In tough times, free is a good thing. Often though, there are strings attached to free, which make it actually cost.
With his responsibilities behind him, and 4-5 days ahead, he took to the road in pursuit of that warm morning sun found on that stretch of isles called the Keys. He had a tent, gear, a cooler, cash, books, and time. He was racing the chill, and chasing the centerline.
Remember how it feels to have your white winter face absorb that warm morning sun, and the natural absence of shoes, as the sand scrapes your feet clean.
The energy flow when racing the latitudes against the clime is sublime. The flow is effortless as long as you have the right music and access to gas station food. For these two variables we all are unique. To him, the music was fuel, and the food just filled the gaps.
It was Christmas morning; he had been driving all night since tucking in his two bright lights, with sweet smiles, under momma's safe umbrella. Somewhere outside Nashville he pulled in for unmet needs. After navigating the empty station he arrived at the counter to exchange pleasantries and currency. The gap-toothed gent behind the counter, wishing he were home, spoke up first, “I got a Christmas deal for you buddy.” “Oh yeah, what's that,” he countered. “Dem dogs in the steam box are free” he exclaimed. “Free is good”, is all he could come up with.
On closer inspection, the hotdogs looked pretty gray. The grate had long stopped rotating, although the dogs still had a little sweat on em. “Free is free” after all.
It took till darn near The Macon-Dixon line before he started finding out how free can actually cost a fella. He has never liked Georgia since that fateful night of endless roadside squats. He eventually slept it off while parked on a side road. He woke mid morning in his bag full of chill. He had been sweating like a grey dog in a steam box.
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