Mosquitoland(24)

Glenda sighs. “Seven.”

Jackpot.

Even though Cincinnati is something like twenty minutes away, our driver (whose name I’ve already forgotten, but I assure you is the very opposite of Carl) insisted on stopping for pie. That’s right. Pie. Over the microphone, he’d announced that Jane’s Diner had the best pie this side of the Mighty Mississippi, and that he’d be a monkey’s uncle if he was gonna pass right by without helping himself to a slice, and that if we knew what was good for us, we’d help ourselves to a slice, too, and that we’d surely be thanking him later.

Naturally, I decided never to eat pie again. As luck would have it, across the street from Jane’s was this little place called—I kid you not—Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus. I could not resist. (And really, why would I want to?)

Glenda scoops, I pay, and a few minutes later, I carry my double-chocolate-espresso-chip-raspberry-mint-caramel-lemon waffle cone across the street, the happiest girl this side of the mighty effing Pacific.

A patrol car is flashing lights in the parking lot of Jane’s Diner. There doesn’t seem to be any commotion, but a cop is giving someone a stern talking-to in the back seat.

I lean against the bus and watch my fellow passengers through the window of Jane’s Diner. It’s one of those trailers without wheels, which I never really understood.

Removing a vehicle’s wheels in order to make it a stationary venue makes about as much sense as buying a bed, then using the wood to make a chair. But this isn’t what bugs me most about Jane’s Diner. What bugs me most is the sign on the front door.

“COME ON IN,” WE’RE OPEN

I chuckle mid-lick. People just can’t help themselves when it comes to quotation marks. As if they’re completely paralyzed by this particular punctuation. I guess it’s really not that big of a deal, but it does seem to be a widespread brand of easily avoidable buffoonery.

Through the window, I scan the crowd for Poncho Man, but I don’t see him anywhere. No matter. In less than an hour, it’s adios anyway.

“I done knowed that, Purje. You ain’t listenin’.”

A couple wearing matching cowboy hats exits Jane’s Diner, their voices covering serious ground.

“I am too, darlin’, but iffin’ you cain’t getter done here in Independence, you cain’t getter done nowheres.”

I choke on a tart lick of lemon.

“Ahhhhh, sheetfahr, Purje, jus’ shut up and listen fer a sec.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Did you say Independence?”

They look at me as if they’d just as soon shoot me. A wad of tobacco comes flying out of the man’s mouth, landing inches from my precious high-tops.

Enchanté, Purje.

“So what’f we did?”

Oh my God, they did. I’m here. Home of Ahab, Arlene’s nephew, the champion swimmer turned gas station tycoon. Across the overpass, there’re at least four gas stations—it could be any one of them.

“Listen,” says the one called Purje, “this here’s one o’th’great frontier towns in all ’merica. I’ll kiss a monkey’s ass ’for I’ll listen to ya denigratin’ Independence.”

I take a second to appreciate the fact that this man can’t pronounce America but knows the word denigrate. The woman sticks her right hand in her vest pocket, and for a minute, I’m legitimately afraid she’s packing heat. Instead of a gun, she pulls out a flask, takes a long swig, passes it to Purje.

“Of course not, sir. I would never. Independence seems like a charming little town. I just . . .”

The land of autonomy.

“You jus’?” says Purje, eyeballing me.

From the relative comfort of my bus seat, the decision to ditch the Greyhound had been a fairly easy one, the prospect of hitchhiking to Cleveland sounded downright adventurous. But gazing around rural Kentucky, the realities of my plan settle in my stomach like a brick.

“Th’ hell’s wrong with her, Purje?” whispers the woman.

Purje shakes his head.

I toss the rest of my ice-cream cone on the ground and start toward the bus door. “Thanks, guys. Keep it classy.”

Hopping up the steps, I picture Arlene—a grande dame from the old school, mistress of geriatric panache, and my friend—clutching that wooden box for dear life. And a dear life it was. Now I have the opportunity to deliver that box, to finish what she started, to honor her dear life.

I have the chance to complete Arlene’s Objective.

And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna take it.

I grab my backpack from the overhead compartment and start back down the aisle, when a voice stops me on a dime.

“You skipping out?”

At the top of the stairs, I turn and see 17C (heart be still) propped on his knees in a seat toward the back of the otherwise empty bus. He’s holding his camera next to the window; it’s obvious I’ve interrupted some kind of photo shoot.

“What?” I whisper, suddenly wondering what the hell I’d been thinking, cutting my own hair.

“I asked if you were skipping out,” he said.

I step into the aisle, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. It’s a simple question requiring a simple answer, but for the moment, my tongue seems vacuum-sealed to the roof of my mouth. I’m pretty certain I need a nose job, and my armpits itch, which—what the hell?