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, seeking to 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 video-game 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 most of them boasted at least one cowboy touch: a Stetson instead of the widely preferred baseball cap with trucking-related logo, a bronze bucking-horse belt buckle, cowboy boots instead of engineer boots or athletic shoes. Large bellies, where they overhung belts, somehow did not appear sloppy but seemed instead to be armor against a hostile world, and whether thin or heavy, these men looked as though they could take care of business, no matter what the business might be.
A few glanced at me, some nodded, and a couple of them smiled thinly. Most ignored me, perhaps because the stupid cap and the sunglasses indoors suggested that I might be problematic.
Of course, after a half decade of economic chaos and societal decay, the once robust fellowship of truckers had been tattered by competition for routes and loads, by the high cost of fuel, by the deteriorating condition of highways, and by an avalanche of new laws governing their jobs that made the freedom of the open road less free. Camaraderie had once been encouraged by CB radios, by a shared Americanism, and by simple faith. These days, their faith was everywhere mocked, their America seemed to be rusting away, and they turned inward more than they had once done.
Women truckers had been in the mix for quite a few years: Some were the wives of their co-drivers, some partnered with another woman, and a few were brave and alone. Like people everywhere, they came in all kinds of packages, but they tended to be prettier than most people supposed women truckers would be. All those I encountered on my ramblings through Star Truck smiled at me, every single one.
I figured I looked amusingly idiotic. But even after I took off the cap and turned the sunglasses to the top of my head, the ladies still smiled at me. I don’t know why. Nothing was hanging out of my nose. My traveling tongue didn’t discover a shred of breakfast ham or anything else wedged between my teeth.