The Never-Open Desert Diner (7 page)

T
he rain hadn't slowed me down much. I arrived at the transfer station near the Price airport earlier than usual and parked my empty rig against the cyclone fence alongside the UPS trucks and vans. I returned tired waves from some of the guys I knew, including the one I had caught with Nadine. He'd been married and divorced twice since Nadine. No mystery there.

My hand was on the door handle of my pickup when my name came over the yard speaker telling me to come to the station supervisor's office. The last time a supervisor had called me to his office, some higher-ups had decided I should start paying a monthly fee to park my rig inside the secure gates of the transfer station. There was a good chance they had come up with a new fee to charge me. There was no chance I was going to pay it.

End-of-workday spirits were high as I walked past the drivers' lounge. It was one of the women, a day driver, who asked me about playing Boy Scout that morning on 191. Her route was clear on the other side of Price. I leaned inside the doorway. Mildly curious, I wanted to know how she knew what I was doing at that hour.

“1K Larry,” she said. There was a round of laughter from the other drivers. “Everyone within a hundred miles heard about it. A nature girl.” The way she said it you could almost hear her teeth grinding. “Healthy living. Mountain bike. It's not like you to stop, Ben. You must be getting lonely. Or was she really in trouble or something?”

“Or something.”

Another voice, this one male, had joined in from behind the main group. His comment brought forth another round of laughter. He was a big guy with a handlebar mustache. I don't mind joking around with people I know. I didn't know him.

“Who in the hell are you?” I asked.

The lounge became quiet. All the noise
—
diesel engines, voices, and the faint roar of a jet landing on a nearby runway
—
seeped in from the open loading docks down the hallway. Everyone had developed a sudden interest in the floor of the lounge while they waited for what might come next. I stepped inside in the doorway.

When he didn't say anything, I said to no one in particular, “I stopped for a stranded motorist. That's all there was to it. If anyone else has a comment, I'd be happy to hear it
—
outside.”

Another page with my name filled the silence.

The handlebar mustache stepped through the other drivers and extended his hand. “I'd be happy to step outside. First I'd like to make my apology here and now.” He introduced himself as Howard Purvis. “I started last year.” I let his right hand hang in the air. He was maybe forty with a shaved head and biceps roughly the size of a hindquarter of beef. “I was out of line. I apologize. I'd like to be here next year. My wife and kids would like me to be here, too, bringing home a paycheck.”

I shook his hand. The room began to breathe again. “Ben Jones,” I said. “I'd like to be here next year, too.” It occurred to me that probably wasn't in the cards.

“Can we step into the hallway?” Purvis asked.

We stepped into the hall. He rested his big shoulders against the wall. “About five thirty this morning I was headed south on 191. A quick side run to a ranch. That same woman was outside her car talking on a cell phone. I could tell from the exhaust the car was running. She didn't have her hood up or her flashers on, or I would have called the highway patrol. Like I said, she had a cell phone.”

“So what?” I said.

“So I'd seen her yesterday. No disrespect intended, but yesterday she wasn't any nature girl.”

“What was she?”

Some drivers filed by out of the lounge trying not to look at us. Purvis waited until they were out of earshot before he answered. “Here's the thing,” he said. “I think she was waiting for you.”

He let what he'd said sink in for a moment before he continued.

“Yesterday afternoon I saw her walk into Joe's Sporting Goods in the mall. I was making a delivery a few doors down. Joe's was my next stop. She was a blonde yesterday. Short dress. Red heels high enough to give you a nosebleed. Enough cleavage showing that old Joe saw them on their way toward his place and ran to the door to open it for her. She walked past him like she'd never opened a door for herself in her life.” He let go of a small laugh. “To her Joe was nothing more than an automatic door opener.”

“You sure? Same woman?”

“Same woman,” he said. “Again, no disrespect intended, but she looked to me like a divorce that hadn't found a courtroom yet. You married?”

I shook my head. “Why would she be waiting for me?” I thought about how she had practically stepped into the highway to flag me down.

“Maybe she wasn't,” he said. “Just seemed that way to me. When I got to Joe's he was way too busy with her to sign for his packages. I had to wait. She bought everything she was wearing this morning. Including the mountain bike and the bike rack. Paid cash. And I can tell you, she didn't know a mountain bike from a tricycle. She didn't seem to care. Boom boom,” he said quietly. “Seemed strange to me then. Seemed even stranger to me this morning when I saw her decked out on the side of 191 looking like she just escaped from a granola commercial.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “That's all I meant by ‘or something.' Not suggesting anything, Mr. Jones. None of my business. I should have let it stay that way.”

I put my hand out and he took it. “Normally, Mr. Purvis, I'd say it wasn't any of your business. But I'm glad you mentioned it. I'm obliged. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Hijack?” he ventured.

