Los Angeles. Why do you want to go to Los Angeles? the driver asked the passenger in the backseat. Think you’re going to be a movie star? he looked in the rear view mirror. Never been there. Isn’t that funny. I’ve lived in Sacramento all my life, but I’ve never been to Los Angeles, he laughed. She remained quiet. You’re pretty enough to be a movie star, a semi passed. You got that classic look. Like Bacall or Ava Gardner. Frank Sinatra used to sleep with Ava Gardner. Ava Gardner used to sleep with everybody, the driver laughed, she pulled out a razor blade, and began slashing her wrists under her jacket. Blood began to soak into her jeans. You don’t talk much, he said. Just kind of quiet? Shy? Your red-hair is pretty. Nice and long. You know, there’s boys with long hair these days. Can’t tell them apart from the girls, he smiled back at the teen. I can tell them apart, he snickered. Oh yeah. I can tell them apart.

The car kept cruising along the highway. Signs for gas stations on the side of the road. Amoco, BP, Exxon Mobil. Convenience Stores like 7-11 shined in the night.

You want some coffee? Gotta go to the bathroom? he asked her. She nodded her head. Sure don’t say much.

He parked on the side of the gas station. Left the motor running on the old station wagon. There was a cold breeze blowing. They both walked inside; him with a limp, and her with a Hello Kitty bag slung over her shoulder. He poured coffee and bought a pack of Kool cigarettes. She went to the restroom in the back.

The driver waited for her to come out. He lit cigarette after cigarette. Took great swigs of coffee. Turned on the radio to a Tonya Tucker song; sirens in the background, getting closer. A cop and an ambulance pulled up in front. He decided to just keep driving.