The Pinto rode its classic-rock-and-exhaust cloud past town and out the county line highway past a whole bunch of nothing until Herb finally arrived at Ronnie’s Famous Truck-stop, Grill, Bait Shop and Gift Emporium. Ronnie had been a long-haul trucker for about ten years before a wreck ended his time on the road. The lawsuit against the Amish couple that had been driving without proper buggy reflectors gave Ronnie enough money to buy a vacant gas station and diner on the outside of town and turn it into his own little kingdom. Now, almost 17 years later, Ronnie claimed to have the best truck stop in all of Wisconsin, and maybe even the quad-state area. He never went into specifics, though. Best food? Best anniversary gifts? Best overnight cots and showers? No one quite knew for sure, and you certainly couldn’t tell just from looking. But as far as Ronnie was concerned, it was THE best. Anyone that thought otherwise was reminded by Ronnie that “opinions were like assholes,” rendering the need for empirical evidence moot. Same could be said for the “famous” claim. Herb supposed it was just one of those little magics people could work. Call it famous and, alacadabra, people decided it had to be famous for some reason or other. Maybe Capone had stopped by on vacation for some curds, or Elvis did a show in the parking lot, or the ghosts of lost hitchhikers had been seen in the windows at night. All it takes is one speculative tourist and boom, your joint is famous.
Herb had been working for Ronnie off and on since he was a junior in high school. He’d quit a couple of times and been fired a few others, but Herb and Ronnie just seemed destined for one another. They would never call themselves friends, but they knew each other better than most, and with that came a level of understanding and acceptance. Thus, when Herb parked his Pinto behind the truck stop and walked in the back entrance to the kitchen, he wasn’t surprised that Ronnie was waiting and was even less surprised that Ronnie was pissed. Which rant today? thought Herb. Higher Calling, Engines of Industry or God-Hisself-must-be-hatin-me-to-stick-me-with-you-as-a-line-cook?
“Dammit Herb. Dammit dammit dammit. We’ve got people out there needin’ food, and whose gonna make it? Engines of Industry just sitting out there, productivity dripping away like antifreeze from a busted hose, like air leaking out from 18 God-gifted wheels. These boys gotta eat! Eat so they can drive, Herb. Drive! You look out there, whatdaya see?”
Oh goody, Engines, though Herb as he looked obligingly over Ronnie’s shoulder, past the serve-through window into the diner beyond.
“Old Hodge and Rob Gardner having coffee. Ned’s got the Trappersville Times, probably yesterday’s ‘cause the Johnson’s boy won’t be around ‘til 8-ish with today’s. And um...” Lois, Herb almost said. Ah yes. Lois.
“Oh, and Ronnie, it’s only ten to. I’m on at seven,” Herb added as an afterthought. “And Bill’s here ‘til 7:30, right?”
Ronnie’s face turned a shade of red not commonly found in nature as he stared at Herb. His squinted eyes pried themselves away from glaring intently at Herb’s innocently blank face, shifted to the clock on the wall for all of a second, then jumped back to Herb.
“I know what time it is,” he snapped. “I’m still trying to get over you being on time for once. Should’a had Bill call the ambulance. I could’a had me a heart’o’tack just now from the shock of it, and you’d be damn worthless, probably just watch all stupid-faced with me twitchin’ on the kitchen floor. And don’t change the goddamn subject. I’m trying, trying to instill some sense of responsibility in you. You see Hodge and Gardner and Ned and you think, ‘Oh isn’t that nice? The fellas are back again! La dee dah, it’s sooo nice to have a few fellas around sipping coffee and chewing the fat.’ Idiot! Those men are engines of industry. And they need to eat!”
Ronnie’s voice raised to a shrill note, one that Herb was quite accustomed to. He nodded sympathetically, trying to look contrite as he tied on his apron and gave a wave to Bill, the diner’s third-shift cook. Bill really wanted to be an Iraq vet who’d “seen some shit.” Unfortunately, Bill was terrified of just about everything involved with joining the Army, such getting shot at, eating MRE’s, traveling, and not being able to shower every day. At 36, he still lived at home with a mother who bought him camo pants and Army Strong shirts and called him Sarge. Yeah, Bill’s a bit off, Herb often thought, but he made damn good onion rings so it all sorta worked out fine.
“Order up! Eggs up where the sun shines, hash well, burn the pig, dry wheat, extra jam. Also need a pope benedict, holly on the side, hash soggy, fruit cup for two. And hurry up! These guys gotta get back on the road!”
Herb would never understand how time could actually stop whenever he saw Lois. Maybe if he went to college, or one of those science conventions with Stephen... Hawking? King? The really smart one. Or maybe it was beyond science, something only pure faith could touch, something Buddha and Jesus might chat about while taking a breather from the debate and drinking lemonade. Whatever it was, however it happened, Herb loved it. Lived for it. For that first moment of the day when he got to drink in long fuchsia nails, powdery blue eyeliner, cherry red lips, and that hair. That lovely, golden hair pulled back in a sensible pony tail with a careless strand falling down across her cheek, waiting to be tucked back in place...
