The Gardens of Digby Green: Lead Foot
When Green left the restaurant lot, he turned in the direction that would bring him to the Interstate 80 on-ramp. Ray ignored the last swallow of coffee in his paper cup, and pressed the Chrysler’s accelerator. He let two other drivers exit ahead of him, but he could still see Green.
The next intersection’s red light halted both Ray and Digby. It changed, and one driver shifted into a turn lane, leaving a gap. Ray accelerated into it.
Digby had a lead foot, which suited Ray. Highway speeds would be good for his Rose’s Imperial. What wasn’t as pleasant were Green’s musical choices. The guy drove with his elbow sticking out the open window, while playing twanging country music almost loud enough to vibrate Ray’s windshield two or three cars behind the truck.
Two intersections farther along the road Ray flipped down his sun visor. Digby changed lanes, to merge onto the freeway ramp. Ray followed. How far?
Where was Digby Green heading?
A green signboard spread across two lanes. Remembering Pennsylvania, Digby cursed. Toll roads were such a pain. He braked, slowing, and took his position in the line of vehicles idling until they could pass through the toll gate. At least he wasn’t driving the gasoline tanker truck ahead of him.
The fee for that was worse than he’d be paying. He pulled two dollar bills from his wallet and gripped them against the steering wheel with his left hand, while he dug in the truck’s ash tray for eighty cents in change.
The tanker pulled forward, and Digby eased off his brake. Wadding the loose change in the paper currency, he pitched it down the collection funnel. The gate lifted, and he accelerated.
He’d get off this pesky toll road in stinking Gary.
A glance into his rear view mirror showed him a large older red boat of a car approaching.
The Gardens of Digby Green is a serialized story that posts on Fridays.
Next week, part fifty-six, Pit Stop.
Find a link to purchase Heartland Treasures anthology here.
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