drifter

          I check into the Blue Hawk Motel just as the sun sets. The woman at the front desk has a frizzy perm and asks how many nights I want. I tell her that one will be fine, thank you. She hands me a key on a broken lanyard and tells me to take room 303.

      Room 303 has a red bedspread and stained sheets. I take a shower in stale water that smells like sulfur and dry off with the threadbare towel housekeeping left by the door. They didn’t leave any soap.

      Normally I would have kept driving, but I’m too hungry to keep going. The next town is a few hours away, so this will have to do. There’s no diner here, just a sad little counter at the truck stop. They serve breakfast 24 hours a day. I give my order to the man behind the grill. He’s working alone, serving truckers coffee. I ask him if there’s a bar nearby and he tells me not for ten miles. He says there’s a liquor store down the road, but not much else. I ask him for the dessert menu and he tells me they don’t have one.

        The cook plops bacon and eggs on a chipped, beige plate and sets it next to the chipped, beige mug full of coffee. The eggs are overcooked and the coffee is burnt. I wolf it down, anyway.

   The truckers are huge, smelly beasts. Unshaved and slovenly, sporting tattered flannels and dirty blue jeans. The stink of stale cabins and loneliness hangs heavy in the greasy air. They prowl around me, sniffing like dogs. My short stack is swimming with maple syrup. It's getting all over me, dripping from my fork onto my lap. I finish my bacon and ask for seconds, and the cook eyes me. I smile and say thank you.

       A hairy man takes the open stool at the end of the bar and barks for a cup of coffee. The cook greets him and sets another chipped mug down on the sticky counter. The man grunts. I am sucking syrup from my fork, using my tongue to get between the prongs. I tap my foot on the floor, impatient. The cook flips pancakes, his back turned to me.

     The truckers, they’re starving. The cook has filled their plates with charred steaks and thick gravy, with hefty burgers and wedge cut fries, and they’re starving. I see the long nights under their eyes, the miles traveled on their boots. These men, they’re desperate. They’re so, so hungry. I lick my lips and take a bite of pancake. The men watch the fork enter my mouth.

   The cook hands me a plate heaping with potatoes and sausage links, asks if I would like anything else. I tell him no, this is perfect. He grabs a bucket filled with dirty dishes and takes it to the back. I feel every pair of eyes on me the moment he disappears from view. My stomach growls, and I take another bite, chew slowly, swallow.

    I pay for my dinner and saunter to the parking lot. The truckers all watch as I go. One of them gets up from his stool. I don’t have time to close the door before he shoves past me. I walk between the semis, heading for the red sedan. He corners me between trucks, holds his arms out so I can push past. I call him naughty and laugh. He moves closer, hunger dripping from his mouth. He slaps my face, hard, but I keep laughing. His huge hands restrain me, rip my jeans, push inside me. I don’t even scream.