The Beginning
The opening paragraph of the story I began writing two nights ago:
That morning, I took a shower, shaved, and put on my favorite pair of Levi’s, a plain white t-shirt, and my suede work boots. I put a box of Camel cigarettes and a lighter into one pocket. In the other, I put all the money I had: a dollar bill and eighty-five cents in change. I lifted my pack into the trunk of a friend’s car without saying goodbye to anyone, without even a note. On the side of the highway on the Northern edge of the city, I lifted it back out, and watched as my friend pulled away, turned around, and disappeared back into the urban landscape. From my pack, I grabbed the rectangle of cardboard I’d secured before the ride over and used a fathead Sharpie to write out the word FLAGSTAFF. And there I stood, on the shoulder of the nearly deserted I-17 highway, anxious to find out if all I’d read about hitchhiking would be as true for me as it was for all those who had gone before.
