Dario Molina's alternative life scrolls by on both sides of Highway 101 north: acre upon acre of lettuce, spinach, heartbreak.
Not me, he thinks. Not anymore.
"Sometimes I reminisce," Molina says. "Damn, I remember working in that field. I remember that heat … that song. Now I'm just thinking, I just want to get over this."
He tucks a water bottle between his back and the driver's seat of his 1996 Civic to keep his lumbar muscles from stiffening as towns drift by: Greenfield, Soledad, Gonzalez, Chualar. Each as poor as the next. He turns east on an old farm road, then north, until the fields wash up against the east side of Salinas.
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