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First day of July I was thumbing the Caneville Road. I'd walked off another of Brother's clean-up jobs, mine sludge up to my pant pockets, throat raw, hands itching and broke out. For eight dollars an hour I told him I couldn't do it. Told him I'd walk back to Canard. He didn't like it and called me an ugly name, but I told him I'd make it up to him, and at the time I thought I would. I got my first ride from a black-headed man in a Chevy pickup. He set me out at the Caneville bridge, and I stood there a good while, 'til a heavyset preacher picked me up, but he got a flat before we got to Pic-Pac and had to call his wife to bring the spare, so I went in Pic-Pac and got me a Popsicle, come out, started walking. I'd walked a half mile, I guess, when a fellow stopped, kind of had the crazy eye, so I told him I'd just wait, and he gunned his silver Buick across the double yellow line into a red Ford heading the other way. When the Buick hit him, the Ford
Southern Cultures – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Oct 26, 2016
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