Blanche Dubois

The bum was back . He nodded to her and sat a few feet away. He was a little crazy but had always been kind to her in his way. Sometimes he told her what Nebraska was like. Tonight he told her what the bus driving by told him. He didn't seem bothered she couldn't hear it. Her feet were cold, her jaw hurt and her eye was throbbing. Gingerly, she felt the coming bruise and winced. The bum was laughing and mumbling; he had forgotten she was there. She drank the last warm dregs of the beer the trucker had given her and crushed the can on the curb. A cruiser pulled into the parking lot and she tensed. The bum didn't seem to notice.

The cop parked right in front of her and she closed her eyes against the headlights. He came around the trunk, greeted the bum by name, and stood in front of her. “You don't look so good.” She avoided eye contact. “You gonna be okay?” he tried again. Silently, she nodded. “You eat today?” he asked. She shrugged. Frustrated with her sullen refusal, he moved past her and into the 7-11. When he came out, he dropped tinfoil coated bags into each of their laps. She and the bum tore into dry yet greasy, tastelessly fried chicken. She looked at the cop, her eyes thanking him. The bum only grunted and sucked the bones. Having done the best he could and gotten his free coffee refill, the cop left.

A pick up truck pulled in and backfired. Leaving the engine running, a guy hopped out. His long legs were clad in faded Wrangler jeans.
He was singing along with Willie Nelson's recording of The City of New Orleans:

Half way home, we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness
Rolling down to the sea.
And all the towns and people seem
To fade into a bad dream

His shit kickers rang against the concrete; the bell on the door announced his arrival. He came out, picked up the song right off, his voice clear and accented. He crouched in front of her; acne had once ravaged his otherwise handsome face. The song ended and the sudden stillness was jarring. “You should call your mama. Or your daddy. That has to be better than this.”

“Mister," she said. “You have no idea.”

He cocked his head at the idling Ford. “Get in then.”

She stood slowly, handed the bag with the picked over chicken bones to the bum, and climbed into the truck. As the truck roared out of the lot, the bum sang, in a voice surprisingly sweet, “I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.”