Like when the car broke down. Every time it broke down.
He wasn't good about making sure everything was working all the time, he didn't have the money to get things fixed. Or the time, or interest. At some point, after his 60th birthday, it was physically impossible for him to even offer rides in his everyday car, it was so filled with newspapers, CDs, clothes and trash that it was an archeological dig to find the seat.
The first time she rode with him, her first instinct was to cheerfully disregard everything, in the same way it would have been rude to point out that some days he smelled. Of liquor or not bathing, or both. "Don't tell me of my failures, I have not forgotten them"
One day, riding along I 90, he told her the story of how he and his first wife had hitchiked across the country as their honeymoon. When he first told her, it had sounded romantic and totally in keeping with the 60's spirit. When it happened to her, however, it felt very much like the sixties had never happened. She felt closer to the Joads in Grapes of Rath, begging for a ride. All these people in perfectly working caress, and them needing to get to the next town. He hated to cancel a gig, even when there wasn't a big crowd, it was the only timing that kept him going.
There was that giant storm along the Canadian border, we shouldve stopped.
There was that giant highway in front of them and behind them.
Damn, she should have set the odometer,
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