Leaving the four lanes of the main drag, Dale initiates the "system", inserting a bass laden CD through the flipped down faceplate of his after market pawnshop purchase. Autoplay triggers and all sound is devoured by the belching vibration flowing from Dale's expertly home crafted and carpet coated bass box. The subs threatened to uncork Dale's trunk or shake loose an unobserved over-rusted fastener sending some unnecessary piece of car to keep company with the rest of the trash strewn along the roadside.
As we cruise down Old Farm our pace is checked by a rusted-out Ranger going 24. Dale swerves out around the blockage, all gas. We are kings of cool, saluting that prick as he eats exhaust.
We're nearby so I want to drop in on Jessyka over at the Shady 8. Dale makes his way that direction and we put eyes on her sitting outside her apartment, light 100 lit and in hand. Dale parks, letting the system play a moment and rattle the residents for affect before shutting her down.
We approach, offering the customary salutation. "Hey, there. Ain't seen you lately."
Gesturing to her Halifax County issued ankle bracelette, "you knew where to look."
"Yeah, well, I guess. Anything going on?" We light smokes and take a seat.
"Same shit. Sitting on my ass till the 20th."
Dale grins, "if you're sick of sittin', I'll find something to do to your ass."
"Har-de-har, Dale." Flicking ash on his shoes.
And so on, killing an hour and several cigarettes.
"We're getting a couple beers with Decker then meeting up with some people at the top of the hill. Alright if we come by later?"
"Bring me back some curly fries."
The sun's setting when we shut the doors on Dale's car, nodding and raising a salute fairwell as we pull into traffic. The bass erupts, the sun sets, the night is young and we got half a tank of gas.
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