The Dodge was old, dented and badly in need of a couple swipes with some Bondo. Still, it looked loved. Its driver and presumably owner, looked like he had been in the sun all day. I could almost smell the sweat and livestock on him, even from the confines of my own car. Stalks of wispy gray-blonde hair fell about his shoulders from underneath a stained gray felt hat. It might have been his nice, going-out hat at one point but now it was just a convenient way to block the sun. I watched him take it off and scrub the sweat from the back of his bald patch with a handkerchief and plop it back on.
As I pulled up next to him at the light, I could hear something by the Grateful Dead blaring out of his speakers. I think it was “Scarlet Begonias” but I’m not a huge fan so I couldn’t say for sure.