On an Off-Ramp
J Corn
A decision has to be made. It’s as simple as that. In front of me about twenty yards and slightly down a sloping hill The Bullett Lounge sign switches off like the erasure of a lightning strike’s ghost trail in the midst of a storming night, though the sky was clear. Away in space the stars twinkled so vividly in the cloudless night, and I knew it had to be really cold out there what with the wind scouring the hard asphalt. The light hasn’t changed. I’ve been here for way too long for just one cycle through the familiar red-green-yellow-red.
I’m beginning to grow uncomfortable, really. The heat has come on finally. This old heap takes its time getting on-line in weather like this. My jacket is tightened up close around my neck and the lined gloves keep my hands warm. In a moment of suspicion I check the backseat to be sure that my luggage is in place. Then I lock the doors and insure the windows are up tight.
He’s looking at me. I’m sure of it now. Out there in the frigid winter’s chill, nothing more than a threadbare sixth-hand jacket to shield him from the nightmare of that scourge-like zephyr. He stares and hopes for some show of compassion.
I turn up the heat a little, aware of the chill even through all the layers protecting me from the outside. I turn up the volume on the in-dash cd player. In my pocket is my last twenty. I pull it from my pocket and fold it up into a thin strip. After pondering the little scrap of paper -- a tiny bit of shaped pulp endowed with so much value, power.
After what seemed like an eternity the light blissfully verdured. On the deserted street I hesitated. I put the car in park and opened the door. I reached out and handed the twenty to the man who sat, hunched, on the sidewalk in the frigid December night. Then I got in my car and drove away.
