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BackRoads

BackRoads

ByVinnieRotondaro

Joe

pulled

up

in

a

red

Jeep

Cherokee,

put

the

car

in

park

and

let

the

engine

idle.

It

was

about

10:45

in

the

morning,

a

Friday.

Sam

arrived

a

few

minutes

later

fresh

off

of

the

subway,

duffle

bag

slung

over

his

back.

The

sun

was

clear

white

that

day

and

shining

down

hard.

It

was

almost

spring.

Joe

honked

the

horn,

and

when

Sam

spotted

the

car,

he

pointed

to

the

sky

and

started

walkiner.

Reaching

into

the

backseat,

Joe

popped

open

the

door

opposite

him

so

Sam

could

toss

his

stuff

in,

which

he

did,

shutting

the

door

and

climbing

into

the

front

seat.

Sam

and

Joe

clasped

pa

in

salutation.

Sam

was

wearing

ns,

a

n

jacket

and

some

boots.

Joe

was

in

grey

sneakers

and

a

blue

hoodie.

They

were

ready

to

roll.

The

two

were

on

their

way

to

Pittsburgh

from

New

York

City.

Sam

hated

rushing

things

and

insisted

that

they

take

back

roads.

Joe

was

in.

After

hing

their

way

through

the

Holland

Tunnel

and

cree

along

an

expanse

of

industrial

wasand

in

New

Jersey,

they

rolled

onto

a

tree‐lined

road

running

parallel

to

the

highway,

and

cruised

a

cool

60

per

hour

with

the

windows

down.

Eventually,

they

made

their

way

into

the

country.

Joe

found

the

historical

markers

that

dotted

the

sides

of

the

roadway

interesting—the

ones

next

to

old

colonial

stone

houses

and

scenic

graveyards,

and

the

like—and

every

now

and

then—this

was

a

decidedly

relaxed

ride—he

would

pull

over

to

read

them.

Somewhere

in

the

middle

of

Pennsylvania,

he

spotted

hat

was

about

an

old

bridge.

The

bridge

itself

could

barely

be

seen—a

thicket

of

barren

trees

obscured

it.

But

a