Turnbull nodded. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome. Now, take care in there. That’s the only place for 20 miles either way and it attracts a bad crowd. Mind your business and you should be fine.”
“Can I give you some cash?”
“Don’t worry about us. You just forget us if you get caught.”
“Forget who?” Hansen’s leathery face broke into something like a smile, then he got back into the pickup.
Turnbull’s watch told him it was almost 6:00 a.m., just after dawn, when they reached the truck stop. But it was less a truck stop than a ramshackle old gas station next to a diner that had seen better days. Its whitewash was now a dull brown, and one of the front windows had been replaced by a sheet of plywood some time ago. Through the other windows, they could spot a little movement inside. The hum of a generator explained where the diner got its power; the two hours of morning electricity did not usually start until 8:00 a.m.
The big gas sign that had lured in customers from the freeway years ago was rusting and hanging at an off angle. It hadn’t worked for years and seemed on the verge of falling to the ground. Turnbull could not make out the brand – some of the plastic was a faded blue so he suspected it was a Chevron. The shape was right, as he remembered. It had been replaced by a smaller painted wooden sign reading simply “FUEL FOOD” held up by two wooden posts pounded into the ground at the foot of the old sign. Brand logos and such were consumerist and frowned upon; genericism was in fashion in the People’s Republic.
The big parking lot had been designed with tractor trailer rigs in mind; the fading asphalt spread over a couple hundred square yards. At the fringes, which never saw any traffic anymore, the desert plants were breaking through and slowly reclaiming it. There were two rigs there this morning. One looked like it was always going to be there; the remaining tires were flat and it seemed like someone was living in the cab. The other truck was beat up and dirty, with the legend “Chasen’s Trucking” on the side of the dinged-up trailer, except the word “Chasen’s” had been allowed to fade such that it was now really just the generic “Trucking.” There were four or five other cars or pick-ups in the lot, all close to the diner.
No one was at the pumps; as Turnbull approached he could see they were all padlocked. No self-service anymore. Fuel was too valuable not to be dispensed very carefully.
Only the aimless server in a yellow uniform and a couple sour-looking locals at the counter looked up when the two scraggly desert rats walked in and took a booth near the back. The others were just passing through; time wasted on considering the newcomers would mean that much more time they had to spend there. They ate like prisoners, hunched over their plates and shoveling food into their mouths and swallowing it in rapid, joyless gulps.
The tabletop seemed to be made out of some form of linoleum; the seat cushion where Turnbull sat had been slashed.
“Vato Loco 69,” Junior read quietly. It was carved into the linoleum.
“Just stay cool. Remember, we’re typical lowlifes. Don’t draw attention.”
The server stepped over, clearly irritated to have been called away from her idleness by the appearance of these two. She had a tattoo of some kind of dog on her forearm and the left side of her head was shaved.
“I guess you’re our waitress,” Junior said, smiling. “Can we get menus?”
Oh shit, thought Turnbull.
“Fucking ‘waitress’? Are you kidding me, asshole? What kind of sexist asshole are you? I’m a facilitator, asshole! And menus? You think you’re funny?”
“Yeah, don’t be such an asshole, asshole,” barked Turnbull to his stricken companion. He turned to the facilitator. “He’s been, you know.” Turnbull pantomimed smoking a joint. The facilitator scowled. “What do you want?”
“Coffees?” Turnbull said, smiling hopefully while kicking Junior under the table. Junior took the hint and was silent. The scene having calmed, the rest of the patrons went back to their own business.
The facilitator scowled down on them again. “We have responsible coffee.”
“Great. And to eat?”
“Egg and toast. You got rat cards?” She asked suspiciously.
“Sure, right here.” Turnbull pulled a couple of burnt orange ration cards out of his pocket; he had pre-crumpled them earlier. The waitress grunted, then turned on her heel and retreated to the kitchen, but not before shooting some more hate Junior’s way.
Turnbull leaned in. “Are you fucking kidding me?” “What is her problem?”
“What is your problem?”
“I just tried to order breakfast.”
“Okay, first, there are no waiters and waitresses here anymore. It’s oppressive or some shit. And –ess is sexist. You basically told her she was your servant.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Yeah, it’s ridiculous. Welcome to the PR. Everything is racist, everything is sexist. And you’re terrible. Why do you think they have privilege levels on their ID cards? At home, it’s about the individual. Here, unless you’re elite, you’re not an individual. You’re just your skin tone, how you pee, who you pray to, and who you want to fuck. That’s it. That’s the PR.” Turnbull glanced over to make sure the facilitator wasn’t coming back yet, and when he saw she wasn’t he continued.
“Okay, if you want to survive you have to understand one thing. These people are crazy. What they do makes no sense. None. Except when they are hunting you down – they manage to do that pretty damn well. They were rich, they had resources, they had freedom, and they threw it all away for a bunch of bullshit notions about social justice. And every time things get worse for them, instead of going back to what worked, they double down on what screwed everything up. Do you get it?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“And asking for a menu? Are you serious? This is not Dallas or Houston or Omaha. These people have no food, or at least no choice about their food. Get your head in the game. And don’t complain about the coffee.”
The facilitator appeared, plopped two chipped coffee cups full of light brown liquid on the table and left without a word. Junior suppressed his urge to ask for cream and sugar; Turnbull had been almost imperceptibly shaking his head and mouthing “No.”
Cautiously, Junior picked up his cup and took a sip.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “What is that?”
“That is responsible coffee. Drink up.”
“It’s terrible. It’s dirty water.”
“Of course it is. It’s responsible.”
“Why do they call it ‘responsible’?”
“Because reusing the grounds until there’s nothing left saves the environment by not having to import so much coffee or truck around so much coffee or something. Apparently every cup of coffee causes the Earth to warm or cool or whatever.”
The facilitator appeared again, this time with two forks and two plates, which she slammed down before walking off again. The toast was small and dry as dust, and probably was well before it was toasted. The artist in back had somehow rendered both of their eggs into small piles of a rubbery, vaguely green, scrambled matter. Junior looked at his food, then looked at Turnbull, who was already digging himself a fork full.
“No, no salt, no pepper. Now eat.”
Junior sighed and picked up his utensil.
“You wanted to come,” Turnbull reminded him.
Junior ate slowly, not because he wasn’t hungry but because he dreaded every mouthful. He stopped eating when he noticed Turnbull pausing. A customer in a blue work shirt wearing a red ball cap had gotten up and was headed to the toilet. As he passed the table, Junior saw what was written on it – “Chasen’s Trucking.” Turnbull rose without a word and followed the driver into the head.