1: Kris

Kris was feeling vulnerable as he crossed the state line.  He had his music player blowing out the playlist of favorite road tunes, his acoustic in the passenger seat, a new haircut that cost enough to make him feel a just little bit guilty, and he was feeling fragile.

A year ago everything was good; in hindsight, actually, it was so very good.  Kris had been a Youth Minister, and by all accounts, a really fine one.  He and that guitar in the next seat over (Sadie) had entertained, softened the hearts of, and generally Kum-bah-ya’d the young men and ladies of the Pillar non-denominational Christian Fellowship Church for the better part of the last decade.  He was beloved by his congregation, and he loved them.  He was in a band, did Habitat for Humanity, had the very latest everything put out by Apple, and for Christmas had received a one-year bottomless mug at the local coffee house (where, by the way, he was on a first-name basis with every barista in the joint).

Kris Whitlowe was a handsome young thirty-something mulatto dude.  He was trim and dressed in that shabby way that is in fact ultra-chic; which is to say, he bought his shirts at thrift stores, but declined to go on record about how much his shoes cost.  He wore his hair in a late-90’s Lenny Kravittz do: a medium length ‘fro, just on the verge of dreddin’ up.  One would be hard pressed to find a more well-rounded guy than Kris: he was a hipster, he was athletic, musical, knew the Bible backwards and forwards, and could joke with anyone in the church.  The white kids thought he was cool for having tattoos, and the black kids gave him a hard time saying that he was the only black man in the state that listened to Pearl Jam.  

But now, so quickly, that was all gone; that was a different life ago.  Now he was three days on the road, with every garment in his possession hanging from a rod in the backseat.  Now he was headed back to a place he never expected to live again, his hometown, Kensington.  “It’s a great place to visit,” Kris quipped to the infinity of white lines before him.  He was planning on being in Malawi in the spring, to dig wells.  Malawi!  Now he was headed to Kensington to crash with his Momma and, more presently, to see a dead person, neither of which had he wanted and both of which he had had to beg for.

Kris yelled one of those primal screams that you can only really accomplish on a lone expanse of highway; from the bottom of himself he cursed the universe at just under 70 miles per hour, “This suuuuuucks!”  He pounded the steering wheel and threw the remnants of a fish sandwich out the window.

Kris immediately felt bad about littering.  “Oh come on!” he scolded himself, not for littering, but for regretting it.  Kris made a u-turn and headed back what turned out to be a few miles, to chase down his greasy refuse.  Having tracked down his fish sandwich wrapper, accompanying bag and napkins, he leaned upon the hood of his Charger and felt like a fool.

His phone chirped at him, a text:  “You close?” 

Kris calledback.  “Hey, it’s me.  Yeah, I don’t know.  45 minutes probably. . . Listen, I’m beat.  I’ve been driving for three days.  I’m really fried.  I’m gonna grab a quick shower before I come over and wash some of the road off. . . Uh huh.  Well, how long will it be there?  Yeah . . .   No, I get it.  Nope, it’s cool.  I’ll be there.  Hold ‘em as long as you can, I’m on my way.”

Kris as a rule did not curse.  So as he got back into the Charger and tore off as fast as his conscience would allow, he simply said, “Expletive!”