January 29, 2005
By George K. George
We don’t get them coming through too much. Hell, Denny’s is hardly a stop for truckers, but it is called Denny’s Truck Stop. It’s not a Denny’s with seventeen different breakfast specials and a non-smoking section like the big chain and all. You can get your eggs five ways, and it sure does have a cute waitress or two though. Ain’t on a main vein out here so a trucker will only pull in just a few times a week. This leaves Denny’s Truck Stop as more of a Denny’s Family Restaurant for the folks in town here--most of the time. Guess it’s kinda like Denny’s like the big one after it all. No place to sit without the smoke hazing over you in here though.
The one that just walked in don’t look like most of them. Looks more like a salesman. No tie or nothing though. Just neat-like clothes and a flashy sport coat. Mighta thought he was a lost traveler if he hadn’ta asked where he shoulda parked his rig. Rig. He looks more like he’d be driving an Audi. Guess he’s parked alright, says the waitress anyway. It’s not Winter so’s he got’s to go back outside to cut the ignition on his rig. Rig. He said it again.
The truck stop is pretty empty; it is pretty late. Me and Betty are sitting there in booth eight when the trucker comes back in.
“Seat yourself. Coffee?” Sue (that’s the waitress) hollers from behind the counter.
“Howdy Stranger!” comes a scraggly voice that missed puberty. That’s Chuck. He’s half retarded, we think, and he sits at the counter most nights drinking Pepsis and pouring sugar packets down his throat. He gives that “Howdy Stranger” shit to all the customers that come in whether he knows them or not. Most say he don’t differentiate between people real well, but I think he’s up to something. Any day he’ll start etching the Unified Theory of Everything into the Formica with a spoon handle fer sure.
The trucker puts his coat down all nice on a bench and pats it around real tender-like. He sits down across from it in the booth and starts fumbling around with the menu. Nothing too weird from this guy yet, except the truck stop is real empty, and he’s sitting one booth down facing away. His head is almost touching Betty’s from the behind. Most truckers will go sit at the counter, but maybe he’s a little scared to get in a conversation with Chuck over there. Betty scooches forward when the trucker lights a cigarette. Damn does that smell good, and it smells like he smokes my old brand. It’s been ‘bout a year since I smoked last. Betty, that good little church girl, has changed me. When she insisted on writing our’s own wedding vows, she put this line in there: “To stray from the ways of foul habits, which destroy the elegance of a kiss.” I said if that’s yer game, how’s about “To take moderation in moderation and indulge in the frequent break from temperance.” Well, she wrote it up, but it was my idea. Real good with words, Betty is. Anyways, the deal was that I’d give up my smoking if she gave up sobriety.
Sue comes back with a cup of coffee for our cozy neighbor and takes out her little green pad of checks from her apron. “What can I getcha?” she says to the guy. She starts smiling with one of those smiles that remind me of the days we went to grade school together. Don’t get me wrong with what I’m gonna say; she’s still real pretty. But little girls, when you’re young like them too, can look just like they fell down outta the clouds up there in Heaven. Then it happens. Kinda like the ugly duckling story in reverse--but not to say she’s ugly or nothing. Age just ain’t done her well, and she got this tight perm now that just ain’t right. All those cigarettes probably did something too. Means my Betty might stay sweet to my eyes for a few more years yet.
“Uh, do you cook with animal fat or vegetable oil in your fryers?” the trucker with the rig out front asks Sue.
“I could check...” Sue bites down hard on her pen.
“Please do.”
Sue kinda swings around and skips to the swinging doors to the kitchen. May not look nothing like one, but still is a kid.
But¾of all the jackass... I dunno, maybe he’s allergic to something in one or the other, but I’m suspecting he’s one of those animal rights, trash-sorting vegetarians. Now, my hairs been down past my shoulders before. You know, when that was the hip thing. Whee, there were drugs too. But then I grew out of it like most kids. Sick when a guy’s gotta be a protester when he’s all grown. Maybe having one of those crises. Anyway, he’s smoking a cigarette, and that’s just hypocrisy if you’re into just veggies and doing it for your health.
