We spent last night in a truck stop. I’ve never done that before, but I figured its actually a safe place to stop for the night as I can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside. I can tell you that our waitress is left-handed and the guy sitting up at the counter weighs two hundred fifteen pounds and knows how to handle himself. I know the best place to look for a gun is the cab of the gray truck outside, and at this altitude, I can run flat out for a half mile before my hands start shaking. Now why would I know that? How can I know that and not know who I am?
Truckers carry guns. Science Fact. If Jason Bourne says so, that's good enough for me.
The thing that enticed us was the promise of vending machines, but their glass facades and no quarters acted as barriers twixt us and the trans-fatty carb-heavy chocolate paradises they held within. 24 wheelers pulled in next to us, dwarfing our behemoth of a home and somehow making it look cute. There were restrooms but no showers. We stink.
1 year ago
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