Prodigal Blues Read Free Page B

side, one on the passenger's side, and two side doors with directly opposing handles; neither of these doors slid open, mind you, they opened outward like a pair of metal wings.   Once inside you could relax in the comfort of the bucket seats in front and fold-down padded seats in the middle and rear.
    I hadn't seen one of these in decades, which is why it caught my attention, but what made it really perfect was that this blindingly silver VW Microbus was hauling an equally-bright silver Airstream trailer; they looked like a pair of antique covered butter dishes making a run for it.
    The VW slowed as it passed me, and for a moment I saw the passenger:   a little girl of perhaps nine or ten, with blonde hair, big eyes, and a killer smile.   She gave me a little wave, then was gone.
    As I watched the twin butter dishes move onward, I noticed a break in the traffic from both directions.   For about two minutes I was standing beside a completely empty stretch of highway, and something about it struck me as funny at first—after all, it's usually during scenes like this in half-assed science fiction movies that a spaceship lands to set loose the intergalactic proctologists on the unsuspecting schmuck who's in a similar situation—but then it got eerie in a hurry, because I realized that at this moment, in this place, right now, this second, nobody—
    — nobody knew where I was; not only that, but I had no way of letting anyone know.
    If a mysterious Lovecraftian something-or-other was going to snatch me out of the world so my name could be listed along with those of Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, and the guy who invented the water engine, this would be the time to do it.
    Sounds silly now, but believe me, there wasn't a damn thing funny about it for those one-hundred-and-twenty seconds I was by myself out there.   Consider this:   how many times over the course of a week do you find yourself in transit from one place to another without anyone knowing exactly where you are for however long it takes to get from point "A" to point "B"?   You pop out for a pack of smokes and don't tell anyone; you run to the store for eggs or milk and don't leave a note; you head over to the Post Office to mail out some bills after the family's asleep.   Stop and really think about it—like I did during those two minutes—and you might be left a bit anxious by the total.   I figured there were about six hours (give or take) during any given week when I was not only alone (regardless of the size of your crew, janitorial work is mostly solitary), but completely out of reach with or from anyone (say, when moving between buildings).
    The realization was, for me, anyway, incredibly creepy.
    I was so relieved when cars started reappearing that I didn't mind their drivers ignoring me.   I promised myself to buy a cell phone as soon as I got home.   Tanya could gloat all she wanted.
    I'd been standing there for about half an hour, resigned to spending the rest of my days in this very spot, when a Missouri State Trooper pulled over.
    "Good morning," he said, approaching me slowly.   I could see his partner back in the cruiser talking into the radio microphone.
    "Boy, am I glad you came by."   I read his name-tag— L. Murphy —and then saw my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses; even I thought I looked suspicious.
    He gave the car a once-over and slowly shook his head.   "You be offended if I said I'm not surprised that this thing broke down on you?   Looks like—"   He leaned in for a closer look, then made a hmph! sound.   "—like a bad primer job, for one thing."   He scratched at a small section of paint.   It came right off, revealing the red underneath.   "We've be seeing a lot of this around here lately.   Got some boys from a Kansas City chop-shop been stealing cars and giving 'em a quick facelift.   'Course we ain't got 'em all , yet, but we're working on it."
    This was more information than I needed.   He wasn't just