“Now we’re getting somewhere.” I said. “Now we’re getting all sorts of somewhere.”
Really I was deluding myself. The YUGO hadn’t worked in weeks, and there was very little chance I would move from the Super 8 parking lot without the assistance of a tow truck. Still, as I sat back in the driver’s seat, thumbing the felt lined steering wheel to the beat of Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome,” I knew Connecticut had yet to get the best of me.
In my mind I was already halfway to Nebraska. In my mind, the cracks in the asphalt melted together as my tires rode past. Of course, in my mind I also hadn’t spent February in Milford. And in reality, I still had to figure out some way to pay my already mounting motel bill before I could go anywhere.
Also there was a doctor. He wouldn’t tell me his name, but he seemed decent enough, so I let him hang out in my car.