Rhubarb Page 2

  “Fascinating, fascinating. Once again, we’re talking live with Dr. Calvin Atford about his research into historical UFO sightings and his book The Shepherd Hypothesis. We have to break, but when we return, we’ll get into some of the details of your book and take calls from the Waker Nation. Stay tuned. This is Beyond Insomnia.”

  Lee Danvers, now as a recording, began to shill for a company offering non-genetically-altered seeds. Martin had stopped at an intersection, left turn signal on. He barely remembered driving the last few miles. Across the highway, the gas pumps of Herbert’s Corner glowed under their canopy. The little neon sign in the window of the convenience store blinked Open, Open, Open, not quite in time with the blinking red light over the junction. A few semis were parked in the gravel lot behind the building. At this hour, truckers would be sleeping in their cabs after a shower on the second floor, but a few might still be inside nursing coffee and waiting out their legal rest periods. The twenty-four-hour diner was the only place in a hundred-mile radius to get halfway decent coffee, eggs, bacon, and hash browns. Or chicken-fried steak, or a burger, or fried clams on Friday nights. Martin had heard that they’d never installed locks on the doors of Herbert’s Corner, even as they’d remodeled over the years. They’d never planned to close. Martin was tempted to cross the intersection to see if that was true, among other things.

  A cattle truck rumbled through the intersection, heading west along Highway 15. Martin turned to follow. A minute later, in Brixton proper, Martin slowed to a strict twenty-five miles per hour. The sheriff set his deputies out to make money for the county from every speeding scofflaw they could catch. A few pickup trucks were parked rakishly around the front and side of the bar. On the other side of town, Martin rolled into the parking lot of the Brixton Inn.

  Martin shut off his engine before Beyond Insomnia returned from commercial. He got out and stretched. No strange lights tonight, only the constellations he’d never learned the names of. And no big thunder in Brixton. Only a little wind, some insects, and the distant chug of a truck slowing down on the other side of town.

  ~ * * * ~

  Wake Up to the Perfect GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) Waffle!

  Step 1: Fill cup to line with GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) waffle batter.

  Step 2: Spray top and bottom of griddle with GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) Griddle Spray.

  Step 3: Pour batter evenly onto griddle.

  Step 4: Close griddle and Flip! Fun!

  Step 5: When timer signals, open griddle and remove waffle with spatula.

  Step 6: Enjoy with GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) maple-flavored syrup or your favorite toppings.

  Caution: Griddle surfaces are extremely hot and may cause injury, including burns. Improper turning may cause wrist strain. Children under the age of 15 should operate griddle with supervision. Cooking time should not exceed three minutes. Use at your own risk.

  “Good morning,” Cheryl said, and plunked a variety pack of General Mills cereals on the counter. Martin started. He hadn’t heard her come out of the pantry. “Need any help?” she asked with a polite smile.

  She’d have recognized him, of course. How could she not? He’d been staying at the Brixton Inn about twice a month for the past few years. Its rooms weren’t as good as the Comfort Inn in Glendive, but they were a far sight better than the Highline Lodge along the train tracks in Glasgow. It didn’t have HBO, but it got the Billings and Great Falls stations well enough over antennas, and it usually had hot water. Most importantly, it served a complimentary breakfast, an absolute requirement for the savvy business traveler. All in all, his favorite place to stay in the state. His second favorite had been the Hampton Inn in Great Falls, until FastNCo.’s latest budget cutbacks.

  “I’m good,” Martin said, pointing to the red placard dotted with happy waffle-faced suns. “Just reading the directions.” Cheryl had her nametag pinned to her red hooded sweatshirt. She wore the sweatshirt unzipped, practically falling off one shoulder. Her polyester maid’s uniform underneath might have been gleaned from the clearance rack at a nurses’ supply store, but she made it work. She gave him another weak smile.

  Martin lifted the handle of the waffle mix dispenser, and the batter oozed into the plastic cup. Cheryl tore into cellophane. Martin popped the lid off the waiting can of Pam and sprayed the griddle. An even, circular, instantly bubbling layer on the vertical surface, and then on the horizontal surface. Cheryl filled a wire rack with single-serving boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios, Wheaties, Total, and Lucky Charms. Martin poured his batter onto the griddle, finishing with a thin, dripping flourish like that guy with that show on the Food Network. He closed the griddle and flipped it. The red digital timer began its countdown.