Sue’s skipping back up now. “It’s lard,” she says.
“I’ll have the fish sandwich, then.”
“That’s fried in the lard,” Sue twists on one foot.
“Okay,” says the guy.
“Great!” Sue’s face burst brightly into another one of those smiles I was talking about. The man strokes his face and puts out his cigarette.
My coffee’s getting low, so I call Sue over with the pot. The ceiling fan hums. You can hear Chuck ripping open them sugar packets. Betty’s just staring down into her cup. I once made the suggestion to get some music in this place. I swear I can hear the flies buzzing around in the kitchen sometimes. A jukebox or something. That would get the kids in here to make up for the truckers taking the northern Interstate and not these back roads.
A quiet minute starts up; I hear every tinkle when Sue pours my cup. I’m listening to my brain squealing, and I don’t hear Sue ask Betty if she needs a refill. Betty’s pretty zoned out now, too. Sue’s gotta ask her twice about the coffee. I can tell the girl’s real tired. It was quite a tequila Tuesday back at the house. We thought we’d jack up on coffee and watch the sunrise up in the hills somewhere to top it off, but I don’t know if the poor girl’s gonna make it.
“Drink up, baby,” I say to her.
Betty just stares at me. She is one cute muffin most of the time. Like when I stare back, like right now, and I’m locked into that face. When all you see is pretty like that, it’s hard to think of nothing much else.
“Okay, baby,” she says and takes the cup in both hands, like a cute raccoon or something. Just when she’s setting her cup back down, our truck driver scratches something on the back of his neck and manages to swat the back of Betty’s head real good. I even hear a knock. Betty’s cup jiggles enough to make some coffee splatter there on the table.
“Excuse me,” says the truck driver.
“S’alright,” says Betty.
“Didn’t mean to bump you, do you need an extra napkin?” and he flitters one between his two fingers.
“Thank you,” says Betty, who snatches the napkin.
“Can operate three clutches like a charm, but still a klutz I am.”
Braggart. Next he’s gonna tell us just how far he worked those clutches to get here. I’d be impressed if he’s hauling ‘frigerators or Audis, maybe. I woulda said he’s hauling for a health food store, but he was all about the lard just now. I’m wondering what that question was for, dammit. He asked if it was “animal fat” or “vegetable oil” then was just fine and thankya dandy with the lard over the veggie stuff. Maybe he’s got a taste for the real thing. Like he prefers the taste of fish boiled in lard and woulda gotten himself an omelet if’n the grease been anything else. Still, I’m getting a weird feeling about this guy.
“It’s alright,” Betty says to the guy again.
“Really sorry,” he says, flittering another napkin as Betty’s wiping the table dry.
“It’s not like it was boiling lard in her cup,” I say.
“They don’t serve boiling lard here, do they, sir?” he says.
“Not as a beverage, but maybe you’d like that,” I say.
The man takes in a deep breath and moves around in his seat all uncomfortable. Sue comes out with a plate with the trucker’s fish sandwich garnished up.
“Guess that will have to do for now.” I say.
“If I was in the mood for straight vegetable grease I’d siphon my fuel tank into a flask,” the guy says to me.
Now, I never took no chemistry, but I know a little about cars. What this guy just said to me didn’t jive right away, but I got it. Trucks run on diesel, which is refined fossil fuel. Fossils of like, vegetables and things underground are what makes the fuel in his truck. So I guess he’s trying to be clever.
“That’s clever,” I say.
“We could fry some potatoes in it too then.” he says.
Now what? I know what the fries in this place taste like when ol’ Denny don’t change the grease traps fer a day or two, and it’s all old and sludgy. Ain’t too much different than diesel.
“Might taste mighty bold, don’tcha think?” I say.
“Yeah, all my grease has been used before.”
By this time I know he’s trying to tell me something. This beating ‘round the bush is getting to me.
