There is one particular truck stop between Indianapolis and Chicago that Jay insists we stop at every trip we make. Outside, the truck stop has about 24 gas pumps, and one or two people begging for money, and a very loud loudspeaker announcing to each trucker when his shower is ready.
Inside, the truck stop has more racks of snack foods than I’ve ever seen in my life, and clothes with deer heads and weapons on them, and shot glasses, and books with names like, “Seven Things You’ll See if You Go to Hell.”
And there’s a diner.
On our last trip, we happened to be passing the truck stop around dinner time, and I insisted that we eat at the truck stop diner. Much to my surprise, Jay did not disapprove.
I had chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes — not the healthiest meal I’ve eaten in the last year — but what else should you eat in a truck stop? I forget what Jay had, but much to my surprise, they did have a couple vegetarian options.
The food was fine. I was hoping our waitress would be interesting enough to make a good American People subject, but she was lacking, somehow. She did disappear for a curiously long time (she looked like she may have needed to take a methamphetamine break). There weren’t as many truckers as I expected to see. There were, to my surprise, several curiously hot guys in there.