Nonfiction | July 16, 2014
Too Late for the Summer of Love
The guy behind the wheel was really drunk, and getting drunker by the minute, which was probably the only reason he’d stopped to give me a ride in the first place. Against his better judgment, he told me over and over again, hitchhikers always in his experience lowlifes and losers. He leaned into the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield as he steered us unsteadily between honking onrushing traffic and the road’s meager shoulder on the right: the two feet of loose gravel that separated us from a long fatal fall straight into the Pacific Ocean.
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