“Diesel fuel fries, eh?” I say.
“Nah, my rig runs on vegetable oil.”
“Bullshit,” I say. I knew this guy had a screw loose. Try to have a conversation with the guy and he turns out to be a lying wise-ass. Come to Denny’s fer just some coffee with your wife on a Wednesday morning and some speed-jacked trucker’s got to try to mess with your head. We get a lot of them drug geeked ones; usually all of ‘em are that way.
“No, really,” the trucker takes his sandwich in one hand and puts his feet up on the seat so’s he can face us. Chomps down on the fish and chews with his mouth open. I can hear the smacking. I expect a little explanation or something, but after he swallows that bite, he breathes heavy-like and takes an even bigger bite. Guess he’s still in the mood to act all reserved about the subject.
“Veggie oil. What’s this geeked out--” I start whispering to Betty so the trucker can hear me. Betty’s doesn’t look up; she’s got her elbows on the table and her face all squashed up into her hands. Just breathes different when I whisper.
“Corn mostly,” the trucker says.
“Corn!” That’s Chuck again, chiming in with some retardation.
“A little canola too. Restaurants use different formulas.” says the trucker.
“Cano-la!”
“Chuck!” I shout.
“Sor-ry.”
“Smells terrible when it burns, but it’s cleaner than diesel. And we’ll never run out of corn.” Guess we got this guy bullshittin’.
Sue comes out with a cigarette and a big pot of coffee. “Coffee anyone? Feel lucky; I’m on break.”
“Sue, no thankya--guy with the rig, tell this ‘ere waitress what you just told me,” I say.
Sue gets embarrassed easy, and now she’s just a shade shy of Satan himself. Hates getting singled out and stuff. I remember in third grade she pissed herself when all of us had to sing solos in music class. I find out later she’s embarrassed just now for a different reason, but that’s another thing.*
“My truck burns used fryer grease--if it’s vegetable oil,” he stutters around.
“How interesting... Like in the back?” Sue actually says to him.
Now the trucker’s all red. “No, no,” he stutters. He moves his hands around in front of Sue like it’s gonna help make her get it. She backs up a step, frowning now, and that makes him flinch and put his hands down all quick. Nothing like watching two idiots try to relate to each other.
“It uses it to run, like gas,” he says.
“Wow,” says Sue, smiling now. The trucker breaks into a grin too, and looks at me like Sue’s wow proves it. Like hell. Sue puts the coffee pot right down on our table between me and Betty, and she leans by the booth divider all relaxing-like.
“So where you comin’ from, trucker?” Sue asks, twisting a permed corkscrew around her pinky.
Betty puts her feet up like the trucker did and shuts her eyes. Betty sure can’t hold her liquor. Little girl’s got to mix it with coffee just to make it ‘til two. Clock says it’s going on four-thirty. C’mon girl, just another hour ‘til sunrise.
“Iowa,” the trucker says.
“Iowa-a-a...”
Sue and me yell at Chuck to pipe down. Betty looks up all startled. Guess she was dozing. She whimpers adorable and scrunches down tight into the corner of the booth to have at her nap again.
“Wow, Iowa,” and she don’t seem to be faking to sound interested or nothing either, like she usually does. Sue’s easily impressed I guess. She was going with this Army guy for a while, and she hung on the him like a sloth hangs on bamboo or whatever them hang on. Keeped telling everyone he was her “military man.” Hell, the guy was only a Private and the Army’s like the last to go over to any place hot. Mostly just keep them around for cleaning up after twisters, but we’re a little west for those. National Guard... Oh Lord, save us from a hillbilly attack. Stupid.
“I work for Alternative Source Solutions out of--” the guy starts to say, but I’m quick.
“That spells ass,” I say.
Sue tells Chuck, who’s giggling, to shush up.
“...Out of New Mexico,” he gets done with his sentence and just, like, stares at me blank. Then Sue just leaves the coffee pot on our table, probably burning a ring down in there. She kinda dances over and sits across from the trucker.
