Muddy Waters is at the wheel of a luxurious new 1978 Lincoln Continental. I am in the passenger seat. I am giving him directions to the perimeter and number 75 Highway, because I am accompanying him on this road trip to Chicago where he hangs his hat. I realize I have left my passport in a cubby hole of the teak credenza in my home office and become anxious whether my driver’s license will be enough to get into the United States.
It starts to snow which turns into a blizzard. We take shelter in a rest station just on the Canadian side of the border. The modernist one story building is bigger than it needs to be, though we appreciate the washrooms. There is one attendant in a blue uniform staffing reception but all the other offices and meeting roomss are empty and gleaming.
Muddy gets impatient and gets back behind the wheel, motioning me to join him. He drives the black Continental into the blowing white snow. He looks straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. It’s dark, I’m humming quietly, the driving snow caught in the headlights.