Wrestling the Bear

“I swear, every single southerner I know back home has one of those dumb stories,” Everett said. “Some redneck who flipped his truck on ‘dead man’s curve’ or blew off a finger with an M80.”

“What’s yours?”

“Don’t get me started.”

Hearing him say “back home” stuck in Murph’s craw. “You know a lot of rednecks in New York City?” he said.

“More than a few southern expats in the circles I run with.” He drummed his fingers on the T-tops and set his gaze on the speedometer in a manner that made Murph feel like he’d caught him picking his nose. “Who decided that the only way southern boys can earn their manhood is catching air or starting fires?”

“Or going off to war,” Murph said.

Everett tossed Murph a glare. “Touché. Honestly, it scared the bejesus out of me every time we hit the jump. All I could think of was how my old man would tan my hide if we put a scratch on that car. You and Dale would go bananas every time we bottomed out, and I’d be looking in the rearview praying to God we hadn’t lost any parts on the road.”

“I bet nobody in the big city drives a monster like this.”

“Nobody in Manhattan has a car,” Everett said. “You’d look pretty good in this bad boy.”

Murph took his own look through the window of the Firebird. The speedometer went up to 120. Becca would freak out any time he got the truck up over 55 on the highway. He couldn’t imagine what she’d do if he put the pedal to the floor in this baby. There were seats in the back, but the kids wouldn’t fit in them for much longer, big as they were getting. Maybe Marlys Akins would swoon over it, but Murph didn’t want to think about that. A car like this was just for daydreaming. “I already got a truck I ain’t flipped over yet,” he said.

Everett shrugged. “You’re young. Got your whole life ahead of you.”

To read the full story, order the Spring 2023 issue of The Southern Review.