The ride south out of Memphis felt longer than it really was. He'd left Memphis late enough that by the time he reached Jackson, Mississippi, it was already dark. He wasn't sure if he was going to spend the night, or if he would keep on moving. He pulled up in front of the jail, stepped out of the car, and leaned his back against it. He observed from across the street.

Back in 1961, he was too young - or too uninterested - to understand what Curtis meant by The Freedom Riders. A bunch of whites and blacks, on buses, riding south to New Orleans to fight for desegregation? In the orphanage, in Chicago, that all seemed so far away. Almost like another planet. In his little corner of the world, in the orphanage, there was nothing but blacks and whites bunking and eating and bathing and praying together. That was completely normal. That's the way it worked. He didn't understand how anyone could see it differently.

Like Curtis, Jake complained about everything he was seeing on the news too. He even got his hand rapped by a ruler for swearing about the Klan in front of the Penguin. It confused Elwood, thinking he was being hit for hating the Klan -which he thought was ok- and not for the choice words he used about them. It was only later, when he overheard Curtis mumble the same exact thing (when he thought no one was listening, of course) that he finally figured it out.

Standing in front of the jail, just for a few minutes, he felt a little sick. Jake was in a jail, hundreds of miles away. But not for the same reasons that these people were thrown in the clink, back in 1961. Even Elwood had been in the slammer a few times, but for minor offenses.

If those damn state troopers decided to come any closer and check out his licence plate number, he probably would be right back in there again.

Would it be worth it, to give himself up, just to sit in the same jail cell that those activists did, so long ago?

Elwood knew the answer. And he felt a little ashamed.

Elwood thought about how insignificant his life was turning out to be. Those riders were on a mission. Riding for civil rights. For liberty. For all those things that everyone in the United States of America deserved.

He was on a mission to send his brother a fucking post card.

He waved at one of the State Troopers, just once. He was barely visible in the dark night, but he waved back, suspiciously. That's when he got back in the Bluesmobile and headed west.

.

After a quick shower and some bread, he climbed into the back of the Bluesmobile in a truck stop just inside the Texas border on I-20 West. He brushed a few pieces of paper and an 8-track cassette aside, and settled in for a few hours sleep.

By the time he woke at first light, he felt well rested. After a great week in Memphis, after a few key stops on his tour of the American Civil Rights movement, and with one last stop in Dallas to make, he felt like the trip was finally beginning to make some sense.

See the United States. See where we have been, and how far we've come.

It's all right here, in America. The home of the 440 cubic inch plant engine.

He sat up, and looked around for that pad of paper that he had picked up from that hotel the night he left Chicago. He had a few more stamps and envelopes left. He decided to write another letter.

August 13, 1978

Dear Curtis,

I bet you never expected to get so many letters from me. But I don't think Jake would understand, the way you do.

I stood in front of the jail in Jackson, Mississippi. The cops made me uncomfortable, and I didn't want to wait too long to explain.

I decided to skip New Orleans. Last time Jake and I were there, we got into some mess. I didn't want to take my chances.

He'd finish after the next stop. He placed the pen and paper down, and noticed out of the corner of his eye another piece of paper. It was that letter he hadn't bothered to send yet.

He picked it up, and despite his better judgement, read it again.

"I guess that god forsaken shit hole you're in is better than me. Sorry you had to learn what a scum bag I really am."

The anger and pain were clear as glass on that piece of paper. He was still angry at her for standing him up, almost three weeks earlier. He almost forgot about it, except for when he was obsessing about it. He debated whether to send the letter.

"I stole a car for you, just to buy you that fucking ticket. I probably would have done anything for you. And I'd wind up in the joint, probably."

"Jake, you fucking idiot," he thought, all of a sudden. "Robbing that store just to get money for the band?"

But he knew he wasn't so different. You do things like that for the things that matter, and for the people you care about. For the people you love.

You rob stores. You rob gas. You take the rap for your brother and friends. You drive into Klan country on a desegregated Greyhound bus. You wave at state troopers in front of a jail, even when you're wanted.

You steal a car to buy someone a one way ticket out of the African Republic of Mmbito.

You drive thousands of miles to San Diego to mail a fucking postcard.

He couldn't figure out where hot rolls flying through a cafeteria fit into that equation, but he was sure they did.

Elwood got behind the wheel, and started up the car. That unsent letter to her was still in his hand, as he tried to decide whether or not he should send it.

He turned on the radio, and listened to the news. He wondered if there was any more information on the rebel activities in Mmbito.

By the time he reached Dallas, the letter had long been crumbled up and tossed out the window, while driving 55 miles an hour.

.

He was probably no more than ten years old. He circled Elwood like a buzzard, as he looked up at him. He seemed a bit puzzled about he tall man in a black suit, hat and glasses. Why was he standing motionless in the center of the Plaza, staring at grass?

The boy kicked Elwood's leg, then jumped back when Elwood reacted, crying out with a subdued "Oww."

The boy bounced around a bit, nervously.

"Sorry, Mister! I thought you was a statue or something!" He had a northern accent, which Elwood hadn't heard in almost two weeks.

Elwood reached down to the boys shoulder, stopping his nervous jumping, and turned him towards the grass. He kept his hand on his shoulder for a minute, letting him know that he should stay still, and be respectful.

"What you looking at, Mister?"

"History," Elwood responded, after a moment of thought. "Shouldn't you be in church, or something, kid?"

"Don't have to go today, mom says. We're on vacation."

Elwood simply nodded in acknowledgment. The two figures stood and stared at the grass in silence for a minute, until a woman came from behind, shrieking in relief.

"There you are, Martin! Don't you walk away from me like that again!" She grabbed his arm, angry, and gave Elwood a very suspicious look. She dragged the boy away, as he asked her questions. Elwood could barely make out her replies as they faded out of earshot.

"President Kennedy... He was shot here... People come here to mourn... That's why he's all in black..."

Elwood stood directly underneath a series of Wanted posters. He quickly scanned the wall, to check and make sure his own face wasn't there. Relieved, he pulled out the piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He leaned on the counter of the El Paso Post Office, and finished his letter to Curtis.

Got into Dallas on Sunday. I saw the grassy knoll. Even on a Sunday, there were people paying their respects. Even kids, Curtis. They are learning too, like you taught us.

I'll be cutting through New Mexico, then Arizona. I'm off to San Diego. There's nothing I want to see, really, but I promised Jake I'd send him a letter when I got there.

Elwood