BOB AND TODD 
A burly man in his midthirties was driving along 95 North out of Boston, humming “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” A scrawny young man in a poncho and hiking boots was standing in the breakdown lane with his thumb out, a duffel bag upright beside him.
“What have we here?” said the driver, and pulled over.
The young man grabbed the duffel bag by its handle and hurried on over to the car. He stooped down to speak through the partly open passenger-side window. “Thanks for stopping!”
The driver leaned over: “Where you headed?”
“North.”
“I’m going as far as the Lewiston exit.”
“That’s great. Thanks. Appreciate it,” said the young man, still standing there.
“You getting in?”
“Just wondering. Why’d you stop?”
“You had your thumb out. Thought you might want a lift.”
“Sarcasm. Okay.”
“You getting in or not?”
“Just seems a little weird, stopping for some guy in a poncho in the middle of nowhere, see what I’m saying?”
“Right, so the only people you’d get in the car with are the ones who don’t stop,” the driver said, and laughed. “Good luck with that.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“Been interesting.”
“I’ll get in.”
“Jesus.”
After he was in, holding the duffel bag between his legs, the young man once again thanked the driver for stopping. “Appreciate it.”
The driver checked the traffic behind him and pulled out. “By the way, you’re a very handsome young fellow,” he said.
“Aw, shit.”
The driver laughed. “Kidding. So where you going?”
“Just . . . north.”
“Yeah but how far?”
“All the way.”
“All the way to where?”
“Just . . . all the way.”
“That’s quite a distance.”
“I’ll get there.”
“You realize, if you do go all the way you’ll end up at that same spot along the road back there.”
“The Earth is round, I know.”
“So let me guess. You’ve had all you can take and now you’re getting the hell out.”
“Something like that.”
“Turning your back on civilization.”
“You could say.”
“Maybe go live with the Indians.”
“Possibly.”
“Adopt the ways of the red man.”
“Why not?”
“I wonder what name they’ll give you. They do that, you know.”
“Fed-Up.”
“That’s a good one. I like that.”
They were quiet for a minute. Then the driver said, “Now me, I sell athletic shoes, what you would call ‘sneakers.’ That’s what I’m doing up here, peddling my company’s product to outlets in the area. Know what your Indian friends would call me? Sells-Athletic-Shoes. By the way, if you’re interested, I’ve got a bunch of samples in the trunk, along with my wife’s body.”
The young man looked at him.
“But I’m gonna confess something to you now,” the driver went on. “Just between you and me, I hate athletic shoes. I hate the way they look on people, especially on adults, on so-called grown-ups. In fact, you know what’s wrong with this country? Too many silly-assed people bopping around in sneakers. Nobody’s serious anymore. Not like you. You’re serious. I can tell by your footwear. Hiking boots. Those are serious.”
“You mentioned . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Your wife’s body?”
“Did I? Nice body—very nice, in fact. No problem there, believe me.”
“But?”
“Nice butt, yes. Very nice. Why the sudden interest in my wife’s body?”
“You said . . . anyway I thought you said . . . it’s in the trunk.”
“My wife’s body is in the trunk?”
“Along with your samples.”
“I actually said that?”
“I could be wrong.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are.”
“I was out there for a couple hours, in that sun . . .”
“That’ll do it.”
The young man gave a laugh. “I really thought you said your wife’s body was in the trunk.”
“Well,” said the driver, “if I did say that, I apologize. I certainly didn’t mean to. What do you say we just forget about it, leave the whole thing behind us.” He gave a chuckle. “Which is where it is anyway.”
Laughing along, the young man said, “I know you’re only pulling my leg.”
“Well of course I’m pulling your leg, what do you think? You think if I shot my wife and stuck her in the trunk I would tell you about it? Even accidentally? Come on, use your head. That would mean I’d have to shoot you as well, stick you in the trunk.”
“I know you’re only trying to scare me.”
“That’s all. That’s all I’m trying to do. Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not. If I was scared, that would mean I believed you, which I don’t, so I’m not. Scared.”
“Well, fine. Can we move on now, please? Let’s talk about your future, boldly going where no one has gone before—except, you see, that’s just it, there isn’t any place where no one’s gone before, not on this fucking planet anyway.” He shook his head. “Just once, just once I would like to get really and truly totally lost, you know? Just once be able to cry out, ‘Where the fuck am I?’ And for an answer? Only an echo: ‘Fuck am I, fuck am I . . .’ See what I’m saying?”
