First thing, after I picked him up thumbing rides in the snow, he reached into the pockets of his worn blue Dickies. From one pocket he pulled three dollars and set it on that flat spot over the glovebox, and from the other a tin crucifix, with Christ, and put it next door to the cash.

"Your choice," he said. "Three bucks for gas, or you can take that cross. Get 10 for it in pawn—real silver."

I took a glance at him: knotted gray hair, front tooth missing in his tired smile, greasy green parka. Not the guy you'd think could offer money for a ride.

"This a test?" I said. "You the Incarnate?"

He laughed. "Shit no. Just trying to help you along." He shrugged, stuffed the crucifix back in his pants. "You'll do better with the cash."

We rode in quiet for 40 miles until he pointed to a tiny white house set back from the road. It was a real dungheap—porch falling off, roof like a swayback horse.

"Home sweet," he said, and got out. He trundled up the icy drive, looking bone weary.

I rolled down my window. "Hey? Wanna sell that cross for three bucks?"

He turned around, smiled like a man redeemed. "Shit yeah!""

§ § §

Joseph lives in Baltimore. His work has appeared previously in Literary Potpourri, Eleven Bulls, Pindeldyboz, Word Riot, Mississippi Review, the-phone-book, and elsewhere. He can be reached at youngjoseph21@hotmail.com

This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal.

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