Harris was humiliated. He needed to get out of the whole situation. He had an ex-wife in Glendive, but where was she now? Belgrade? Miles City? He found her, finally, in Metairie—she had taken 94 east and then 55 south and pulled over when she had no more reasons to drive. Jacopo, her gentleman, had no idea where she was, and that was good enough for her. She called him to tell him so. Jacopo passed the news along wildly to a clutch of friends, including Dave, Diane, Gerald, Oliver Tolliver, Lil’ Liza Jane, and Richard Stinchcombe. Stinchcombe knew exactly where she was. He had run away with her there one weekend, tugged a shirttail in Lafreniere Park. He kept her secret from all save for Harris. Like recognized like. “You’ll have to drive all night, see,” said Stinchcombe. Harris saw. He shuttered his businesses, the restaurant, the kung fu school, and took off running down the street to his avocado-green Cutlass, the one with a skew-whiff headlight, the gas sot. By his count he was only nine hours from Noelia, which meant that he was only nine hours and fifteen minutes from salvation. He turned the key, felt the Cutlass come to life, lit out for love.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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