Blue Highways: A Journey into America

by William Least Heat-Moon

A uniformed man drove by in a Bell Telephone truck. Walker nudged Davis. “That’s four today. Two last night.” “What’s going on?” I said. “Sheriff’s deputy. That’s their undercover truck.” 7. James Walker and Charles Davis in Selma, Alabama “Great undercover to wear a uniform,” I said. “Why are they watching you?” “They ain’t watchin’ us, my man—they be watchin’ you.” “Me? Why me? They think I’m agitating?” Walker and Davis laughed derisively. “They doan give a shit about that. They think you the dope man.” “A dealer? How do they come up with that?” “Eyeballs, man. White dude in the project at night, drivin’ a van, Northern license. Yeah, man, you be dealin’ all right.” “If you ain’t, they gonna put some stuff on you if you look like trouble.” “A cop checked the truck over last night.” “Pickin’ information. Figurin’ how to handle you. When they pull you in, you goan be surprised they know the size of your jockstrap.” “You got any stuff, hide it good or dump it. Don’t try to sell now.” “I’ve got beer and some bourbon. Clean as a whistle.” “Until they stop you and look your ride over.” “Stay long enough, and they goan get you—two miles over the speed limit, forgettin’ to signal, somethin’.” “To them, you be worsen a nigger now.”