Mosquitoland(18)

Because you’ve referenced The Lord of the Rings twice before lunch, or because you’re talking to yourself?

I have to admit, I’ve got me there.

A couple of hours later, we pull off for lunch at a remote exit; Carl gets on the mic and goes through his spiel about not leaving valuables on the bus, and how much time we have at this stop. “If you ain’t back in forty-five minutes, I’ll assume you found yo’self a ride. We’re an hour from Nashville, and this time, we’ll be on time. I ain’t your mama, and I will leave without you.”

Attaboy, Carl.

Once off the bus, someone asks about the restaurant, to which Carl points at a sign over a nearby gas station door.

ED’S PLACE: CHICKEN-N-GAS

The image in my brain is unsettling to say the least: Ed, a disgruntled Vietnam vet, stands over a stove with two ashy cigarillos hanging from either side of his mouth; he’s stirring a giant pot of his famous chicken-petroleum soup. It makes sense, too, because where I’ve had good luck with Carls, I’ve never met a single Ed I didn’t want to ninja to death. They’re scoundrels through and through. I enter Ed’s Place not with an attitude of optimism but with an attitude of ninja-ism.

There are four tables, each with checkered paper tablecloths. I wait until Poncho Man sits, and then pick the table farthest from him. Unfortunately, they’re all pretty close together.

“Mim!” he whispers. Pointing to my hair, he gives a thumbs-up. “Looks great!”

I throw on my most sarcastic smile, give him a thumbs-up, and slowly raise my middle finger. A bald man with a biker beard and apron hobbles over to Poncho Man’s table and greets him by name. “Hey, Joe, want the regular?” Poncho Man smiles, nods, then carries on a short, albeit jovial-looking conversation with the guy.

He’s been here before.

I don’t have a chance to process this information fully before the Bald Biker Beard is at our table taking drink orders.

“What kind of coffee do you have?” I ask.

“What kind?” says the waiter, only he says it like, Wit kand?

“Yeah, I mean, Ethiopian, Kona—it’s not Colombian, is it?”

Under his beard, the waiter’s jaws are chomping something, presumably a piece of gum. After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, I spot the name sewn on his shirt pocket: ED.

And all is right with the world.

“Never mind.” I sigh. “I’ll just have a chicken sandwich, please.”

“Ain’t got chicken sammich.”

I choose a smile over a judo chop. “The subtitle of your establishment indicates otherwise.”

He raises an eyebrow, chomps, says nothing.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Burger?”

“What’d you wanna drink?” he asks.

“Orange soda. Please.”

“We got grape. We got Coke. We got milk.”

“Milk? Really?” I hate this place. “Fine, I’ll have . . . grape soda, I guess.”

Ed goes around the table, takes everyone’s order, then shuffles off. In order to avoid the uncomfortable nearness of strangers, I thumb through the thick envelope of vouchers from Greyhound. One coupon offers a half-price massage at some mall in Topeka. The next is for a free go-cart ride at a place called the Dayton 500. The only coupons of any real value are three free nights at a Holiday Inn, a fifteen-dollar gift card to Cracker Barrel, and a few Greyhound vouchers. Fair trade, I suppose, for almost murdering us.

After maybe ten minutes, a tray of food crashes into the middle of the table. Ed leans over my shoulder, his beard brushing my face, and tosses a plate at each person in turn, announcing the orders as he goes. “And last but not least,” he looks down at me, not with a twinkle in his eye, but a twinkle in his voice. “A gourmet burger for the little lady. And a milk to warsh it down.”

“I didn’t ord—”

“Bone-appeteet!” he says, hobbling away with a maniacal laugh.

I poke at the burger, which could probably double as a hockey puck. Choking down half of it with the milk, I push my plate away. I’ll eat in Nashville.

Carl announces a fifteen-minute warning; I grab my bag and follow a long hallway toward the back of Ed’s Place. The restroom is a two-staller with a filthy sink, foggy mirror, and wallpaper of creative expletives. I deadbolt the door, hang my bag on a hook, and, careful not to touch anything, pee in record time. After washing my hands, I unzip my bag, and just as I’m about to add the vouchers to Kathy’s coffee can, I hear it—a cough.

Just one. Quiet. Timid, almost. But definitely a cough.

Cash in hand, I peek underneath the stall divider. There, in the second stall—one penny loafer, one too-big sneaker.

What the hell . . . ?

Slowly, the shoes shift, and the door swings open. Poncho Man smiles at me, briefly glancing at the cash in my hand. “Hello, Mim.”

Still kneeling, I remain frozen, reduced to the role of Busty Blonde in my own slasher. “What are you doing in here?” I ask. His leg brushes my knee as he steps to the faucet and runs his hands under the water. Thinking back, I don’t remember a flush.

“Oh, I find the ladies’ room to be much more serene. You should see the men’s room. Makes this dump look like the Ritz.” He wipes his hands on his poncho, then turns toward me and tilts his head. “I meant what I said, Mim. Your haircut is beautiful. And also, sort of—inevitable? Is that the right word?”