Alive and Dead in Indiana Read Free Page B

paneling. The tables have red checkered tablecloths and each, no matter how large, is set for two. There are wagon wheels on the walls; half-wheels are buried in the backs of booths; the chimney lamps on the tables rest on little wagon wheels. The coffee is streaming into pots.
    In the restroom, I wash my face and shave quickly. I have very little beard. The room is well lit and clean. Before going back to my booth, I knock on the women’s restroom door. When there is no answer, I peek in. It’s the same story, clean and bright, a couch for nursing.
    It is a breakfast menu. Combinations of eggs, ham, potatoes. They have steak, hash, all the juices, and a specialty—a doughnut with its hole teed up in the center, glaze dripping from one to the other. But I order lunch—a hamburger, fries, and a Coke.
    “No problem, hon, but the deep fryer’s not on till eleven. Hash browns okay?”
    Everything is fine.
    There’s a regular clientele. Coffee is poured before anyone asks. Conversations are picked up where they left off the day before, morning papers left behind to be picked up. So are large tips. There are men in uniforms. They use their fingers and dip their toast. They stack their own dishes. This feels like home.
    “Here, let me heat that up for you,” the waitress says, pouring coffee with a smile.
    Even though it is crowded, it is comfortable. There are dining rooms closed off. I can just sit, drink the coffee, and read your local news.
    After the morning rush has left for work, what remains are the old men talking about the weather, a feeble-minded boy sweeping up, and my waitress with the bright glass coffeepot still steaming in her hand. I ask to see the owner. I know his name. At first she looks at me as if I’ve betrayed her hospitality. Then she reads me as a salesman, smiling as she says, “All right, I’ll get him, wait right here.”
    The owner comes through the swinging doors, out from his office. He is followed by my waitress, who brings him coffee as he sits. I get right to the people we know, talk about the National Restaurant Association, mention the new highways. He’s at a disadvantage when I make my pitch. I could be his father. I ask him to let me make some chicken for him. What’s he out but some shortening and flour? That’s right. I stayed on to cook for him and then for his customers. Then we shook on it, and I taught his people in the kitchen how to do it. Next thing was to make arrangements for getting the ingredients mailed and him sending all the money back home.
    It wasn’t until I was back on the road again that I saw her hitchhiking. At first, I thought she might be a boy. She wore pants and had her hair up short. She had a small roll at her feet, a silver frying pan tied up on it. She stood, thumb out, too far from the road. But I saw her. She grabbed her things and ran to the car and opened the door without looking in first.
    “Where you going?” I asked her.
    “Wherever you are.”
    Fair enough. I put it in gear and got back on the highway. It didn’t take her long to notice.
    She said, “Jesus, what’s that smell?”
    I told her what the smell was and what I was doing on the road. I didn’t ask anything because I felt she didn’t want me to, nor could I tell from her looks whether she had been on the road for a while or if I was her first ride. She didn’t say a word when I pointed the car toward Michigan. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t care.
    It seems to me there aren’t any real crossroads anymore for most people. Most of us are going against the grain. She had nothing to decide, only tendencies. I had taken her up. Your part of the country is a funnel of flat land with a bias. I worked as a ferryboat captain on the Ohio. A small boat. Ferried autos and walkers from Jeffersonville to Louisville. I made the trip once an hour, seven hours a day. I heard about Mark Twain and read some of his books. I wanted to be a river pilot like him. I took to wearing