About the author:
About Temporary Sanity:
Jarrel didn't say nothing the whole way down. He just sat in a corner of the cab and let Jeeter do the driving. Jeeter liked to drive but he didn't drive well. He drove right on top pf the white line, the one in the middle, and he liked to look around while he drove and if he was driving and saw something he liked he'd keep his eyes on it and forget all about driving. That's how Jarrel got tossed through the windshield. But Jarrel didn't want to drive this time. He wanted to hold the dynamite.
He sat holding one of the sticks. It looked like a long brown tube with a heavy wax coating. The ends were nearly tucked in under a small round cardboard disc.
He had a dozen of these sticks and he put them up to his nose to make sure it was dynamite. All he could smell was the wax. Goddamn if it wasn't dynamite. Goddamn.
The speedometer needle kept bouncing around between 45 and 55. Damn that Chevy anyway. Jeeter had his foot flat over the accelerator and his arms draped over the steering wheel and he was singing and swaying from side to side and the pickup kept veering from one side of the road to the other. There weren't many cars on this road. It was an old Adirondacks road, mostly used for logging, and cars didn't like to use it because the logging trucks didn't care who they shoved off the road. Once they started up one of those big diesels the only thing that could stop it was a flat tire or a forest fire. Jarrel knew. He used to drive one. He'd knocked town cars clean off the road with the back of his tandem. Twenty tons of logs would give them a gentle little pat on the side and Jarrel will watch through his mirror how they off the road like they hit a bump or something and flew into the trees.