A plastic bag hanging from a radio knob held balled-up wax paper from a variety of fast-food places. Two empty cans of Coke occupied the cup holders in the console. “It looks like you do a lot of eating on the run,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound like criticism. “Yeah,” he said as I buckled up. “Excuse the mess. My wife won’t go near this car. She says it stinks. I cleaned it up for you. Not too bad now, huh?” “As a method of transportation, it’s perfect,” I said, pressing a button to roll down the window. “You don’t need air-conditioning?” he asked as the car started with a groan of protest and rumbled to life. “I’m fine without it.” “Where you from? Florida?” “No,” I said, laughing. “I’m from Maine, all the way up the East Coast, the last state before Canada.” “Never been there.
