Away he went. He stopped for gas in Tucson, and bought a cheap little road atlas of the United States so he’d have at least some idea of what the hell he was doing. “Where you headed?” asked the man in the small building next to the pumps.

“Just driving. Kinda like Easy Rider, only without the drugs and the motorcycles.” Jerry looked out at his Corvair and laughed self-consciously.

“Still fun. Wish I could come along.” The gas station guy sounded wistful.

That it might be fun hadn’t occurred to Jerry. All he’d thought about was staying in one piece. He drove away with a new attitude. It lasted half an hour, maybe even forty-five minutes. After that, the drive turned back into work.

Lordsburg, New Mexico, made a lunch stop. He ate at a Burger King, where he knew exactly what he’d be getting. He stopped again for gas and the bathroom, then kept going till he came to El Paso. He found a motel near the interstate and had dinner at a Mexican place across the street. Mexican food in El Paso wasn’t the same as Mexican food in Los Angeles, but it was good. And the Dos Equis he washed it down with was heavenly.

As he had the night before, he crashed early and woke early. The Mexican restaurant wasn’t open yet, so he got scrambled eggs and sausage from the Golden Arches down the street. Then he hit the road again.

Texas was miles and miles of miles and miles, even more so than the I-5 boogie through California’s Central Valley. No one, locals or out-of-staters, paid any attention to the energy-saving speed limit. Jerry stayed in the slow lane on the I-10 and then the I-20. If people wanted to pass him, they could pass him. He passed trucks going even slower than he was. There were some.

Despite hurrying less than most people, he made Fort Worth before quitting for the day. That was around six hundred miles, not too bad if you were a lone driver. When he got to his motel room, the nightstand clock told him he’d traded mountain time for central somewhere east of El Paso.

He bought a steak for dinner, and enjoyed it. As he went back to the hotel, he realized he didn’t have to stay in cheap joints like this. He had plenty of bread for nice hotels. After one more step, he shook his head. He was willing to spend money to do what he had to do. He wasn’t willing to spend more than he had to.

“Well, shit,” he said out loud—no one was close enough to hear him. “I really am my father’s son.” It had been true all along, of course. He’d never realized it so intensely before, though.