don’t believe, don’t call
Alina and I walked to the city bus depot, got on something heading north. We needed the Flying J, a truck stop just off the 15. The 95 ran on towards Reno, the 15 would take you back to LA. Our two paths diverged in a desert. There was a travel plaza there. Pea gravel on the shoulder. Scam artist bait hung on the edge of the road, fishing for stragglers. The road we chose made no difference.
The bus let us off on the other side of the overpass from the expanse of idling diesel tractors, the Flying J travel center sign looming over the highway. We walked towards it with the flat desert and the low lying houses spread across the horizon. Sand in the air got in your eyes, the sweat gave you blisters as the damp fabric of your clothes chafed the skin in awkward places. Just above my butt crack for me. I didn’t ask Alina.
We had our plan to get out of Vegas..sit up to the counter at the truck stop restaurant and get to talking with truckers when they looked hungry for conversation. It was like animals at a watering hole, we’d sniff each other out, looking for a glimmer of psychosis, carefully noting how the trucker gripped his fork, reading any patches and tattoos that he may have armed himself with.
I had an ace in my corner, her name was Alina and she’d be the only woman in the place who wasn’t charging for something. I figured we’d be set back waiting just a short while. We’d be doing the most sniffing. We crested the overpass, it was east bound behind us, westbound in front down below.
We got to the gasw pumps when we realized the restaurant looked closed. Newspaper taped over the windows. Yellow tape with black lettering warning us back. Folks were getting gas and heading over to McDonalds. Getting more gas there.
The Flying J was grounded for repairs that day. Sure, the truckers lounge was open. We went in sat down. Five guys, three wearing suspenders thick as the edge of a two by four, were tuned into CSI Miami. Alina covered up any flesh she had exposed to day light. I put my chest out. She pulled hers in.
No one’s seat shifted. The fellah’s continued to breath. I decided to as well. Same for Alina. At the second commercial interuption I turned in my seat and looked slightly above all their heads as though I were addressing the trucking gods.
“Anyone have any idea what the odds are of catching a ride up to Reno from here?”
the guy in the back, a green neon t-shirt and huge belly said something.
“Not good?” I asked, not sure what he’d said.
“Don’t know,” he repeated.
I looked from him back to that area of the gods, then down at my feet. When the show came back on I looked up and watched it.
We waited there a bit. The real murderer was discovered, and that made everyone glad, but a good woman had died, and we all felt bad about that.
I like when I learn a little from my telvision programming, so I was kinda sad when CSI was over and it wasn’t a marathon night. Alina and I sat a bit longer, then decided to head to Denny’s and try our luck.
I got this iPhone, so I thought I’d try Craigslist. Find us a ride out that way. Digital hitchhiking. I posted an ad. Time passed. The Denny’s was 24 hours, but how many of them could we sit in the booth? We had a guitar with us, and I had my long hair with me. And my beard. We talked about options, Alina and I. About following the dream. About at least giving it a shot. We talked about finding cardboard boxes big enough for the two of us in the dark desert night out here by the truck stop.
Shortly thereafter, I put another ad up on Craigslist. A little research in the archives revealed no one had offered a ride from Vegas to Reno in the last month. Folks didn’t do that apparently. Like if you went to Vegas, you didn’t toy with Reno. And if you gambled in Reno, you were unfit for The Strip.
We brainstormed at that Denny’s table, the one bolted to the floor just under the south facing window that looks across at the dumpster. We decided we would head back to LA. Maybe take her car up to Reno. But it didn’t look like hitch hiking was gonna be fun. I don’t like direct sun. My ankle brace was digging into my shin from the little bit of walking we’d already done. Rattle snakes. Cobra. Banditos. We began rattling off a long list of dangers. Predatory mortgage lenders. Serial gaming lobbyists.
“Me and a girl, Vegas to L.A. Lucky $50 bucks for YOU!!!#&@^*” las vegas
was the title of my post on Rideshare. I left my number and the phone rang in ten minutes. A gambler was all in. We told him which exit to Denny’s and waited. The man who showed up is a whole other story, and if I ever get the podcast finished, you’ll hear it here. Suffice it to say, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of Vegas. And we did.
inside the Flying J