  2:30

  2:29

  2:28…

  “Do you get those from Costco?” Martin asked.

  “What?” asked Cheryl. “Oh, the cereal? No, they come with the food delivery.”

  “Oh, I wondered, ’cause they sell packs like that down at Costco,” Martin said.

  “Oh,” Cheryl said, crumpling the cellophane and heading to the little storeroom.

  Martin swore silently at himself. They sell those at Costco, he mouthed, letting himself hear the inanity. He peeled apart a pair of paper plates and checked the timer.

  1:56

  1:55

  1:54…

  And why hadn’t he greeted her by name? In the afternoons, Cheryl worked as the cashier at the co-op. When he came in, she always called up to the office, “Lester, Martin Wells from FastNCo. is here.” Then she usually said something like, “You can go on back,” or “He’ll be right down. Hondo got into a scrap with a porcupine and he’s been on the phone with Dr. McFrain all morning.” Why hadn’t he said, “Good morning, Cheryl,” like he’d said to the mirror a few minutes ago? Maybe because a few weeks ago he’d choked out a “Good morn, Churl” and hadn’t yet found the courage to try again.

  He selected a pastry off a chromed tray with plastic tongs. It felt a little crunchy around the edges, probably day-old, but the red goo in the middle and the lace of frosting glistened appetizingly enough.

  1:28

  1:27

  1:26…

  Cheryl returned with a box of individual Splenda packs to restock a little bowl. Martin pressed the top of an airpot, and coffee squelched into his Styrofoam cup. He added half-and-half, two Splendas, and a red stir stick.

  0:52

  0:51

  0:50…

  An elderly couple, the only other breakfasters up this early, had taken his table. The one near the windows. The one with the best view of the breakfast counter and the pantry door.

  “With those BNSF crew trucks in the parking lot, I was afraid it’d be crowded this morning,” said Martin.

  “Brenda said they got in real late last night,” said Cheryl, nodding her head toward the woman behind the desk on the other side of the lobby. She tucked the box away in a cabinet under the counter. “She said you got in pretty late, too. Didn’t think I’d see you up this early.”

  Interesting. Cheryl had actually thought about him, had had a conversation about him with the night clerk. Probably only a few quick words over a clipboard showing which nine or so of the forty rooms needed to be cleaned later, but at least she knew he existed.

  “Yeah, I thought I’d get in a run before I got over to the co-op,” said Martin. What? A run? What had possessed him to say that? He’d bought those Asics on sale at Sports Authority almost a year ago, and his quisling tongue picked now to commit him to jogging? Had he even packed that Under Armour he’d gotten to go along with the shoes and the good intentions?

  “I didn’t know you were a runner,” said Cheryl.

  “Just getting into it,” said Martin. His waistline belied any other reply. He didn’t belong on The Biggest Loser, but he ate too many motel breakfasts, too much fast food, and more than his share of convenience store snack packs and microwavable meals. The Diet Mountain Dew—it did nothing.

  “Good for you,” said
Cheryl. “Should be a nice morning for it.”

  “Yep. Spring’s here,” Martin said, and stuck his hand into a bowl of ice to avoid saying anything else asinine. He emerged with a foil-topped cup of orange juice and shook the freezing water back into the bowl.

  Beep beep beeeeeep. Beep beep beeeeeep.

  The waffle stuck to the top of the griddle but fell free with a gentle nudge from the spatula. Martin plucked two gold-foiled pats of butter out of a bowl and took a pack of Sysco breakfast syrup from the top of a neat stack. Cheryl crossed the lobby, chewing on a fingernail as she rounded the wood-paneled front desk, and disappeared into the back office hall that led to the housekeeping room.

  Martin ate at the table with the words “Brixton” and “Sux” scratched in the laminate—the “Sux” intersecting the name of the town like a Scrabble play. He forced himself to read yesterday’s Billings Gazette—he didn’t want Cheryl to catch him looking for her to return—but only the doleful mounted head of a measly four-point buck looked his way.

