Had a late one last night. I was on my way home from Salt Lake City when I stopped for a coffee and an oil change at the I-80 truck stop. East-bound on my way to Chicago, I had about three and a half hours to make the trip or I'd be marooned at a rest stop somewhere in western Illinois: an 8-hour lay-over in close proximity to the traveling salesmen, RV retirees, perverts, and homos. These days, with rev limiters and electronic logs, it's getting harder and harder to avoid long nights alone in parking lots surrounded by other rigs and kept awake by the sound of their idling engines and the occasional knock on the door from 16-year old lot lizards, who call themselves milkshake and flora, and offer to sit on your face for fifteen or twenty dollars. I don't know why, but it's getting more and more difficult not to be mistaken for a scum bag.
I told the kid at the service station to mind my new floor mats after I gave him the keys to my truck. He said, "No problem Mr. . . ", and then he looked for my name on the service order. When he found it, he paused and looked at me, then said, "No problem, sir." I told him thanks and that I'd be back in an hour. Then I walked across the parking lot to Grandma's Kitchen. I sat up front at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee from a woman who looked about 50 and like she'd seen her share of harsh winters out here on the Iowa plains, maybe seen her share of old truckers, too--in for a night, beat to their socks and road weary, 1000 miles and years and years from home. I've seen women like her all over the counrty, from tampa to fargo, LA to Boston and all the expansive, bleak, echoless, vast space between. I remembered how pretty they all seemed when I was young, just home from nam, but now they all seemed to be getting older. I guess I was getting older, too.
After I finished my coffee, I went to the bathroom, and while I was washing my hands, I looked into the mirror. Under the bright, pale light, I was surprised by my reflection--the lines and scars, wrinkles and crooked bones, and I thought to myself, You are one ugly motherfucker.
I smiled at the waitress as I walked toward the door. She smiled back. When I got to the service station, the kid told me there'd been a problem with the waste-oil container and they wouldn't be able to drain my truck for a few hours. Another night, I thought, another night. I said, Ok kid." And he nodded, and I walked away. I thought about going back to Grandma's Kitchen and asking the waitress what she was doing after her shift was up, but I decided not to, that she'd seen her fair share of old boys like me, and now probably prefered a shower and a cup of coffee to a long night of whiskey shots and country music. I got a bottle and walked to the edge of the truck stop near a barbed wire fence and the miles of farm land beyond. I found a nice spot to sit, and then drank until I got a buzz. Then I saw a storm coming in on the western horizon, so I took off my clothes and jumped the fence, and walked until I found a small measure of peace and comfort on a small patch of grass in the middle of a field, and then the rain came and washed it all away.
