Patrick turns his head in my direction as the Greyhound bus quietly bumps its way through the middle of Texas. It's night, I don't know what time.
Interior bus lights are turned down to a dim glow.
The low hum of the engine has lulled me mostly to sleep with my eyes partly open; but I pick up my head when I see this man across the aisle pivot to face me.
"I like Schlitz." He says it like he's answering a question; as if we've been mid-conversation and he is just now punctuating a previous point. I stare at him blankly. Waiting.
"My family lives in a trailer," he continues, "so I’m already white trash."
Ronnie, Patrick’s friend sitting behind him, chuckles.
"If you can fall off a horse without spilling your beer,” Patrick says, as if by explanation, "you’re alright."
He shrugs and turns toward his window, considering the pitch-black world outside.