Maybe twenty vehicles blew past me during my long wait. The Dixie Highway was remarkably quiet back then. (I-95 now parallels it a few miles or so to the west). Finally, I saw an old car, maybe a mid-50s black Chrysler, start to slow down as it approached me. When it came to a stop, I saw that this old rattle-trap was full of middle-aged, poorly attired men, who looked as if they may have last smiled on V-E Day. I leaned toward the driver from the passenger side window, to ask how far he was going. The man looked at me and I almost turned and ran into the swamps. He was short and stocky, maybe in his 50s, and he looked like a retired prize fighter with a really dismal losing record. Life had been hard for this man. In addition, his face was covered with deeply carved knife scars. His cheeks and forehead, even his nose, looked like a highway map. There were more intersecting, overlapping cuts than there was remaining skin.
But I was hot and tired and oddly, when I glanced at the other men in the car— there was one guy in the front passenger seat and two more in the backseat — they looked as scared as I was when I first laid eyes on the driver. And none of them had the same malevolent look that Scarface had, so I decided, what the hell, if they’re okay with him, I’m probably being unfair. Maybe he was in the war. We should all try not to be so judgmental, based on someone’s personal appearance…right?
