A Ruff Draft

The land was flat along the highway. All around it was grass, greyish-yellow grass that reminded him of Iowa, reminded him of why he left Iowa. The old pick up he was driving looked more rust than automobile and the radio was on the fritz again. You would never have been able to tell where he was. To be completely honest he was quite sure where he was, but he was away from it. All of it.

Clint's cigarrett was burnign down fast. It was his last one. And with no radio, not heater, and no company, he needed something to take his mind off of what he was doing. The highway was sparse with traffic and clint liked it that way. It was lazy, coming and going, though he was only going at the moment. He wasnt coming to anything, just going somewhere.

A white moving van passed him on the right. Clint looked at the driver. He was a built man, mid forties possibly. He was smoking what looked to me a rather large joint, and nodded to Clint as he passed. It wasnt an angry nod, though it wasnt a very hospitable nod either. It just was what it was. Everything just was what it was.

The note he had left didnt say much, he wanted to keep it vague, for the sake of all things. It was what it was: a goodbye note. The details he purposely left out would be discovered by his parents perhaps. Most likely not. They were good people, he loved them, but he knew what he needed. His friends wouldnt understand why now. Things there were good for him. He was young, fit, and fairly attractive. People liked him, he was polite to strangers, held doors open for women of all ages, and called men sir, or Mr.

His friend knew him to be spontaneous. They knew that he would do this one day. But they had wrongfully assumed that he would need an excuse to do it. An excuse to leave home.

"The world is a big place," he had told them once, "If I'm going to see all of it, I better start now."

So here he was on a highway that he couldnt name, in a state he couldnt place and in a truck he didnt rightfully own. Next to him on the seat was a duffle bag with 3 pairs of pants, 4 pair of socks, 4 shirts, 6 pair of underwear, and 2 sweat shirts. He had his tooth brush, his deoderant, and a cassette tape of Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin Bob Dylan. His single subject red notebook had slid to the floor during a fast turn; the pen stuck into the ringlets. His Nikon 35mm camera was safely kept in the overside glove compartment. His Zippo lighter was on the dashboard. The light was black, shiny and worn.

The highway stretched out in front of him, but at the moment he needed cigarettes.