HeartlandReview.com JARS OF CLAY Thanks for the Ride by Paul Barrow January 2003

He came flying past, his top down and his blond hair all askew, the intense young man in his strangely painted Toyota jeep. He looked as though he had just escaped across the border from Kandahar and was hunting for an important connection.

I had just purchased a can of gas in a station a short distance away and was just about to cross the street when I saw him. He was stopping in another gas station just in front of me.

I imagined for a moment that I was carrying important secret documents in my can. He would know it was me: the gas can was the tipoff. I walked over.

"Are you headed down Woodmont?" I asked. That was the code message. I had, with typical luck, run out of gas about a mile away. The guy in the uptight white shirt wearing his starched Cadillac Escalade who had just driven off wasn't even going to roll down his window.

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