Truck Stop Weary, Numero Uno

He may be young, but he’s hardly fresh.  With no woman to put his arm around, he chooses the coin-operated TV, with a screen smaller than a Kindle.  It’s 2am, and he just filled up the tank of his 18-wheeler.  At $3.50 per gallon of diesel fuel, and a 300 gallon tank, that was about a grand.  But don’t worry; he gets 5.5 miles per gallon.  Excuse me?  No wonder he looks miffed.

Sally just took his order, and will be right back to top off his coffee.  He hasn’t exercised in weeks years, he spends all day hunched over the wheel, and he neglected to take his multivitamin this morning.  But do you think he ordered the Cobb Salad?  No, sir.  Would you order the Cobb Salad if you just spent an hour adjusting your rear tandems because the moron who loaded your truck put all the weight in the back?  I didn’t think so.  He ordered the fried beige basket–you know, filled with french fries and fried meat, with a side of toast and gravy–the kind that keeps Dairy Queen (and cardiologists) in business.

Dang, I picked the wrong day to fast.

Now can we just talk about that enchanting clock for a sec?  Some mastercraftsman took a piece of wood and rendered an awesome image, and if Billy weren’t so damn jaded, he’d turn around and recognize.  Maybe he needs a little Savior’s hand on his left shoulder.  What do you think, Billy?

There’s a place not far from here.  Get your bearings, get a message.  They’ll set you straight.

McDonough, Georgia 1987