It wasn’t hard to tell if the drivers were going to grift him (he had a total of six dollars and fifty-seven cents in his pockets… not worth the effort). Sometimes, though, people were just mean. He was careful. No need for problems when they could be averted.
He avoided pick-up trucks. Most times, they belonged to the tribe of Good Old Boys, those who painted their trucks with tar brushes and called it good. The beds usually smelled of slopped beer and deer urine, and there’d be an old truck battery in the corner. Gun rack hanging over the back window, loaded up just in case. Rear view mirror sitting on the dashboard. The truck cab probably littered with Coca-Cola bottles and Lone Star cans, and there’d be tobacco stains on either side of the driver’s door.
The Good Old Boys, they’d have cuts on their knuckles and a roll-your-own smoke tucked behind one ear. They always showed up in packs, and they all had matted neck hair and sideburns the color of axle grease.
Euart’s father called them knucklers. Sure enough, the Good Old Boys always ended up dragging their knuckles across pavement, picking up loose change for one more beer. Euart saw a lot of knucklers at the Handsome Hotel.
Excerpt from Ordinary Handsome. Available at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P46ZPA0
Free downloadable Kindle app also available.
Ordinary Handsome 