“Hey, boys and girls, this is Boris the Hateful Piece of Sh-AHH-OOOO-GAH! reminding those of you who are old enough to hit the ballot box to make sure you vote yes on Proposition 213…”

“What’s this about?” asked Art.

“Foreign immigrants are taking away your jobs and sponging off your tax dollars! It’s time we stood up for America and put a stop to it!”

“Intolerant bastard!” said Jethro. “When I was in Spain for the civil war-”

“Shhhh!”

As Art listened to Boris, his eyes locked on the radio, and his gaze went to tu

C ity and Country could feel they were getting close.

They were eastbound, driving through the backroads of Florida without streetlights. The night wind was too cold and they had the convertible top up. They hadn’t seen another car in miles; Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska tape was in the stereo on low. State Road 16 was narrow and empty, and they rode high beams as they crossed girders over the St. Johns River at five A.M. Twelve miles later, they saw something bright and green in the distance that said they were out of the woods. The on-ramp sign for Interstate 95. They caught the highway below Jacksonville and headed south.

They soon passed the last St. Augustine exit. The stars were gone and the black sky was replaced with dark blue. By Palm Coast, daybreak was definitely on the way, and they crossed over to the seaside A1A highway. At a stoplight, the pair threw the latches; Country turned around and stood in her seat as she pushed the convertible top back. They were in twilight, and they couldn’t distinguish where ocean left off and sky began. They kept glancing left, and a thin red line soon defined the horizon.

When they hit Daytona, they drove right out on the sand. The early-bird beer-fu

“Shit,” muttered an impressed biker three stools down, and turned back to a conversation with a hit man. City studied a photograph over the bar. Three smiling bikers with their arms over each other’s shoulders. Underneath was a plaque: “In memoriam. Stinky, Cheese-Dick and Ringworm. Killed by yuppies.”

The door opened and a flabby insurance type with an untucked polo shirt stood frozen in the doorway with a Tipper Gore wife. Both looked like deer in headlights-one of the moments where someone knows they’re in the wrong place, but they don’t know which is worse, ru

But there was a difference between fearless and dumb…take the Georgia Tech theology student in a Hog’s Breath T-shirt and the English major from the University of Te

“Mailer might do a drive-by?”

“He’s got the temperament.”

“But he can’t do this,” said Sammy, and he stuck a full longneck beer in his mouth and raised it in the air without hands and drained it. Then he opened his mouth, and the empty bottle fell and bounced off the bar.

Three Latin men in sharp suits came in the door, and the bikers picked up their beers and cleared out of the way. The three sat down next to Joe and Sammy, who were trying to balance small stacks of quarters on their noses.

City and Country were getting a little blitzed. They ordered more whiskey and smoked cigarettes like amateurs.

Soon the Latin men left the bar, and Joe and Sammy looked around the place and spotted the two women.

“Oh, no!” said City. “They’re coming over here!”

“Hi, girls! Mind if we join you?”

“Yes.”

Joe and Sammy sat down.

The guys talked nonstop for twenty minutes while the girls faked yawns and tapped their watches. “So that’s the deal,” said Joe. “These three Latin guys are paying us to drive their Lexus across the state, and they’re even throwing in a couple of motel rooms on the beach. We just need someone to drive our car. What d’ya say?”

City talked real slow and a

“Cuz then we can’t drink beer and party on the way over,” Sammy said like it was obvious. “It wouldn’t be a roadtrip.”

“Who were these guys with the Lexus?”

“Great guys!…” said Sammy. “What were their names?”

City looked out the side window at their Alfa Romeo. A police cruiser drove by slowly, then stopped and backed up.

“Please, you gotta come with us,” said Sammy.

The officer got out and started walking around the Alfa.

“On second thought, it’s not such a bad idea,” said City. “Where’s your car?”

“Right across the street.” Sammy pointed. “When can you leave?”

“How ’bout right now?”