I pulled into the rural gas station and then along side one of the pumps and stopped. I opened my door and stepped out into the wet air. The forlorn voice of Hank Williams implored me as it rose, once more, from it's loamy home and settled in the air and spread across the pavement.
A man, in faded jeans camouflage tee shirt and Hog ball cap, on the other side of the pump island worked his windshield with a squegee with the same obsessiveness as a sleep walking Lady Macbeth.
He finished and then walked to the back of his truck and opened the large bed mounted tool box and exclaimed, " Whooo-wee, talk about one more for the road", then reached in and fetched out a half emptied gallon bottle of whiskey, raised it to his lips, took a long draw, put the bottle back, got into his truck and drove off. And Hank kept singing.

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© Rex Lisman