The highway had morphed to six lanes while Jimmy slept. A solid mid-week morning rush funneled vehicles closer, tighter, like a prophecy of the cityscape ahead. He kept his thumb in the air. Then he’d walk backward to lift his other one to coax a ride. The back and forth lasted through puffs of diesel fumes and horns ascending and descending as they passed.

A discarded tote box beyond the rumble strip was as good as a bench. He sat and loosened his Allstars to massage the skin under the shoe’s tongue. The molasses cookies had thawed and brought life to his nose and tastebuds. With forearms on knees, he chewed and paused between bites, garnering thoughts. The passing vehicles blurred time and set him trance-like.   

A double tap of a horn got him blinking, and he jumped up to see someone pull off about fifty yards beyond. He slid the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed the paper bag, and walked toward the car at a brisk pace.

It was a generic silver four door. The plate read SIO-Kent and had the Mackinaw Bridge as a background image. The emergency flashers came on and moments later a man in a crisp shirt and tie headed to the back and popped the trunk.

“Good morning, you can toss what you like in here.”

“Thank you.”

“The seat’s cleared off for you. Hop in.”

Jimmy threw his pack in, screwed his cap tighter, and ducked in the front seat, brown paper bag in hand. The man combed his hair with his fingers as he slid in.

“Happy Wednesday, I’m Kent.”

“Jimmy. Appreciate ya. A lot of odd looks out there. People laying on their horns. I even got a McDonald’s cup thrown at me.”

“No problem. I thought hitchhikers didn’t exist anymore. The State Police would have given you a ride eventually. Maybe it’s different in Indiana, but they’ll pick you up in Michigan. The interstate is only for vehicles and suicidal deer.”

Got a talker this time.

“As they say, Jimmy, where you headed?”

He extended his finger at the windshield. “That away.”

“Makes sense so far.”

Jimmy stole glances at his makeshift cab driver. Grey full hair, clean shaven, and hazel eyes with   bags underneath. He was a thin kind of ‘suit’ which equaled an ambitious office drone in Jimmy’s mind.

“To or from, Jim?”

“Huh? It’s Jimmy.”

“Jimmy, are you heading to or running from somewhere?”

“Yeah,” he said and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Right. Good one.” Kent tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. “Pick one. Just for fun.”

Jimmy adjusted his seat and dreads. “Okay. First tell me why a suit like you would pick up a guy like me?”

Kent loosened his paisley tie as if prying off a choke hold. “I don’t know. Either it was the dreads reminding me of an old friend or the high-end jeans you’re sporting. You paid extra for those holes, right?”

Jimmy rubbed his hand across one of the barren places above the knee. “Got them at a thrift shop.” He looked ahead. “Where to or where from? Pick one, eh?”

“Yes, it’s a place to start, or we could listen to talk radio.”

Jimmy flinched. “I suppose where from is all right, because I have no solid clue where I’m going.”

“Except that way, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m going as far as Cedar Rapids. It’s closer to ‘no solid clue’.”

“My aunt jukes words like you.” Kent kept on with the subtle movement of the wheel this way and that. Jimmy’s face tightened. “Old Aunt June…  She’d mess with them. Words. Flip ‘em back at you. Her conversations were like playing pickleball. She’d find the angle to swat what you said right past you, just out of reach.” His countenance relaxed with a smirk.

“Funny, words are what bring in the dinero for me. I always have the scalpel on the ready for dissection.”

“Dissection?”

“Yes, slice and dice, turn a phrase, you know.”

This old man is going to keep talking. Must not get out much. Oh well, better than AM radio.

“So, Kent. Are you always on high alert in conversations?”

“More like low alert. I learned years ago that sorting everything a person says and returning the volley with a jocular reiteration didn’t make many friends.”

“Huh?”

“I was mostly listening to show off my skills of manipulating words and phrases. That’s not healthy listening. It’s more reactive than active. Most people want to know they’ve been heard, not played.”

“Interesting.”

 “But, there are times when bantering words around is welcome. Thursday morning coffee with the guys leads to conversations which morph into stand-up comedy.”  

“Heh. Okay. I’m picking up what you’re laying now. Funny. A time for everything, right?”

“Yes, word play is not in that particular list, but it’s inferred.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

Kent took his tie off and tossed in in the backseat, with other tossed things. “I’m a columnist for a paper in Ann Arbor. 500 words a week, so I need to be cutting edge or I’m back to managing a restaurant. I supplement with some freelance work, and a rare speaking engagement.”

“Does your column have a name?”

“Spit it Out.”

“Right…For real?”

“Have you ever taken a bite of something expecting a certain flavor? When I was a punk camp counselor, the first time in the dining hall they set out bowls of vanilla pudding. They were evenly spaced down the center of each table. I cut my teeth on pudding, so when no one was looking I stole a big spoonful and…”

“And?”

“It was mayonnaise.”

“Sick. What’d ya do?”

“Spit it out.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Of course. Duh.”

“I could have swallowed the fake mayo my mom dished out, but the real stuff was nauseating.”

“‘Spit It Out?’ That’s the column?”

“Yes. Byline: Kent Spalding.”