The notion that white guys can get into all sorts of stuff without anyone batting an eye is something I’ve heard more than once, but it wasn’t until just recently that I believed it—nor flexed it to my advantage. I’ve spent these past few hours running around abandoned parking lots, buying a strange assortment of items at deliberately spaced out stores, paying solely in cash while looking over my shoulder every two minutes, avoiding security cameras—the whole nine yards. No one has given me so much as one sideways look. I’m grateful that the concept seems to hold true.
But we’re not in the middle-of-nowhere anymore. An hour ago we hit I-35—the lifeblood highway stretching from Duluth, Minnesota all the way down to the Mexican border—and have been headed south since. The monotonous scenery
