Truck Stop

Truck Stop(Phil Whitley) PHONE-FOOD-GAS-LODGING the sign read as Brew thankfully exited onto the off-ramp. He had been driving for almost eight hours straight, and the gas gauge was bouncing on empty. Good thing, too, because he almost fell asleep about twenty miles back, when a semi passed him on the left, airhorns blaring. He had swerved into the emergency lane, then pulled cautiously back onto the highway—adrenalined back into full heart-pounding wakefulness.

A heavy fog was setting in as he pulled into the Little America Truck Stop—Diner—Rooms for the Night. After filling his tank and swiping his VISA card through the slot, he entered the diner.

The lone waitress, who looked an awful lot like the big-haired lady from the Longhorn Steakhouse commercial, waved him over to a table.

"Whatcha having, cowboy?" she asked in a whiskey-toughened voice.

"Steak and eggs with a pitcher of draft, Ma’am" Brew answered, still not quite over his near-death experience on the highway.

"Fresh outta eggs, partner. How about some grits instead?"

“Sure, that'll be fine," Brew said, looking over her shoulder at the picture on the wall behind the counter. It was a night scene of a section of highway that looked very familiar.

Too familiar, thought Brew, but from where?

On the right side of the road were skid marks going off the shoulder, and just the tail section of a semi leaving the top left-hand side of the picture.

That’s odd, he thought, because when he first noticed the picture, he could have sworn that the cab of the truck was in the frame.

Sitting there smoking a cigarette, he reflected over the many times he had almost "bought the farm" by driving too long, too drunk, or too distracted to not be a danger to himself or others on the road. It seemed that each time there was the feeling afterwards of having come through it, not by his superior driving skills, but by some other "Force" that had done the right thing at the right moment to save his hide.

When the waitress sloshed his pitcher of beer down in front of him, it snapped him back to the present.

"Law says I got leave two mugs for the brew. Tell `em your friend's in the john if anybody asks, okay?"

"Sure," said Brew as he filled both mugs. Looking up at the picture again he almost spilled the rest of the pitcher. There was no truck rear end in it. The road was now empty and there was a cloud of dust over the skid marks that left the paved surface. He wanted to ask someone else about it, but he was the only customer in the diner.

I must be more tired than I thought, he mused. Or it’s those 60's flashbacks kicking in, he almost said aloud.

The fog was getting worse outside. He could see it out the window, past his own reflection in the glass. Then he noticed that he could also see the picture on the wall behind him reflected there as well. Another car seemed to be in the center of the frame just where the skid marks had been.

That looks like MY car, he almost vocalized again. Turning around and looking at the picture again, he was interrupted by the waitress bringing his food.

"Is that one of those trick photography pictures there, Miss?"

"What, that old thing? she laughed. "It's just an old thing I picked up at a yard sale. I liked it because it was so plain. Just a section of road with half a truck a’showin'. It's just like the highway out front—for twenty miles in either direction."

When he looked back at the table in front of him, it was empty. No beer, no food… nothing! He turned again to stop the waitress.

She must be crazy! I haven't even finished the first mug. and that steak… it smelled so good.

When he stood to try to find her, he was suddenly outside in his car. That quick.

"How in the hell did I get out here?" he asked the empty parking lot, his voice sounding hollow and spooky—like something you would hear in a nightmare.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them. When he opened them, the truck stop was gone.

Even through this fog I should at least be able to see the lights…

He opened the door and got out. A truck passed by going at least seventy, its headlights briefly illuminating the area around him. He was off the shoulder of the road, and at least twenty feet from the road itself. Skid marks connected his rear wheels back to the emergency lane.

"God, what a dream," he said, not quite sure of THAT reality either.
I don’t even remember pulling off the road. He could still smell that steak, and he really did want a beer.

Getting back into his car, he was almost surprised when it cranked immediately. He pulled out onto the road and continued on towards the next exit.

"Gotta get gas and food and beer, doo-dah, doo-dah," he sang out the open window to the tune of “Camptown Races”.

"Well, THAT looks familiar," he said as he saw the sign up ahead.

PHONE-FOOD-GAS-LODGING

After filling his tank and swiping his VISA card through the slot, he went into the diner. The waitress, who looked an awful lot like the big-haired lady from the Longhorn Steakhouse commercial, waved him over to a table.

"Whatcha having, cowboy?" she asked in a whiskey-toughened voice.

With a feeling of dread, Brew looked up slowly at the picture behind the counter...

© 1965 by Phil Whitley