“Sir, I was wondering, could I . . . possibly . . .”
“Pee in a cup?”
“. . . get out for a minute? Just wanna stretch my legs a little.”
“Just wanna bolt, you mean. Don’t try and kid a kidder: you’re still thinking about Betty, aren’t ya.”
“Was that her name?”
“I thought we had moved on.” He sighed. “All right. Look. You want me to pull over and open the trunk and show you? Would that help?”
“It would. Yes. Go ahead, pull over. Stop the car.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you know what? I’m not gonna do that, and I’ll tell you why. Because if you don’t trust me any more than that, you have no business being with me in the first place.”
“You’re right. I agree, sir. Completely.”
“All right, then.”
“So go ahead. Pull over. I’ll get out.”
“Oh, now . . .”
“No, really. Go ahead. Please?”
“Don’t start getting all—”
“Please, sir? Let me out?”
“Will you listen to yourself? My God. And you want to go live with the Indians? You know what they would call you? Scaredy-Cat. That’s the name they’d give you. Mine’s Bob, by the way. What’s yours?”
The young man continued sitting there staring rigidly ahead.
“Let’s try that again. My name is Bob. What is yours?”
In a weak voice: “Todd.”
“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
A little louder: “Todd.”
“Todd? Is that what you said? ‘Todd’?”
“Yes.”
Bob gave a laugh. “That’s really your name? Todd?”
Todd looked at him. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Just strikes me kind of funny: Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Geronimo . . . and Todd.” He laughed harder.
“Yeah well, what about ‘Bob’?”
He stopped laughing.
Todd spoke rapidly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, Bob’s a good name, a serious name.”
“As in what, Bob and Ray? Bob Newhart? Bob Hope? Clowns, Todd.”
Todd said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s face it, we’ve both got less than fully serious names. Bob and Todd: now there’s a couple of lightweights—although, of course, my name is actually Robert, which is somewhat serious. But what the hell is ‘Todd’ short for?”
“Theodore?”
“You’re thinking of Ted, like Theodore Roosevelt. His wife used to call him Teddy. ‘Oh, Teddy,’ she used to say, ‘you do carry a big stick.’ But with his clothes on, in the Oval Office, he was Theodore. Ever been to Mount Rushmore? You might get there in your travels. If you do, take a good long look at those faces up there. Those were serious men. I guarantee you, those men did not wear sneakers. And I know what you’re thinking.”
“No. I wasn’t. Honest.”
“But maybe it’s not too late, you know? For either of us. After all, we’re both wearing serious footwear. You’ve got your boots, and look at me, what I’m wearing: wing tips. Classic. Traditional. Serious.” He looked at Todd. “Deadly serious.”
“This looks like a real good spot, right along here. Thanks again.” He gave a laugh. “Every little bit helps. Really appreciate it. If you could just pull over, sir. Right here would be . . . would be . . .”
“Know who used to wear wing tips?”
Todd sat there looking longingly out his window at the side of the road.
“I asked you a question, Todd. Do you know who used to wear wing tips? Always? On all occasions?”
“No.”
“Take a guess.”
“Theodore Roosevelt?”
“My father wore wing tips. My old man. Now there was a serious person. There was a man who believed in the basic fundamental seriousness of life. He used to say to me, ‘Robert?’—he always called me Robert, never Bob. In fact, no one ever called me Bob, not even my friends, not even my enemies. It was always Robert. It wasn’t Bob until I got married. That’s when all this Bob business began. And you know who started it? So that everyone calls me Bob now? Thinks of me as Bob? Even myself? You know who started all this Bob shit?”
Todd looked over at him slowly. “Betty?”
Bob was quiet for a moment. Then: “My father would put his hand on my shoulder, his massive hand on my little shoulder. ‘Robert?’ he would say, closing his hand like a fucking vise: ‘Life . . . is no . . . joke.’”
The road curved eastward, putting the sun in their eyes. Bob lowered his visor and Todd did the same.
Bob went on, “My father died from a stroke one afternoon sitting on the couch watching television. Know what he was watching, Todd? Do you know what he was sitting there in front of, with his eyes still open? Take a guess. Go ahead.”
“The market report?”
“Bob Barker. The Price Is Right.”
Todd said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry. You’re always sorry. You’re about the sorriest motherfucker I ever met, you know that? And don’t say you’re sorry.”
