It is late. I am buzzed, low on fuel, and one hundred and seventy-six miles from home, so I pull into Overton’s 24-hour truck stop on a back road, park at the fuel pump, and stroll into the convenience store. I have a desire for a box of Pringles and some beer, but the shelves are empty.
I turn my attention to the individual seated behind the register. His family owns the place is my first thought. He isn’t groomed or solicitous. Employees always act like someone is watching. And why so many cases of warm beer behind the counter instead of cooling in the display cases?
Problems with the fridge are on my mind, but I can feel the tug of an under-thought. I’m wondering about store keeps who make no effort to sell. What does that mean. Why is he here. Yuck. I need some beer to pour on my thoughts. I say, “I’d like a six pack.”
“No, sir. You are a man who drinks and drives. I can smell it.”
I take a step back and say, “That sounds terrible. Beer puts my thoughts out. Enables me to concentrate. Sober I smolder. I’ve never had an accident.”
Overton gives me a you have to be kidding look, and says, “All we got is incense. Two kinds.”
He lays them on the counter and turns on his police scanner.
One stick has the word Money etched into it and the other Pussy.
I do not shop for incense or fancy candles. I keep a box of surplus army emergency ones at home for when the power goes out. I don’t enjoy crispy clear headedness. It’s often painful. It includes a firm belief that if I put the key in the ignition and give it a twist, then Overton is going to provide the local cops with a description of my truck and a plate number.
Overton underlines my thoughts by picking up the transmitter for his CB radio and saying, “Bottle-Buster standing by.”
“The Ghost is twenty out. Brew some coffee.”
Then Overton, the Bottle-Buster, lays a breathalyzer on the counter. I know I am borderline. I like a buzz, never a swerve, but sobriety tests aren’t developed by drinking folks. They’re finicky. Walking a straight line or doing a handstand is no problem. Jail sucks; I hate problems. I capitulate very politely: beg without getting on my knees. I say, “May I take a nap at the pump.”
Overton smiles. I’m relieved. He’s a reasonable person who knows the difference between a drunk driver and a gentleman seeking relief from double thoughts. He removes his breathalyzer from the counter. And yes, to show him my appreciation, I take a second look at his handmade incense. Money and sex are on my mind. So I say, “How much?”
“A buck each.”
I stick them both to the dashboard with a piece of gum. First I light the green one with dollar signs etched into it, figuring it best to get some money or at least the smell of it on me before wondering if I want to take Mary Beth to dinner, a concert, maybe get laid, or rent-a-broad in which case I will definitely get laid, but not kissed.
The primordial push doesn’t care who I choose, but it’s going to continue beeping until I get laid. If my doctor had a pill to put an end to desire, would I swallow it?
