goodguygrifter | (no subject)

Good old Route 20. It starts in Boston and stretches all the way out to some-fucking-where in Oregon, and it's one of - if not The - the longest road in these great and United States. Stan knows that, because over the past few years Stan has learned a little thing or two about highways. Highways take you over state lines, they take you out of local cop jurisdiction, they take you toward your next big break. By this point highways and Stan are kinda' old friends. This one he don't know that well - not that he don't head up north sometimes, but he tries to stay lower, where the nights are warmer and he don't have to use up so much gas workin' the heater so hard.

Good old Route 20. Taking him away from - god, or more like God, the real big guns, upper case G-O-D 'cause there's been a time or two in the past, the past however long where Stan thinks he mighta' caught himself mid prayer, not that he's ever been a praying kinda' guy, especially not for a while, but sometimes shit just happens. He thinks a part of him might still be at it right now. If that feeling really is a part of him still praying he don't know why he's doing it or what he might be praying for but he don't stop himself, because oh, oh sweet baby Moses if there's a guy in a hundred miles who needs a miracle more than Stan Pines - or Stu Oakley, the latest in a long line of gen-u-ine home made fake IDs - then that poor bastard's earned it.

This rest stop might be the big break he's looking for. Not a huge break, but you take 'em where you can find 'em and he mighta' found it now because whichever armpit of the US he's tucked all snug into right now decided not to give their taxpayer funded state-welcome-and-rest-area working lamps over the parking lots. Stan hardly looks around, just keeps hobbling right over the curb and for once he ain't thinkin' about how he'd come off if anyone saw, he's not thinking about the extreme roadrash wide and red over his legs and his forearms and the backs of his hands, or the blood that dripped and dried from high up on his forehead where he didn't get his hands far up enough, or that one shoe he lost to who knows where, or anything. He just makes a beeline for the nearest car, yanks at the handle, and this sure is the big break because it comes right open, he stumbles back with how easy it comes open and kneels and makes a noise because fuck, what's left of the skin on his back really don't wanna' move like that and whatever's caked into the mess he's made of his knees sure don't want company, but this is his big break and he's not going to fuck it up and he's going to reach under the wheel and he's going to get those wires and he is gonna' go go go, and he is gonna' meet up with his good old friend the highway of Route 20 and he is going to be okay and he is going to be gone.

Threaded | Flat

It's possible that Ford may or may not have made a slight error in judgement, thinking he'd be fine driving for a grand total of eighteen hours in one day. It's also possible, you know, hypothetically, that he let his enthusiasm get the better of him, and in his effort to not waste any time getting to Oregon, he may have stretched himself a bit thin. Possibly.

He finds himself needing to blink a few times at the payphone, his eyes not wanting to focus or even stay open long enough for him to dial home. He slips a hand beneath his glasses, rubbing hard at his closed lids in an effort to wake himself up a bit, as the phone jammed between his shoulder and ear continues to ring.

He promised Ma he'd call her, give her an update every now and again until he made it safely to his new place. She had made a point of laying the guilt on thick before he left, to make damn sure he called - told him how she needed to be able to know at least one of her boys wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere.

That'd shut Ford up pretty quick. He had wanted to protest, tell Ma she was being overprotective, that he could take care of himself just fine - but the look on her face, the tone of her voice - he couldn't argue against that.

So here he is, half falling asleep in the middle of a reststop in the middle of bumbfuck nowhere, waiting for his mother to pick up the phone so he can stop feeling guilty for not calling her two hours ago like he said he would.

Finally, after the sixth ring, he hears that familiar voice firing off prices for a psychic reading, and a tired smile works its way onto his face.

"Hi Mom." He begins, and after that he can hardly get a word in edge-wise because his mother is if nothing else a talker.

She asks about his trip, how he's been, if he's been eating enough. She asks if he's seen anything interesting since he's been on the road, chatters on and on about this lovely young lady she met at Temple, and you have been going to Temple haven't you, and yes, Ma'am, no Ma'am, it's good to hear from you too Mom, love you, bye.

Once he can finally hang up the payphone, Ford can't help but let out a deep, relieved sigh. As much as he loves his mother, conversations with her can be...exhausting, for a lack of a better word. Besides, he was starting to run out of change to keep the call going. Another minute or two and their conversation would've had to end out of necessity.

His business at the rest stop finished, Ford turns to head back to his car, not wanting to spend longer out in this chilly weather than he absolutely must. It's not long, however, before he notices something off - he squints, unsure if his tired eyes can really be trusted to tell him what's actually going on in the dark.

That...doesn't look right. Ford slowly comes to a stop, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as a chill runs through him. What the - who the hell is that? What the fuck is going on?

"Hey." He wets his lips, gathering the courage to speak up a little louder. "Hey!"

Jesus, there's no one else around for miles, there are no other cars in this lot - hes' completely alone. Just him, and whoever the fuck is skulking around his car.

Part of him wonders if he shouldn't have spoken up, if he should have just headed back to the payphone and called the cops. It's too late to do that now, though - he's already called attention to himself. Fuck. Fuck.

Not even a minute ago, he told his mother he was fine, and now he's gone and made a liar out of himself.