They were quiet.
“No, listen,” Bob said wearily, “I’m the one who should be sorry, snapping at you like that. It’s just . . . well, I feel like you’ve got real possibilities, Todd. The makings of a serious person. It just has to be drawn out, that’s all. Or dragged out.”
“Could we listen to the radio for a while, you think?”
“Hey, Todd, look at that old red barn out there, will ya? See it out there? Isn’t that a beautiful thing? Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I can picture an old, gaunt-looking farmer going out to that barn at four thirty in the morning to milk the cows, can’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Meanwhile his wife is in the kitchen fixing breakfast, a quiet dignified woman named Sarah.” He shook his head. “Take a real good look at that barn, Todd, because the next time you see it? The next time around? I guarantee, that old red barn will be an upscale furniture and gift shop. And you know what they’ll call it? The sons-a-bitches, you know what they’ll call that goddamn furniture and gift shop? ‘The Old Red Barn.’”
They drove along.
Todd asked again if they could listen to the radio.
“Nah. You want some music? Here you go. Remember this one?” He sang, “Where have all the flowers gone, long time pa-assing . . . Sing along, Todd, come on. Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago . . .”
Todd wasn’t singing.
Bob looked at him. “Aw, Jesus, you’re not crying, are you?”
Todd turned away, to his window.
“Listen, do me a favor,” Bob said. “I got a pack of Camel Filters in the glove box. Get ’em for me, will you? Can you do that for me, please?”
Todd opened the glove box, cried “Ahh!” and slammed it shut.
“What’s the matter? You okay?”
Todd sat there staring straight ahead, breathing fast and shallow.
“Oh, hey, listen,” said Bob, “I’m sorry, I forgot that was in there. Now, don’t start getting all worked up the way you do. I know what you’re thinking: the murder weapon. Right? Tell the truth, Todd. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
Bob said to him quietly, seriously, “You know what this is, Todd, don’t you? This is what your Indian friends would call a moment of truth.”
“Please let me out? Please, Bob? Robert I mean.”
“Now, listen to me, Todd. Listen carefully. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say I really did kill my wife, with that very gun. Shot her three times, right through her silly fucking heart, then cut her up into a dozen pieces, each in its own plastic bag, put all twelve bags into separate shoe boxes, and placed them in the trunk with all the other shoe boxes. Let’s say I’m that kind of a guy. That would put you in serious jeopardy right now, wouldn’t it.” He waited. “Todd? Wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but here’s the thing. That leaves three more bullets in the gun, Todd. For either one of us.”
“I promise, I swear to God I won’t ever—”
“Tell anyone?”
“I swear to God.”
“Todd, you’re missing the point. Stay focused. This is important.”
“I want to go home.”
“I thought you were fed up. Thought you were going allll the way.”
“That was just . . . I was only . . .”
“Pretending. I know. But listen to me. Remember what I said earlier? About turning things around? About getting serious? Even with a name like Todd? Well, here it is, buddy. Here’s your chance. Don’t blow it.”
“Can’t we just . . . can’t we just . . . ?”
“Look. I know you’re scared. Believe me, I know all about it. Right now you’ve got this cold, hollow spot in the pit of your tummy and your heart is beating like a little bunny rabbit’s—but think about it, Todd. You’re in the driver’s seat—so to speak. Just open the glove box, grab the gun and shoot me, steer the car into the breakdown lane, apply the brakes, and put it in park, simple as that. What is it Nike says? ‘Just do it.’”
“Please? Can’t we just—”
“Shut up. Now listen to me, you fucking dweeb, I’m going to kill you, do you realize that? I’m gonna shoot you dead with that gun unless you stop me.” He began slowly leaning over in front of Todd, keeping one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road. “Here I am, Todd,” he said in a singsong, “reaching for the glove box . . .”
Todd sat there covering his face, rocking.
“Reaching for the gun,” Bob sang, “so I can shoot you, then stuff you in the trunk with Betty . . .”
“Can’t we just listen to the radio?”
Bob sat up straight again. He pulled off into the breakdown lane and came to a stop. “Get out of my car,” he said quietly, staring straight ahead.
Todd got out very quickly with his duffel bag and closed the door.
The car pulled away.
Todd watched it becoming just another car among all the others. Then, at a large enough break in the traffic both ways, he hurried all the way across, set down his duffel bag, and held out his thumb.