  Chapter 2

  The rumor wasn’t true; the doors of the Herbert’s Corner Convenience Store, Diner, and Trucker’s Lounge had locks. Martin had never known them to be used, but there they were. They probably had to put them in to get insured or to keep the Health Department placated.

  The diner’s unnaturally brown carpet couldn’t be called anything but “colorless” in polite company. Beyond the “Please Seat Yourself” sign, six tables filled the floor between the eight stools at the counter and a U of ten brown upholstered booths. Sunlight peeked through one small window in the narrow vestibule near the till, but otherwise the diner’s only lighting was fluorescent. Was it brunch or midnight? The Pepsi clock behind the till stayed out of the argument. Not that it mattered—the whole menu was always available.

  Five men were seated in the diner, reading newspapers or filling out paperwork amid their dirty dishes. A pair of ranchers dropped their check and some cash next to the register and squeezed out past Martin.

  “Yo, Screw Man,” called a familiar voice. Jeffrey Scarborough waved from the far corner booth.

  Jeffrey was a candy guy. Those no-brand candy packs that hang on hooks to the left of the candy bars and gum, and to the right of the nuts—those were him. Cellophane packs of gummy worms, candy corn, Jordan almonds, chocolate pretzels, butter mints, wax colas, licorice—all the candies people sort of like, but not enough to brand. Jeffrey was probably the biggest seller of carnauba wax in the Northern Rockies. Martin had tried a few varieties after meeting Jeffrey, shortly after signing on with FastNCo.—what, five years ago?—but found them a little off-putting. He imagined ungloved, unwashed workers scooping candies out of bins at the maws of filthy machines. Martin had seen enough of that Food Network show about snack factories to want to know where his junk food came from. But everyone stocked Jeffrey’s stuff. Somebody must buy it.

  Jeffrey sported his usual ironed shirt, open collared under a tailored jacket. FastNCo. insisted that Martin wear khakis and scratchy blue embroidered polo shirts, which never seemed to fit quite right. He felt like a gadget salesman without a Best Buy.

  “Thought I saw the ol’ Screwmobile parked at The Brick Mattress this morning,” said Jeffrey. Martin waved to Eileen, who was chatting with a truck driver at the counter, as he slid into the booth across from Jeffrey. “Why do you still stay there? It’s only two hours from Billings.”

  “Two and a half,” said Martin.

  “You could have slept at home and gotten up here by now, no problem,” said Jeffrey. “Look at you. You look like hell. Like you’re about to have a heart attack or something.”

  Eileen arrived and poured Martin a cup of coffee.

  “The number four, and some water, too, please,” said Martin. “I went for a jog this morning.”

  Jeffrey laughed. “A jog? You? You’re kidding.”

  “What? What’s wrong with wanting to get in shape? You’re in shape,” said Martin.

  “I’m blessed with a naturally thin physique, and I do taekwondo.”

  “You do not.”

  “I do, too,” said Jeffrey. “And let me guess: You were trying to impress what’s-her-name and told her you’re training for an Ironman.” Jeffrey stretched his arms across the back of the booth. “Does that mean you actually talked to her instead of drooling all over yourself?”

  “We exchanged a few words,” said Martin. He peeled open a pack of half-and-half, dribbled it into his coffee, and stirred it in. “And don’t be a jerk.”

  “Just trying to give you a nudge in the right direction,” said Jeffrey. “If you like this woman, you’ve got to make a move sometime. You can’t waste your whole life being afraid to talk to her. You might call it being a jerk, but I’m looking out for you.”

  “You know it’s not that easy,” said Martin. Eileen arrived with a tall, sweating glass of ice water and Jeffrey’s meal. “Eileen,” said Martin, “did you know Herbert Stamper?”

  “Before my time,” she said. “You must have heard BI last night. Everyone was talkin’ about it this morning.”

  “Any truth to it?” asked Martin.

  “Strange stuff happens around here every day, but I don’t need flying saucers to explain any of it. Just a restaurant full of boys like you comin’ in off the road,” said Eileen.

  “BI? You still listening to that crap?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Are you about to give me more advice?” Martin asked, then turned to Eileen. “The guy on the radio said he interviewed a woman who used to work here.”

