JOY part 38

Trapped in the bleakness that is Nebraska, I found my mind drifting into an imaginary conversation with Nancy. It went thusly…

INT. ROOM (any room, it doesn’t matter) – NIGHT

ME
I fantasize about you all the time…

NANCY
Really?

(as opposed to the reeeeeeeeeely, which I had been hoping for)

ME
Yes, there was this time in Iowa when
I couldn’t sleep that…

(Actually, I put that in there just in case you weren’t as clever as you thought you were, earlier.)

NANCY
I really don’t need to hear the details.

ME
Does it bother you that I think of you
that way?

NANCY
Bother me? No. But it’s kind of inappropriate.

ME
Huh? What do you mean? I mean, I know, kind
of but…

NANCY
See this?

She holds her hand up.

NANCY
That’s a wedding ring. I’m married.

ME
Yeah, I know.

NANCY
Sometimes I wonder if you do.

ME
What does that mean?

She doesn’t answer.

ME
What does that mean?

And then I snap out of it.

Which brings me back to a feeling of anxiety and uneasiness I could really do without, right now. What was that all about? What is my little brain trying to tell me? Of course, she’s married. Duh. Nothing new there. Even if she wasn’t, it’s not exactly like we have a future together or anything. I have no future, remember? Kind of like the Sex Pistols song but worse. Oh, God. You ignorant, ignorant people. “God Save the Queen.” You DO know the song, right? Forget it. Just go back to your ZZ Top. Anyway, as I was saying…Something about having Nancy naked and tied to the…no, no, no, that wasn’t it. Right, something about her being married and that conversation I just had with her in my head making me really unhappy. I wonder if she ever called back?

As much as I seriously want to be the hell out of Nebraska, I know I can’t drive much longer without serious risk (See a,b & c worries of driving tired, mentioned previously). Unfortunately, being Nebraska, “civilization,” meaning motels and such (Not real civilization. It’s Nebraska for Christ’s sake!) are far and few between. The miles of nothingness just seem to stretch on and on without anything, anywhere. Finally, after what seems like hours later (actually just twenty minutes expanded by tiredness and the painful dullness of the scenery) I see a sign for a truck stop. I decide to pull over.

I can’t remember the last time I was in a truck stop that actually was a truck stop. Let me clarify. Usually, “truck stops” are fast food franchises or some-such on the turnpike or toll road. A few trucks are involved, but it’s just as likely to be Joe Mini-Van with bratty kids in the next booth as a truck driver. This, however, being Nebraska, could not be more “authentic.” It was kind of cool actually. A real change from the kind of thing I was used to.

Being the land of the cow killers, I ordered another hamburger even though I had just had one. Sure enough, it was tasty as could be. I won’t bore you with the details of the iceberg lettuce and “Thousand Island” dressing. Oh, wait. I just did. Must be that passive aggressive thing or something. Or maybe I just hate you. I’m kidding. Really. I love you, Dear Reader. I told you that. You’re the best.

Anyway, truck drivers have a really shitty life, I would guess. They don’t seem to make a whole ton of money and they spend their entire life driving for hours and hours through places like Nebraska. I really don’t know how they do it. I totally understand why they drive 16 hours a day, day after day, and fall asleep at the wheel and kill people. Trucks are hazardous, no doubt about it. But if you got paid crap and got paid for how quickly you got loads from point “a” to point “b,” you would hurry too. Fuck sleep. And fuck the poor guy in a Mini who got in your way, apparently, from the way these guys had brushed me aside on the exit ramp.

Aside from tasty cow flesh, the truck driver pit had e-mail terminals. Made sense when you think about it, but was still kind of a shock. I checked mine and was greeted by a lovely, lovely surprise. Rachel had e-mailed me back. Rachel of the Heavenly Mouth, Rachel. I wasn’t really even sure it was the right Rachel when I had e-mailed her months ago. And…you’re going to love this, she lived in Colorado. Colorado is the very next state I will be driving through. Talk about fate. Talk about blow-jobs from above. Talk about the brilliant blurring of fact and fiction in a delicately constructed ballet between author and reader. Oooops. Got carried away there. Anyway, I quickly e-mailed Rachel back and told her I would call her when I got closer to Denver where she lived (she had given me her number in the e-mail, a good sign.). Praise Be. The perfect answer to the frustrations of my recent past.

I found a motel about ninety minutes later. I had been thinking about Rachel almost every minute since I got that e-mail. It was hard going in the car, if you know what I mean (wink, wink). So, of course, as soon as I got to the hotel I found myself on the bed thinking about her. And me. And her mouth when she…and then I fell asleep. Right there with my dick in my hand. Without finishing my smutty, little mental fantasy. And then I woke up and found myself, you got it, naked…and…alone! Man, I love bothering you people. Thank you for bringing me a few moments of joy in my world of pain. Thank you.

MORE JOY AT WWW.FIRST100BOOKS.COM

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