| Further up 35 in the town of Italy, the girl behind the counter in the Dairy Queen has too many rings in her ears -- her face is tender with acne but her eyes are dancing (a slow solitary dance before a mirror in a gothic empty bedroom, true, but dancing nonetheless). You drink a milkshake and watch her bored conversation with boys in hightops and mesh jerseys, men in straw hats and tight jeans, you smile for her future here in the dawn of hiphop America where the highway has kept its promise. |