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Down The Highway

My feet hurt inside my boots, burning with the heat of the asphalt. The sun crosses my shades, almost blinding me, Dylan blasts on my headphones and that eases the pain. I stop to drink what’s left from my water and roll a cigarette while I watch the endless desert road. Not a single car in sight.

“How did I end up like this?” I say to myself, putting the bottle back in my bag.

“I guessssss it’ssss one of thossssse daysssss.” A voice says from the ground. I look to see and a snake is there, a fairly big one, staring right at me, doing that thing that snakes do with their tongues. I run to the middle of the road. “Don’t be afraid. I already ate today.”

I get closer, it nods at me, indicating that it means no harm.

“Are you losssst?” It asks.

“Always, but not geographically, I’m just far.” I say. “What’s up with that lisp of yours?”

“Nothing, I just thought that it was something snakes do when they talk. I’ll stop. Want some company in your journey?” It asks.

“I already have Dylan with me.”

“Dylan doesn’t answer back. Unless the answer you’re looking for is blowing in the wind.” It says and laughs at its own joke.

“Ok, walk with me then. Or slither, whatever.” I answer. “How the fuck do you know Dylan? Do snakes listen to music a lot?”

“You realize that I’m not a real snake, just a figment of your imagination, right?”

“Oh… Yeah, I knew that.”

I didn’t know that.

We head down the road under the Tuscan sun, side by side, towards the horizon like a couple at the end of a western.

“I’ve came to a dreadful realization.” I say while I light my cigarette.

“That cigarettes kill?”

“Fuck you.” I reply poking it with my foot. “No. That the 20th Century is over.”

“Yeah, it’s been years now.”

“Oh, we have a sassssssy snake here, huh?”

“Don’t be a cunt, the lisp is our thing, you can’t do that.” It says and I just laugh.

“Anyway. Hugh Hefner died. David Bowie died. Lou Reed, Lemmy, Prince, Tom Petty, Michael Jackson, all of them are eating grass by the roots. Now we only have a handful of people that made the 20th Century what it was, and all of them are about to kick the bucket. Dylan included. We don’t have icons anymore, we have Ed Sheeran. That’s our generation’s legacy. Ed fucking Sheeran.”

“What about Keith Richards?” It asks.

“Oh, yeah, that cunt’s gonna live forever.” I ponder with a drag.

We walk/slither in silence for a while. The sound of its skin sliding against the asphalt is chilling, but in a comforting way, a familiar way.

“Are you planning on dying here?” It asks after a while.

“In Italy?”

“No, I mean, here, in this road, today.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Seven cars passed us by during your speech and you didn’t signal to any of them.”

“I guess I didn’t notice.”

“If I noticed, you noticed, you big doofus. What’s your deal? Death wish?” It asks and stops.

“No, I don’t want to die. I just don’t really care if I do. You know that. Keep moving.”

“I do know, I just want to make sure that you’re in check with yourself.”

“I’m talking about music and death to a snake made out of sunstroke. I’m obviously not in check.”

I hear an engine coming from behind us. I look at the snake and it looks back at me with a nod. I signal and the car stops. A guy with dreadlocks and a joint is behind the wheel.

“Well, it was nice talking to you.” I say.

“Likewise.

“I’d shake your hand, but you know…”

The snakes gives a final laugh behind me as get into the car and we drive off.

“Who were you talking to, bro?” The driver asks.

“A snake that I’m frenemies with.” I reply.

“Trippy.” He says as I watch the snake getting smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror until it disappears completely.

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