Across the Tracks

Six, seven farmers sitting around a cluster of metal tables in a roadside diners’ back room. Talk swerves to local gossip. One of the younger guys, cap back on his head, says to no one: “Drivin’ up 130 the other night I near rode up on Larry’s truck, the hay bales were hanging so low over the lights. He was so dark it was like he weren’t even there.” Another guy chimes in. “He was dark alright, but he was lit up too.” A few chuckles percolate out of the old timer by the door. “Remember when Larry was with that lady? Where she from, up in Nashville? Her hand in his wallet all the time.  When she got him to dye his hair and he came in with the whole thing black? I mean coal black.” The men laugh. The old-timer: “I’ll remember that morning the rest of my days, I tell ya. I had to look away to keep from laughing. His whole head, tar black. Sideburns, ‘stache, the whole show. Dang near lost it.” I’ve had enough. But as I step out into the morning chill, one of the guys ends his story with, “You can let me off any time.” All the way across the tracks and nearly the whole way to my car, I hear the men laughing.