  Eileen laughed. “Probably Doris Solberg. She lives out on McMasters Road now. Used to have a thing with Herbert, and that woman can talk. Yours’ll be up in a minute.” Eileen reloaded her tray with dishes from another table on her way back to the counter.

  “Danvers talked about Brixton?” asked Jeffrey.

  “And Herbert’s Corner. Apparently this very diner used to be the aliens’ favorite truck stop,” said Martin.

  “And of course you believed it, hook, line, and sinker,” said Jeffrey.

  “Wouldn’t it be cool, though?” said Martin and scanned the diner. The last of the other customers was settling up with Eileen at the till. “Eating lunch with extraterrestrials.”

  Jeffrey rolled his eyes and plucked the frilled toothpick out of his toasted club sandwich. “Audiobooks,” he said. “That’s what I listen to.”

  “Gotta keep awake somehow,” said Martin.

  “You working the co-op this afternoon?” Jeffrey asked through a half-swallowed bite. Martin nodded. “Then I suggest you take the opportunity to ask her out.”

  “We’re still talking about this? What about your adventures? Still seeing the assistant manager at the McDonald’s in—where was it? Columbus?”

  Jeffrey shook his head and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Focus. It’s a big day for you.”

  “I can’t just ask her out. I don’t want to end up like Frank Odessa. Remember him? The paint and stain guy? He asked her out and Lester practically had him arrested.”

  “Odessa didn’t ask her out, he grabbed her ass,” Jeffrey pointed out.

  “Plus, I heard she punched the homecoming king in the balls for doing something similar, and that he pretty much had to leave town after that,” said Martin.

  “I doubt that happened,” said Jeffrey. “Look, she’s the town daughter. How many other women stick around a place like Brixton after high school? Of course people are going to look out for her. But if your intentions are noble, no one’s going to stop you.”

  “I’m at least five years older than she is,” said Martin.

  “You’re talking yourself out of this before you’ve given yourself a chance,” said Jeffrey. “Who cares about age? You’re what thirty-three, thirty-four? So what? Besides, she probably likes older men.”

  “I’m twenty-nine,” said Martin. His food arrived, and he thanked Eileen.

  “You’re not going to do it,” said Jeffrey, sliding the bottle of Heinz ket
chup across the table without being asked.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” said Martin.

  “Whatever,” said Jeffrey. “Maybe I’ll ask her out.”

  Martin shook his head and poured ketchup on his hash browns as Jeffrey laughed.

  ~ * * * ~

  Out in the parking lot, Martin put on his sunglasses and watched Jeffrey turn out onto Highway 360 on his way to sell more lame candy to every store in Montana. Jeffrey liked to go on at length about how his Lincoln Town Car was the only car for the traveling salesman. Roomy, powerful, floated like a cloud. “It’s like flying a leather sofa,” Jeffrey always said. “You oughta get yourself one.”

  That was easy for him to say. He didn’t have to carry inventory. He had one of those cushy jobs where he just went from store to store writing up orders. He didn’t use paper, or even a PDA with a UPC wand and a docking station. Jeffrey had an iPad app. Martin had seen him work. Jeffrey spent about two minutes checking the inventory levels of no more than twenty products, then spent the next fifteen minutes glad-handing owners, shooting the breeze with assistant managers, or chatting up cute cashiers. He’d upload the order on the stroll back out to his flying couch, via some kind of always-on 3 or 4 or 5G wireless. The order was probably boxed up and loaded on a UPS truck before he even got to his next account.

  That was not the life a FastNCo. area account representative. No cushy Town Car for him. Instead, Martin drove a Ford E-250 Super Duty Cutaway, a pickup truck cab and chassis with a custom payload box on the back. Every FastNCo. truck in the country was identical, thanks to some company bean counter. When fully loaded, the four hundred different cabinets, drawers, and compartments contained more than a ton of nails, screws, nuts, bolts, washers, and staples. The fleet-style cab had been stripped of anything that might make a Ford truck a pleasure to drive. That bean counter—who probably commuted a half-hour to and from work in an Acura with heated seats somewhere in Ohio—never conceived of the distances and conditions that the reps out West had to cope with.