Road Kill

Road Kill
by R. Y. Brockway

I’d been working with Leon for a week when I noticed he had a knack for identifying roadkill.

“’Possum,” he’d call 500 feet before we passed the carcass, or “’coon.” When business took us south, the occasional “’dillo” entered the mix. No matter what it was, he never missed.

I played along for a time, learning how to identify the tell-tale markings of matted fur. But after six months of spider-webbing our way across the map, my taste for the game and Leon’s company began to wane.

Leon’s peculiarities weren’t limited to just roadkill. He was anal about always having to drive—which was fine by me, because he chattered nonstop whenever his hands weren’t busy, complaining endlessly about the engineered decking company that employed us or the shoppers who frequented the big-box hardware stores where we set up displays. His grousing wasn’t limited to the car, either.

On more than one occasion, he’d stop working to lean over and whisper to me, “Hey, Ryan, you see that guy?”

I’d turn to find a man reading a can of weed killer, or a woman navigating a cart through the obstacle strewn aisles.

“Punk thinks he’s better than us.”

It was dumbfounding; those customers barely even registered our existence. But when I’d point that out to Leon, he would only sneer and remind me of the years he held over me both in life and on the road. He knew, he’d say, and in time, so would I.

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