Oral Cartography

Weary from the drive, I should have known better than to trust Little Jim. It wasn't the mechanic's carefully pleated and pressed nose, a byproduct of many revelrous nights back in the service, but rather the peculiar brand of oral cartography practiced like a tired punchline. After a few days you'd think I'd expect it coming, but my claims of distant kinship are either regarded with the suspicion reserved for the revenuers of lost decades past or embraced for a false understanding of the secret codes punctuated in the local dialect. Regardless, my directions always beget a spiral of beguiling turns through the woods and hollows as landmarks slipped through a web of "can't miss" and "just past yonder."