Yee Haw Writes

Dirt Road-Kidd G

Last night

The faint glow from the flickering Coors Light sign beamed down on the bartop where a heartbroken boy sat, head in his hands with a empty shot glass in front of him.

He rubs his eyes, too tipsy to find his phone with no idea of where he'd left it.

His friends were all off dancing with the girl's they'd found, beers in their hands and smiles on their faces from the success of a night.

For them.

It's been a horrible few weeks for Gabriel.

His music career wasn't going as well as he thought it would.
He's been busting his ass just to be able to keep his truck in gas. Sure, he's a good mechanic but it's hard to do what you're great at when you're broke as hell.
And to top his night off, his girlfriend broke up with him.

They break up, they make up then they do it again.

He pats his back pocket, finding his shitty, cracked phone.
He dials her phone number.

In the morning
Small town so he sees her everywhere he turns, desperately needing a day of dirt-roads, muddin' with all his friends and his favorite thing of all:his truck, a 2002 Ford F-150 he'd built by himself in his mama's front yard.

Headlights 'n shiny nights.

Yeah, that's sounding real nice to get her name off his mind right about now.

Gabe snatched his keys off his dresser, pulling his hoodie over his head and plucking his hat off his bed, messily sitting it on his head.

He unlocks his truck by the door, swinging it open met by a harsh bit of cold air smacking him in the face, making the boy pull back from the truck for a second, adjusting to the freezing cold Ford.

He sits down in his designated seat, letting his feet hang out the open door while he scrolls through his phone.

One single notification.

A smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

It's her.

But he can't do anything-she's probably drunk.

He couldn't blame her, he did the same thing last night.
He felt horrible, but he's got to get over her somehow and what better way than driving his truck?

He rolls both his windows down, hanging his arm out the window against the truck's metal door while he backs out of his mama's driveway, a big grin on his face as his old speakers bump.

He drives down an old dirt road, listening to Morgan Wallen while his truck kicks up dirt, slingin' rocks behind the 35s.

Today was the one day he didn't have a shotgun rider in months, but hey, who needs one when you've got the radio and your truck?

Maybe being alone'll be better for him.

He knows his neighbors probably all hate his truck because, well..

It's loud, it's obnoxious and it smelled awful. And to some folks, ugly because of its year.

Two-thousand and two.

He's got his bass up too loud, thumping throughout the speakers of the old shitbox he loved, ringing in his ears.

By now he's starting to forget about her and all her games, glad she's not there to tell him he's swerving yet again.
She'd always complain about his driving even though she was probably correct, he drove like a bat out of hell.

"Damn dirt road ain't got no lane." He spits to himself, reaching his arm out the open window.

He sees a sharp curve coming up, too buzzed to be bothered to care about it.
Copenhagen's got the boy buzzin' harder than he has before, spinning in his brain.

He knows if he takes that turn too fast, it might just hit him back.

He moved one hand to the gearshift to the manual Ford, putting his foot on the clutch dropping the old truck into second gear.

His old F-150 takes the sharp curve, a smile on the boy's face. "This.. might actually be workin'."