The third car to pass stopped—a 1954 Chevrolet—and the driver, a black man, showed the same interest in Milkman’s clothes that Nephew had shown. He seemed not to notice or care about the rip at the knee or under the arm, the tie-tied shoe, the leaves in Milkman’s hair, or the dirt all over the suit.
“Where you headed, partner?”
“Danville. As close as I can get.”
“Hop on in, then. Little out my way. I cut over to Buford, but I’ll get you closer than you was.”
“’Preciate it,” answered Milkman. He loved the car seat, loved it. And sank his weary back into its nylon and sighed.
“Good cut of suit,” the man said. “I guess you ain’t from here’ bouts.”