The rental car’s spinning wheels were greeted by Interstate 40 with the smooth invitation of a well kept, gumless Skate Odyssey. The tar gleamed, impeccable, histrionically revealing the contrast of newly painted lines which called me, hissing, “Come on, this way” like siren arrows. I recaptured my gaze in time to see one pig snout penetrating a truck’s cage like a flasher. Looking up, I saw more, an infinity of snouts, curly tails, and flapping pink ears popping through the bars of their speeding pigpen. The ears waved, beckoning, “Welcome, it’s safe here.” A sign reported, matter-of-factly, “Littering is illegal” “$1000 fine max”. Just ahead, a few dozen teams of dark skinned Black and Latino workers stuffed poles full of litter into white trash bags under the shade of a “Natural Light” billboard. Identical uniforms (olive pants, bleached white shirts) were covered by fluorescent orange and yellow vests which drew attention to Black lettering across their backs identifying their rank and class: “Inmate”. They, too, recognized me, I saw them wink their assurance as the car passed, ruffling the orange mesh of their vests while their white and gold teeth glinted in the sun. The brilliant blue of the Pepsi Cola bottling plant, the always dilapidated look of ML King Jr. Drive finally led me to the glowing centerpieces- the angry middle fingers of Winston-Salem; the former Wachovia’s phallus building and the tall, narrow brick smokestacks boldly labeled “RJ Reynolds” my Alma Matter.