“Are you like a scientist er somethin’?” she asks the guy real interested-like.
The guy lights a cigarette, and so does Sue, settling in and that.
“Nah,” the guy says like he’s trying to be cool about it, “Just a field representative.” he says. Big job titles like field representative and military intelligence expert get Sue all turned up or something. Her mouth is all in a gasp and she’s nodding like a peacock does when them walk ‘round in the coop.
“I have a route through five states, filling my tanker with grease from restaurants. It’s the fuel of the future.”
Corn oil cars don’t sound like nothing like the future. Never read no science fiction back in Junior High ‘bout nothing but nuclear as the new thing. We got us hooked up on the grid to a nuke plant off west somewhere’s now. This trucker’s gotta be whacked on something, telling this tall one to impress pretty ol’ Sue.
“Uh huh,” she’s into him, I can tell it, moving her butt around in the seat to get more comfortable. She done that in grade school too, but it was cuter then. Now she comes off like a ditz who can’t sit herself still.
I musta sat there for a half hour er so, just listening to the guy shoot off about himself and his supposed corn oil career thing. Got his story down pretty good, he does. Probably a schizo on top of the drugs. Betty’s mouth is frowned open and she’s heaving’ in the smoked-up air pretty heavy. Must be asleepin’ through the show. Don’t need to be hearing this foolishness anyways. I kick her light-like under the table and throw down three-fifty fer the coffees. Then we pack up and make for the parking lot. Sue keeps gabbing with the trucker and don’t even notice us leavin’.
There’s a truck all right, right in the lot out front. Little one-piece tanker. Can’t call no truck that don’t swing a trailer no “rig” though. Don’t see no flammable hazard stickers or nothing. Man, I dunno.
Betty and me drive on up to the hills and find that lookout where we done first laid lips on each other. She keeped telling me I taste like an ashtray that night, but we keeped goin’ anyways. I’m laying on the hood looking out at them last bright stars that fade real slow in the mornin’. Betty’s snoring in the back seat, all tuckered out from the tequila. Shoulda asked that trucker fer one of his real pick-me-up goofballs for the girl. Just sitting here by myself, wish I had a cigarette just to play with in my fingers. That’s the thing ‘bout smokes; you ain’t never alone if you got ‘em. Told that line to Betty once. She’s all like, you got me now to not be alone with, or something like that. She talks like she can write though. All smooth and fancy-like.
Moon’s out too this morning. Start thinking ‘bout it like real hard. Thinking bout how tain’t never real full. Always got a slice outta it, even if’n we can’t see it. It’s ‘cause tain’t never lined up with the sun and this here planet real tight ‘less it’s in an eclipse. Ironic, ain’t it? Betty uses that word a lot, “ironic.” Picked it up quick, I did.
Ironic if I’d come across a corn-powered vehicle in a couple of years when me and Betty get the money to buy a new set of wheels. Maybe that ain’t the right use of the word ironic. I dunno, I’ll ask Betty when she’s waking herself up. Wish I had that Internet stuff to find that guy out fer sure.
Man, just look at that spectacular thing there. Just an orange ‘n yeller ‘splosion in the sky, looks like. Real bright; my eyes are watering. Big shining ball of burning space stuff. Wonder what makes it keep agoin’. Making the Spring grass grow real tall in the fields ‘round here, and the flowers and that. Heat and energy that just don’t stop. And we all couldn’t get by without the thing. Sure is pretty, too. Ya know, I mighta believed that guy if’n he was talking ‘bout solar power.
* Turns out Sue had the hots for the trucker guy. She gets all embarrassed about that kinda stuff too. The two of ‘em jabbered ‘til first shift came in, then went back to Sue’s place. Long story short, they eloped ‘n went off to live in New Mexico. The new waitress we got now ain’t nearly as cute. Damn corn oil totin’ bastard, that guy.
© Copyright 2005 George K. George