“Or just setting up the groundwork for one,” I said. “What else? Except the most expensive piece of freight I've hauled in twenty years was the jawbone of a T. rex from a dig site off 117.”

“Maybe they know of something coming your way worth jacking?” We both thought about that for a moment before he pointed out the obvious. “You're way out there on 117.”

“Maybe. But I won't be stopping for her again. Or anyone else.”

I thanked him again and continued on through the maze of hallways to the supervisor's office, thinking about a lot of things, her transformation mostly. From there I began to consider her story about seeing the diner open and Walt dancing with a woman. What in the hell did that have to do with anything? She said she had just arrived from Salt Lake City. If that was true, what was she doing on 117 the night before?

Whatever that schoolteacher was up to, I didn't plan to attend any more classes.

T
he station supervisor was a young guy with a salesman's smile that had so far served him well. Price was his second stop in two years on his way up the corporate ladder. When I walked into his outer office, his receptionist was paging me for the third time. She told me to go right inside his office even though I was already standing in front of his gleaming glass desk. He was on the phone and motioned for me to take a seat.

There were only three objects on his desk. Of the three, what interested me least was a photograph of him shaking hands with the president of the company. The photograph wasn't for him to look at; it was intended for me, and anyone else sitting in his office. The frame was strategically angled outward, away from where he sat. The second dealt with the unlikely prospect that anyone might forget his name and title; it was engraved in brass and stood guard next to the photograph. “Robert A. Fulwiler, Station Supervisor.” He was a yes-man. All he said into the phone as I waited was, “Yes.” He said it at least five times, each time with more conviction than the time before.

He was out of breath from all his yes-ing when he hung up and flashed his whitened smile at me. I was about to buy something I didn't need or want.

“Ben,” he said, “I just have a quick question for you. I know you've been having a tough time of it and a certain opportunity for someone has come up. Interested?”

“No,” I said, and lifted myself out of the chair. “But thanks for the thought. I'm doing good.”

His smile only got larger. “You sure? It means some extra money. You wouldn't have to do anything you're not already doing.”

I kept standing and told him again I wasn't interested.

“Close the door, Ben.” When I didn't, he closed it himself. He sat down in the chair next to me. We were just two guys, two friends, equals having an equals chat. “Please sit down, Ben.”

I sat down. He got straight to the point, or rather the on-ramp that merged onto the road that led to his point. “So you're doing good?” He glanced over his shoulder at the third thing on his desk, a white envelope with my name printed on it. He made no move to pick it up. “Do you know who that was on the phone just now?”

“Well,” I said, “you're the station supervisor. My first guess would be Jesus.”

He shook his head as if my answer had both offended and amused him. He polished his teeth with his tongue.

I took another guess. “God?”

He reached for the envelope and held it in his hands. “Ben, I'm trying to help you here.” Reluctantly, he handed the envelope to me. “I think you have an idea of what this is.”

“Who was on the phone?”

He perked up. I had been dangerously close in my guess. He couldn't wait to tell me whom he had been talking to. “That was the executive vice president for communications and public relations at corporate in Atlanta.” He couldn't resist taking a peek at the phone on his desk. There was the chance that some of the power of the caller was still lingering there and could be snatched out of the air and stored for later, or simply inhaled. “We've spoken twice this afternoon.”

“Wow,” I said. “Twice.” I folded the envelope and stuffed it into the back pocket of my jeans.

“You're not reading that because you know what it is,” he said. “Ben, let's not waste any more time. I know what it says. The two men from the leasing company who dropped it by for you told me. It's a final thirty-day repossession notice on your truck and trailer.”

“Well,” I said, as if it weren't that big a deal, “times are a little lean for everyone. This is only my first final thirty-day repossession notice.”

“They also served me with a property right-of-way release signed by a judge that allows them to come onto the property to take your rig. I can help you, Ben. If you'll let me.” Any moment I expected him to put one of his delicate pink hands on my knee. “At least listen.”

I listened and kept a close eye on his hands. If I'd had any money in my wallet I would have taken it out and put it in my boots. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. He didn't specify whose lifetime.

A television producer wanted to come and ride with a driver for a few days. If it worked out, he would come back with a small crew. They were willing to pay five hundred dollars. “That's just for starters,” he said absently, as if imagining the hundred-dollar bills being counted out one by one into his palm instead of mine. “They're thinking of doing a cable TV series that would run every week next fall. If it works out, the drivers they use will get up to five thousand apiece.”

“And what do you get?” I asked.

“Me?” He acted as if he had totally forgotten he was in the room. “Oh, me? I don't get anything. The company would get a lot of free publicity. It's going to happen, Ben. With or without you.”

“Just a ride-along?”

“That's it.”

“When would I get paid?”

“The day the producer climbs into your cab.”

I reminded him that ride-alongs were expressly prohibited by insurance carriers.

