imitation of Bela Lugosi’s
Dracula
. Her voice echoed across the sandy streets. “Children of the night, I love you little fuckers!”
The diner was dark when I drove by. There was no dancing going on, and I had begun to doubt there ever had been.
J osh Arrons was waiting for me when I arrived the next morning. I didn’t have any idea what I thought a television producer would look like, but certainly over thirty, which he couldn’t have been. His blond hair was combed straight back in a way that highlighted his diamond stud earrings and dark sunglasses. A wispy little goatee dangled from his chin. He was impossibly slender but appeared fit. My first impulse was to ask him where Scooby-Doo was these days, except he was dressed like he’d been Dumpster diving behind the local Eddie Bauer outlet store.
We took care of the release and the agreement. He counted out the $750 in fifties and I signed a receipt. Bob the Station Supervisor hovered over his shoulder, grinning.
“Climb in,” I said. “We’ll be on our way.”
Bob, for some unknown reason, repeated exactly what I had just said.
“Are you going, too, Bob?” I asked. “If you are, the price just tripled.”
He grinned at me. “No,” he said, as if for a moment he had been considering it. “Just glad we all worked through the details.” He slapped Josh on the back. “It was touch-and-go there, right, Josh?”
“Right, Bob,” Josh answered. He glanced at Bob’s hand on his shoulder. “But the touching part is over. This man has work to do.”
Suddenly I was in danger of liking Josh.
Josh didn’t say a word and sat in the cab while I fueled. I got the cash discount on top of the one I got with my CDL card. It wasn’t until we had turned off 191 onto 117 that he reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. “Mind if I take some notes?” he asked.
I answered that I didn’t mind. He spoke into his cell phone for about five minutes. The date and time we left, the address of the transfer station, taking on diesel, even our average speed and the approximate time we turned onto 117. He ended with, “Driver, Ben Jones, owner and operator of Ben’s Desert Moon Delivery Service, Price, Utah.”
I admired his thoroughness.
As we passed the diner, he said, “That’s an interesting place. Ever stop there?”
“When I have to,” I said.
“It looks familiar.”
I laughed. I figured there was no harm in telling him about the movie years. But that was all I told him, nothing about Walt, Bernice, or the motorcycles. He listened and, I noticed, so did his cell phone, which he had pointed discreetly in my direction.
“Any chance you might introduce me to the owner?”
“Nope,” I said. “Even if I tried, he might not open his door. No story there. Just a cranky old man.”
Josh wanted to know how old Walt was. I knew exactly how old Walt was but I took my time answering. “Somewhere between eighty and a hundred.”
“Bet he has some stories to tell.”
“Maybe,” I said, “except no one will ever hear them. I expect his memory isn’t too sharp. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kicked off pretty soon.”
Josh stuck to the letter of our deal. He didn’t ask many questions and I answered even fewer.
The long miles ticked off through the desert while he made notes into his cell phone about things I had long since stopped noticing, like how the ground seems to reach outward in evenly spaced swells from the mesa to the Wasatch Range. He picked up on the fact that at a certain point the milepost markers disappeared and there were no telephone wires or utility poles along the shoulder. He was alert every minute of every mile. The few times we stopped to make a delivery, he not only stayed inside the cab, he pushed himself back in the seat so it would have been hard for anyone on the ground to see him.
Toward the end of our morning Josh stared out his window for a long time. From time to time he would shake his head. I could tell
Dracula
. Her voice echoed across the sandy streets. “Children of the night, I love you little fuckers!”
The diner was dark when I drove by. There was no dancing going on, and I had begun to doubt there ever had been.
J osh Arrons was waiting for me when I arrived the next morning. I didn’t have any idea what I thought a television producer would look like, but certainly over thirty, which he couldn’t have been. His blond hair was combed straight back in a way that highlighted his diamond stud earrings and dark sunglasses. A wispy little goatee dangled from his chin. He was impossibly slender but appeared fit. My first impulse was to ask him where Scooby-Doo was these days, except he was dressed like he’d been Dumpster diving behind the local Eddie Bauer outlet store.
We took care of the release and the agreement. He counted out the $750 in fifties and I signed a receipt. Bob the Station Supervisor hovered over his shoulder, grinning.
“Climb in,” I said. “We’ll be on our way.”
Bob, for some unknown reason, repeated exactly what I had just said.
“Are you going, too, Bob?” I asked. “If you are, the price just tripled.”
He grinned at me. “No,” he said, as if for a moment he had been considering it. “Just glad we all worked through the details.” He slapped Josh on the back. “It was touch-and-go there, right, Josh?”
“Right, Bob,” Josh answered. He glanced at Bob’s hand on his shoulder. “But the touching part is over. This man has work to do.”
Suddenly I was in danger of liking Josh.
Josh didn’t say a word and sat in the cab while I fueled. I got the cash discount on top of the one I got with my CDL card. It wasn’t until we had turned off 191 onto 117 that he reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. “Mind if I take some notes?” he asked.
I answered that I didn’t mind. He spoke into his cell phone for about five minutes. The date and time we left, the address of the transfer station, taking on diesel, even our average speed and the approximate time we turned onto 117. He ended with, “Driver, Ben Jones, owner and operator of Ben’s Desert Moon Delivery Service, Price, Utah.”
I admired his thoroughness.
As we passed the diner, he said, “That’s an interesting place. Ever stop there?”
“When I have to,” I said.
“It looks familiar.”
I laughed. I figured there was no harm in telling him about the movie years. But that was all I told him, nothing about Walt, Bernice, or the motorcycles. He listened and, I noticed, so did his cell phone, which he had pointed discreetly in my direction.
“Any chance you might introduce me to the owner?”
“Nope,” I said. “Even if I tried, he might not open his door. No story there. Just a cranky old man.”
Josh wanted to know how old Walt was. I knew exactly how old Walt was but I took my time answering. “Somewhere between eighty and a hundred.”
“Bet he has some stories to tell.”
“Maybe,” I said, “except no one will ever hear them. I expect his memory isn’t too sharp. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kicked off pretty soon.”
Josh stuck to the letter of our deal. He didn’t ask many questions and I answered even fewer.
The long miles ticked off through the desert while he made notes into his cell phone about things I had long since stopped noticing, like how the ground seems to reach outward in evenly spaced swells from the mesa to the Wasatch Range. He picked up on the fact that at a certain point the milepost markers disappeared and there were no telephone wires or utility poles along the shoulder. He was alert every minute of every mile. The few times we stopped to make a delivery, he not only stayed inside the cab, he pushed himself back in the seat so it would have been hard for anyone on the ground to see him.
Toward the end of our morning Josh stared out his window for a long time. From time to time he would shake his head. I could tell
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