College Fiend [A$AP Rocky]

Fifteen

Columbia reminded me of a town I had seen in a movie once. The movie took place in a town that was small, only with a population of over 35, 000, and looked like it was frozen in time. Shopping was extremely limited and stores were old-fashioned. Whenever a foreigner would come into the town, their accent would be pointed out and made fun of.  

It was the same here in Columbia, Tennessee. After only two hours of driving (almost three hours if you counted the stops at ice cream stores and donut shops and port-a-potties), we finally drove through a community where every store looked like something from the early 1900s, even the 1800s sometimes. The people were close-knit and looked like the type who would protest against any renovations of their town.

When we parked our van in the parking lot of a restaurant, I immediately got of the car to stretch. Hills of green could be seen over the considerably short buildings; this looked like the type of place where farming was practiced.

“This town is dead,” Quincy said, getting out of the car. “Let’s get business done and get out of here.”

I followed him out of the parking lot and down the street. I dawdled on behind him, taking a few moments to soak in the scenery. As “dead” as this town was, I wouldn’t mind living in a place like this. It looked like some parts of Wisconsin, actually.

The sidewalks were slanted, like walking down a hill, so I took big strides involuntarily and passed the stores quickly. Everywhere we passed there were people looking out at us: yarn stores, restaurants, Laundromats, hardware stores, and supermarkets. They all stared at us as if we were aliens.

Maybe we were, to them. Because we didn’t wear loose jeans and plaid shirts, maybe we appeared to be outsiders.

“That’s the place.” Quincy pointed to a “mealhouse” lower down the block with a red and white hand-painted awning. The store was nestled under a bundle of naked branches, a sign that winter was full-on around here. It was evening-time so the sun was out, tinting the sky a gentle violet color. We didn’t go inside the store as I expected—and kind of wanted, since a proud broadcasting of curly fries and hamburgers could be seen behind the glass door—we just waited outside, Quincy showing his face briefly and then waiting to the side.

Someone emerged through the door wearing a plaid shirt and light blue jeans—clearly a native. He shook hands with Quincy and then waved at me, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth and a cowboy hat shading his face. I could barely tell what he looked like.

“Why didn’t you just meet me in the restaurant?” Quincy asked the man, nodding to the restaurant whose parking lot our van was in.

“Because they know my face in there,” The man replied. “And you’re late. Did the operation back in Alabama take longer than planned?”

I looked at Quincy and he nodded. “He’s one of us,” He told me. “But no, it was pretty quick. Just something brief to make me some cash.”

The man, who I now realized wasn’t really from this town, but only a con-artist like us, nodded and walked ahead of us. He seemed eager to get back to the parking lot. When we did finally reach it, Quincy took me by surprise—or maybe his fingers did. They were interlocked with mine, one of them, his thumb, stroking the side of my own finger. I could only smile as his friend looked back at us and whistled.

“That’s her?” He asked, pointing to a pretty red 60’s Mustang parked in the lot. I hadn’t noticed it there the first time.

“Yeah, that’s her, George.” Quincy answered. “My wife and I don’t need it anymore. We plan on having children soon, and we’ll need a more appropriate car for our baby boy.”