fringe
fueling speculation—1
A last-minute impulse routes me to Columbus OH via a nostalgic twist: retracing an initial random deviation through Hancock NY.
Thirty years before, I was on the Southern Tier for the first time. A billboard stating simply Deerskin Coats forced me to exit. The small storefront shop was manned by a golden years outfitter with just one question: “Fringe or no fringe?” About five minutes later, I was back behind the wheel without fringe. Like a blink, the windows are down now as I roll in again — it’s warm for the season. The jacket is benched on the backseat. I don’t really expect to find the shop this time — no billboard anymore & odds on the shopkeeper, surely retired or interred. A drive-through breaks even without any kind of wistful resolution.
Back on course, I note a rogue $2.95/gal in an interstate minefield of $3.41s. The exit is slow, construction leading to flaggers & intermittent bottleneck one-ways — a price-bribe lure to make the holdup worth it. The gamble pays off. Prices shoot back up past the on-ramp. Everyone merges a winner.
Driving into the sun, the sky is scarred in such short-lived streaks. I land at a BUF 2-star, checked-in by a tie-dyed sup. Dusk planes wink high, circling the airport. First floor rooms are taken by highway workers, gathered in small clusters near backed-in company trucks with tailgate ice chests. I park between two nearly matching, new sports coups, betting that the owners will be alert for overnight shenanigans.
The door is weeping . . .
. . . at a Mo6 moon.
