anymore.”
“Because most of their poetry stank. You’ll write better,” she declared, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. “Stick out your chin.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. No. I respect my elders and all that, and you’ve been especially kind, but I won’t glue a beard on my chin. I don’t want to look like Maynard G. Krebs.”
“Who is Maynard G. Krebs?”
“He was Dobie Gillis’s friend on that old TV series maybe fifty years ago, they’re always rerunning it somewhere.”
“You don’t look like a lard-ass couch potato.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m not. It’s just that everything sticks with me, like even the name of Dobie Gillis’s friend.”
She beamed with obvious delight as she screwed the cap back onto the bottle. “You’re such a nice boy—and a genius, too.”
“Not a genius. Far from it. I just have a sticky mind.” I reached out to shake her hand. “Good-bye, good luck, God bless.”
Patting my hand instead of shaking it, Mrs. Fischer said, “Take your time. I’ve got a good book to read.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I know I’m not coming back to you.”
“Of course you are. You’re my chauffeur.”
“I don’t want to put your life at risk.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, child. You’re a
good
driver.”
“I mean, I have dangerous enemies.”
“Everyone does, dear. Now, go have fun playing Miss Marple, and I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
Six
----
IN PLAID CAP AND SUNGLASSES, LOOKING LIKE A PRETEND Scottish poet golfer who left his chin beard at home, I approached the front doors of Star Truck. They slid open automatically with a pneumatic hiss, which seemed to be an expression of disdain at my appearance.
I was in a kind of lobby, a spotless space, about twenty feet wide and thirty long. As outside, the walls were clad in stainless steel, but up close, I could confirm that it was plastic, excellent fake steel but fake nonetheless.
To the left were glass doors under a red plastic sign that announced TRAVEL STORE in white letters. They sold everything from wrench sets to cushioned insoles, racy postcards to Bibles, audio books to zinc ointment. My psychic magnetism gave no indication that the rhinestone cowboy could be found in there.
The restaurant, to my left, would be divided into one area for ordinary motorists and another for professional drivers, who received quicker service. In this strange age of eager victims, no doubt there is always a legal action grinding through the courts, seekingto prohibit the partitioning of customers at truck stops, to forbid the serving of such high-cholesterol fare as cheese meatloaf, to require other choices besides country music on the jukebox, and to disallow trucker slang that can’t be understood by nontrucker customers.
In the center of the lobby stood a square kiosk, on each side of which a map revealed where to find the many services offered by Star Truck. The map wouldn’t help me locate the rhinestone cowboy, since it didn’t have a moving, blinking indicator light labeled PSYCHOPATH .
Beyond the lobby lay a wide corridor flanked by a large videogame arcade, a barbershop, a combination bakery and ice-cream store, a gift shop.… Except for the store windows and glass doors, almost every surface, from floor to ceiling, was either plastic or vinyl, almost seamless, bright and smooth and clean. These days, whether part of a chain or a family operation, most truck stops looked as if they had been extruded on site in a single continuous piece from a machine of fantastic proportions and capabilities.
Nevertheless, the place had a welcoming air, partly because everything was clean and bright, but also because so many of the truckers I passed looked like everybody’s favorite uncle or buddy in one movie or another. They tended to be beefy men with ruddy faces and work-worn hands. Most wore jeans or khakis, T-shirts or polos. Some had more John Wayne style than others, but
“Because most of their poetry stank. You’ll write better,” she declared, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. “Stick out your chin.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. No. I respect my elders and all that, and you’ve been especially kind, but I won’t glue a beard on my chin. I don’t want to look like Maynard G. Krebs.”
“Who is Maynard G. Krebs?”
“He was Dobie Gillis’s friend on that old TV series maybe fifty years ago, they’re always rerunning it somewhere.”
“You don’t look like a lard-ass couch potato.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m not. It’s just that everything sticks with me, like even the name of Dobie Gillis’s friend.”
She beamed with obvious delight as she screwed the cap back onto the bottle. “You’re such a nice boy—and a genius, too.”
“Not a genius. Far from it. I just have a sticky mind.” I reached out to shake her hand. “Good-bye, good luck, God bless.”
Patting my hand instead of shaking it, Mrs. Fischer said, “Take your time. I’ve got a good book to read.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I know I’m not coming back to you.”
“Of course you are. You’re my chauffeur.”
“I don’t want to put your life at risk.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, child. You’re a
good
driver.”
“I mean, I have dangerous enemies.”
“Everyone does, dear. Now, go have fun playing Miss Marple, and I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
Six
----
IN PLAID CAP AND SUNGLASSES, LOOKING LIKE A PRETEND Scottish poet golfer who left his chin beard at home, I approached the front doors of Star Truck. They slid open automatically with a pneumatic hiss, which seemed to be an expression of disdain at my appearance.
I was in a kind of lobby, a spotless space, about twenty feet wide and thirty long. As outside, the walls were clad in stainless steel, but up close, I could confirm that it was plastic, excellent fake steel but fake nonetheless.
To the left were glass doors under a red plastic sign that announced TRAVEL STORE in white letters. They sold everything from wrench sets to cushioned insoles, racy postcards to Bibles, audio books to zinc ointment. My psychic magnetism gave no indication that the rhinestone cowboy could be found in there.
The restaurant, to my left, would be divided into one area for ordinary motorists and another for professional drivers, who received quicker service. In this strange age of eager victims, no doubt there is always a legal action grinding through the courts, seekingto prohibit the partitioning of customers at truck stops, to forbid the serving of such high-cholesterol fare as cheese meatloaf, to require other choices besides country music on the jukebox, and to disallow trucker slang that can’t be understood by nontrucker customers.
In the center of the lobby stood a square kiosk, on each side of which a map revealed where to find the many services offered by Star Truck. The map wouldn’t help me locate the rhinestone cowboy, since it didn’t have a moving, blinking indicator light labeled PSYCHOPATH .
Beyond the lobby lay a wide corridor flanked by a large videogame arcade, a barbershop, a combination bakery and ice-cream store, a gift shop.… Except for the store windows and glass doors, almost every surface, from floor to ceiling, was either plastic or vinyl, almost seamless, bright and smooth and clean. These days, whether part of a chain or a family operation, most truck stops looked as if they had been extruded on site in a single continuous piece from a machine of fantastic proportions and capabilities.
Nevertheless, the place had a welcoming air, partly because everything was clean and bright, but also because so many of the truckers I passed looked like everybody’s favorite uncle or buddy in one movie or another. They tended to be beefy men with ruddy faces and work-worn hands. Most wore jeans or khakis, T-shirts or polos. Some had more John Wayne style than others, but
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