Page 154 of Wayfarers

through this Walmart parking lot party, man after man

turning their grizzled faces to glare at me, the buzzkill girl

breaking up their tailgate. I wish that was the worst of it, but no,

every few feet someone drags their charcoal grill

out of my way, a kid in the Metallica shirt flips me

the bird as my van gate-crashes his party. Ruining

everything. Halfway to tears (Sylvie, so fragile). Should I roll down

my window and apologize? Will they spit on me?

Maybe I deserve to be spit on. Knox obviously thought so,

had no problem watching from the bushes while

his pal Dawn the murder hippy struck me across the face.

Hundreds of miles he sat beside me, telling half-truths

about his entire existence. In this moment I don’t care

if I’m a hypocrite. I’m apologizing to no one now,

and when I finally get myself back onto the road,

onto this empty stretch of concrete between me

and the next stoplight, when there’s nothing and no one

for me to run down and kill, I relax just a little,

just enough that I’m surprised when the truck and I collide.

Knox

“’Munk?” A thin cry wafts over the din of the pre-eclipse revelers. “’Munk.”

I glance over my shoulder and see Dawn pointing, my mom at her side calling out, running toward me. My commitment to leaving my old life behind is not so great that I’m going to bolt across a crowded parking lot like a hunted rabbit with my mother in hot pursuit. I stop and turn.

Now it’s my turn to point at Dawn. “You don’t even remember her, do you.”

“Who?”

“That girl I was with at the store.”

“Should I?”

“You tried to rip her off. You hit her and pushed her down and hurt her.” My voice seethes.

“’Munk,” my mom says and moves to hug me.

I hold out my good hand to keep her at bay. “My name isn’t ’Munk. It’s Knox. Not that I want you knowing my real name.” I direct that last part to Dawn.

“What, is that chick your girlfriend?” Dawn’s lip curls in contempt.