He talks on the cell phone for the entire trip—“Hello! Hello! Hello!”—and drives so quickly that the world becomes a desperate blur of darkness and light.
The man is a peculiar creature of physical contradictions. He has a pair of legs, it’s true, but they’re so thin you’ll never find them if you look for them in his dull green pants, and therefore the operation of the pedals is a quantum paradox, like Schrodinger’s Cat. He does not pick his nose; he crams almost his entire hand in each nostril, pulls out the golden treasure, and makes sure to examine it before flicking it away. Halfway through the trip he stops the car in some yellow dusty trash-strewn hovel on the edge of the planet, asks me if I’m going to Thailand (yes), gets out, goes to the bathroom (the toilet, this is what he said, not Thailand, toilet), and returns with a dark little child, whom he places in the backseat. “Sorry!” he says. The child takes after his father: his legs are so small they don’t reach the edge of the seat.