Skidding rubber left a black trail on the asphalt as the rickety old pickup - the type one sees rolling down the road and wonders how in the world it maintains forward motion - slid to a stop. With the four wheels of the 1986 model now slightly askew to the highway's tidy parallel lines, the skid marks looked a bit like a child's cute attempt at showing of his skills with a black crayon. The road art, however, wasn't what drew the curse from the driver's lips.
"Dammit," Glenn said, rubbing at his chin with his right hand. "What are we 'posed to do now?"
"Maybe we can just keep going," Doc said from the passenger seat. "Just zip right by and pretend we didn't see it."
Glenn's eyes became tight slits, like the coin slots on a Coke machine, as he looked at his friend sitting shotgun. His mother had taught him to read 42 years earlier and - thought he was certainly no professor now - he'd had some education since that point. He knew this was not the type of thing you just go and ignore. His face, wrinkled from years long passed and weary from the hours they had already been on the road, turned red, like a home sporting the first coat of a new paint job.
"Keep going? Whaddaya mean, keep going?" Glenn's face shook back and forth to emphasize the close of each sentence. Combined with he crimson mask he wore, it made it appear that his head might actually explode. "Seems'ta me that things are pretty clear; we can't go not further. Seems'ta me that you were hollerin' 'Stop! Stop! Stop!' just the same as I was cussin' when we saw that from back down the road."
Doc, feeling like the time he had told Glenn that he thought the designated hitter was a bad addition to baseball, since it removed a lot of the managerial strategy from the game, attached his eyes firmly to what was left of the truck's floormat. Confrontation wasn't his thing. It was much easier to roll through life being agreeable. There were a lot more smiles that way. He was wrong about the DH, and he was probably wrong now.
But what if he wasn't? The thought bounced in his mind like a bunt off the top of home plate. His eyes still anchored to the floor mat. The pickup was silent, except for Conway Twitty's voice echoing from the radio speakers.
"What I mean is, what if we ain't reading that sign right? What if it don't really mean, 'Hey, stop here in the middle of the road.' I mean, the road keeps going, so why can't we?"
As the words escaped Doc's lips, the second coat of paint seemed to cover Glenn's face. "Do you think I'm an idiot or something? I know what it says and I know we can't go no further." Conway Twitty was no longer audible, as Glenn's diatribe boosted volume as he spoke. If there truly was an 11 on a volume dial somewhere, it may have been in Glenn's throat.
"You're probably right," Doc said, still studying the floor mat's tattered edges.
"I am right," Glenn said, cooling back down. Conway's lyrics gave way to those of Hank Williams as Glenn whipped the balding wheels in a U and headed back in the direction they had come from. As they sped back down the highway, a cloud of exhaust swept past the sight that had brought all to a stop in the first place.
The sign read: DO NOT PASS.
Today's moral: Always keep an open mind, and remember that misinterpretation can keep you from getting anywhere.
Bonus moral: Though paint chips may sound appetizing - perhaps even delicious - one should do all they can to avoid consumption.
"Dammit," Glenn said, rubbing at his chin with his right hand. "What are we 'posed to do now?"
"Maybe we can just keep going," Doc said from the passenger seat. "Just zip right by and pretend we didn't see it."
Glenn's eyes became tight slits, like the coin slots on a Coke machine, as he looked at his friend sitting shotgun. His mother had taught him to read 42 years earlier and - thought he was certainly no professor now - he'd had some education since that point. He knew this was not the type of thing you just go and ignore. His face, wrinkled from years long passed and weary from the hours they had already been on the road, turned red, like a home sporting the first coat of a new paint job.
"Keep going? Whaddaya mean, keep going?" Glenn's face shook back and forth to emphasize the close of each sentence. Combined with he crimson mask he wore, it made it appear that his head might actually explode. "Seems'ta me that things are pretty clear; we can't go not further. Seems'ta me that you were hollerin' 'Stop! Stop! Stop!' just the same as I was cussin' when we saw that from back down the road."
Doc, feeling like the time he had told Glenn that he thought the designated hitter was a bad addition to baseball, since it removed a lot of the managerial strategy from the game, attached his eyes firmly to what was left of the truck's floormat. Confrontation wasn't his thing. It was much easier to roll through life being agreeable. There were a lot more smiles that way. He was wrong about the DH, and he was probably wrong now.
But what if he wasn't? The thought bounced in his mind like a bunt off the top of home plate. His eyes still anchored to the floor mat. The pickup was silent, except for Conway Twitty's voice echoing from the radio speakers.
"What I mean is, what if we ain't reading that sign right? What if it don't really mean, 'Hey, stop here in the middle of the road.' I mean, the road keeps going, so why can't we?"
As the words escaped Doc's lips, the second coat of paint seemed to cover Glenn's face. "Do you think I'm an idiot or something? I know what it says and I know we can't go no further." Conway Twitty was no longer audible, as Glenn's diatribe boosted volume as he spoke. If there truly was an 11 on a volume dial somewhere, it may have been in Glenn's throat.
"You're probably right," Doc said, still studying the floor mat's tattered edges.
"I am right," Glenn said, cooling back down. Conway's lyrics gave way to those of Hank Williams as Glenn whipped the balding wheels in a U and headed back in the direction they had come from. As they sped back down the highway, a cloud of exhaust swept past the sight that had brought all to a stop in the first place.
The sign read: DO NOT PASS.
Today's moral: Always keep an open mind, and remember that misinterpretation can keep you from getting anywhere.
Bonus moral: Though paint chips may sound appetizing - perhaps even delicious - one should do all they can to avoid consumption.
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