“We'd take care of that,” he assured me. “A full release, even covering gross negligence.”

“The company vouches for him? This all checks out?”

“One hundred percent.”

I couldn't keep myself from asking, “Why me? I'm not even really an employee. I'm a contractor, remember? And don't tell me it's because you like me and want to help me out.”

Time for the earnest puppy. I had to resist looking at his ass to see if his tail was wagging.

“No one does quite what you do, Ben.” He paused for effect and repeated, “No one.”

I put on my best aw-shucks face.

“There isn't another place in the country with a driver who has the unique relationship you have with us, or you have with your customers. And I
am
thinking of you. Everyone here is on salary, except you.” He knew he had me, or thought he did, and decided to toss all he had into the pot. “Your contract comes up for renewal next year, doesn't it?”

He knew damn well it did.

“If this goes well it might make renewing your contract a lock. Possibly get you a better contract. If you don't want the opportunity, just say so.” He lowered his head and clasped his hands. “Hell, Ben, this will help all of us. You're all alone out there on 117.”

That was the second time I'd heard that since entering the building. It made me think.

I waited. Better than Broadway. This was the big production finale. He raised his head and lowered his voice. “You and I both know there's a good chance you won't survive financially until the end of the year unless you get a miracle. Maybe not until the end of the month.”

In case I might have forgotten, he reminded me I was about to lose my rig back to the leasing company.

“Here's your miracle, Ben. All you have to say right now is yes.”

“No,” I said, not quite believing what I heard coming out of my mouth.

He was so certain he had persuaded me, my refusal caught him in midsmile with his hand already reaching for mine to seal the deal. “What?”

“Let me think about it over the weekend. When do you have to know?”

“He'll be here Monday, but
—
”

“Then I'll let you know on Monday morning.”

He stood up and walked back behind his desk. “Never mind. I'll just get someone else.”

“Bullshit,” I said, not moving from my chair. I let him examine
my
teeth for a change. “If they wanted someone else, you would have already talked to that person by now. Your headquarters VP asked for me, didn't he? You didn't have anything to do with it. I'll bet you tried to sell them on every driver but me. Right, Bob? It's okay to call you Bob now, isn't it?”

“You want more money?”

“No,” I said. “I need more money. Five hundred won't save my ass. I won't do it for just a piece of a life raft. Let me tell you what I think. These television people want lonely roads and colorful characters with goddamn purple sagebrush and sunsets because they've done the amber waves of grain and ice roads to fucking death. Maybe the company volunteered me because I'm expendable. I can embarrass myself without embarrassing the company. If I don't play well they can say, he's not us. So, Bob, I need to think about it until at least Monday before deciding if I'm going to open up myself and all my customers to reality television
—
that's what we're talking about. Right, Bob? Parading us in front of America for some cheap laughs and cheaper tears.”

The appearance of the woman on the highway started to make sense. Those perfect fingernails said something about her. What they said had nothing to do with dinosaurs and mountain biking. “And tell that television woman she better not step in front of my truck again,” I said. “See you on Monday, Bob.”

He dropped his ass into his ergonomically designed leather chair.

“On second thought,” I added, “I'll call you. Just say yes, Bob.”

“Okay,” he said. “We'll do it your way. Stupid and stubborn. Just think about what you have to gain
—
and lose. You and 117 were made for each other.”

While that might have been true, it wasn't what he meant. “Monday, then,” I said, and headed toward the door.

“One more thing,” he said. “Corporate sent in some IT guys. Were you on the company computer a few mornings ago? The one in dispatch?”

For the first time in our conversation, I raised my voice. “Don't start with me about the fucking computer, Bob. I can use it. It's in my contract.”

He pushed his chair backward and raised his open palms. “Whoa, Ben. Take it easy. The IT guys were here. They were curious. I said I'd ask you. That system was installed five years ago. You've used it maybe twice before. I was just wondering if someone else had logged in with your user name and password. That's all.”

“I was checking the weather report,” I said. It was the first thing I thought of. I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him I had developed a passing interest in cellos that had already passed. Everyone would get a laugh out of that. “This time of year 117 can wash out,” I said. “Simple. That okay with you, Bob?”

When he didn't say anything, I walked out the door and breezed by the receptionist. The look on her prissy little face told me she was two digits into dialing 911.

I was halfway down the hall. Bob shouted after me, “What woman?”

I walked by the drivers' lounge just as the handlebar mustache was coming out. “Do me a favor, Howard?”

He asked me what.

“You got a cell phone with a camera?”

He nodded. “Sure,” he said.

“You see that woman again, will you take her picture?”

“Without her knowing? I guess I could do that. Why?”

“I think I have an idea what she was up to this morning. In case it's more serious than that, and something happens to me out on 117, show that photo to the highway patrol and tell them what we talked about.”

He agreed.

We walked out into the transfer yard together without any further conversation.