@explodingrattus;
"You need a ride?"
Gas station. Late. Parked up behind him is the ride in question. Lincoln Continental. Pink like chewed gum. Roof down. A takeout bag flutters across the lot in the slight wind. Kennedy's shades reflect it back twice emptily, like an unplugged CRT TV. He is three feet away from a 'NO SMOKING' sign and a cigarette is hanging between his fingers like it's glued there. A slushie in his hand drips condensation on the toes of his suede cowboy boots. A long shadow looms behind him.
"I gotchu, man. Don't sweat it. I don't expect gas grass or ass or nothin'. Though if you have some pot I can't lie I probably won't say no."
The kid sure looks trustworthy enough. He thinks 'kid', but the guy is tall, has a good couple inches on him. Vernon immediately trusts his freckled face and his fun shirt. And he likes company, especially on the road.
"My name's Vernon Kennedy." He opens the passenger-side door like a chauffeur. "Get in. I gotta warn you though, kid, I like to talk. One time I did Carson City to Henderson with these lost German tourists and I didn't shut up for like nine hours."
