He used to get excited looking at all the lights on 80. Head lights, road lights, lights from restauraunts, colorful neon signs glowing in the dark, tail lights passing him by; flicking burnt cigarette butts out the windows; orange dots bouncing down the road.
On occasion he’d sing to himself. Old songs. Songs about beautiful losers, love affairs gone bad, and how the night is our only friend. He would mumble along as the radio played. Stations out of Chicago, Mishawaka, Elkhart, South Bend, came and went throughout the night as 80 became 69.
At three in the morning your mind plays tricks on you when your driving. Heading south to Auburn, Fort Wayne, Indy; driving mad, wanting it to end while at the same time needing it to continue. Looking at billboards for massage parlors, hotels, motels, gas at this exit, McDonald’s two miles up the road, the never ending cry for coffee. Lord how we pay for our sins.
And he’d look up at the moon. A sliver in the sky. No stars to guide him home cause he doesn’t have one. Just a Dodge pickup with a rusted bed, couple of colored quilts, and a book bag carrying, Moby Dick.
Oh Ahab. Where are you?