“Uh… Lois. Hiya. Hair. Nice, um. Sure thing.” Herb managed. Lois turned that confused look she always seemed to have waiting for him back through the serve-through window, causing Herb’s heart to leap somewhere past his Adam’s apple, plummet to his kidneys and bounce back to tangle up in his lungs.
“Uh thanks... Herb. Oh, and I need a Sunrise Special and a Cheese Please with light toast to-go. And please don’t burn the light toast again.”
“You see, Herb?” crowed Ronnie. “There’s a girl that gets it. She knows that these folks are in need, and our purpose, our raison d’etre, which is French for ‘pretty damn important,’ is to meet their needs. Even Bill, who’s a couple spark plugs short in the engine upstairs – sorry Bill, no offense, just true.”
“None taken, sir,” saluted Bill with the spatula before flipping strips of bacon on the flat-grill.
“Even Bill knows that what we do here matters. But you, you just float around with your shaggy head up your hairy ass. I can’t take it. I just can’t take it.” Ronnie’s familiar rant grew fainter as he stomped away toward the back office. Herb scratched absentmindedly at the bandage on his neck and picked up the order ticket Lois had left in the window. As he threw an English muffin in the toaster, he imagined for the millionth time he was making her breakfast in bed. Her favorite, she’d say. And she’d smile, and that smile would be all his.
The hours passed in a blur as Herb served up breakfast all day and lunch any time. After all these years as a cook, Herb had still not really mastered cooking, but he had come to truly understand that breakfast, lunch and dinner were in the eye of the beholder. Or mouth of the eater. Or whatever. Some people cling to the belief that eggs are breakfast, a Reuben sandwich is lunch and walleye with mashed potatoes on the side is dinner. Ronnie’s was a place where all such preconceived notions blew away like chaff in the wind. If it was on the menu, you could get it, be it sunrise, sunset or some hour in between. Third-shift workers from the paper mill, tourists, truckers, college kids and families up camping during the summer, fishermen working their way up the Wolf, whoever found themselves at Ronnie’s all found some strange common ground in the belief that breakfast, lunch and dinner were the arbitrary constructs of less evolved minds. So Herb didn’t judge when a Reuben with extra ‘slaw and a Mountain Dew came across at eight a.m. alongside an order for corned beef hash and a rack of prime rib with potatoes. Truth be told, the chaotic variety of orders, sides and substitutions made the days go by pretty quickly. The only mystery left was how, after all these years, he wasn’t a better cook.
Herb finished cleaning up, threw his apron in the laundry basket, and made his way out of the kitchen. He balanced his turkey sandwich with slaw in one hand while filling up a glass of Coke with the other. Multi-tasking accomplished, he worked
his way around to the last stool on the counter by the wall, and settled into eat.
No sooner had he taken a mouthful of bread, turkey, bacon and mayo, than Lois came out from the ladies’ washroom. Gone was the Ronnie’s polo, waitress smock and apron. Instead, a striped tube top left slender arms and toned tummy on full display. A small diamond in her navel hypnotized as she wove around the counter. Low-rider jeans hugged hips kept trim by walking for a living, and stripy little sandals ensured that even the most casual of glances couldn’t help but take in a full spread of perfectly painted toenails. Her hair, earlier pulled back in a sensible ponytail was down, cascading in golden blonde waves to crash against tanned shoulders. Dark blue eyeliner, bright red lipstick, a hint of blush on her cheeks... the result left Herb convinced that Aphrodite’s personal stylist had taken up residence in Ronnie’s bathroom. Lois had been working at Ronnie’s since she rolled into town just after the New Year. Over half a year later, his brain still short-circuited every time he saw her.
“Har, umm, Lois,” muttered Herb around a mouthful of turkey. He forcibly swallowed and tried again. “Your hair is great. Again. I mean, at work. No, your hair’s always great at work. But after work your hair is, um. Really great.”
Silence hung for a few awkward moments before Lois replied, “Thank you Herb. That’s just, well, very nice.”
Encouraged by how well things were going, Herb continued. “You working tomorrow? The schedule’s up, but I didn’t see you on it. Or me. I mean, I was just, not that I was looking at your, ah. I just saw the schedule.”
Lois was almost at the door, but slowed to turn back and wave politely. “Nope, I’m out tomorrow. Probably going to stop by the bake sale at First Lutheran. You know, good cause and all. But I’ll see you next week. Oh, and,” she paused while Herb’s heart swelled in his chest. “Um, you have mayonnaise on your face.”
Herb managed to keep a smile in place until she was safely out of sight, then wiped his face and thunked his head onto the countertop.
Chapter 2
Herb’s forehead was still pressed to the counter when Dallas barreled into the diner, his tall, muscular frame clad in flannel, worn denim and unshakable self-confidence.
“Holy shipyards, Herb! Did you just see Lois? Damn, she is on fire!”
Dallas made his way through the diner like a king taking court, which in a way, he was. Everyone in town knew Big D, since someone so much larger than life was hard to miss. Dallas was without question Trappersville’s top dog. He even had a commercial on cable access for his HVAC service, That Blows HVAC. “Broken thermostat? That blows. No A/C on a hot summer day? That blows. Think you can’t afford to get that new furnace installed. That blows!” Dallas was a natural for TV.
Theirs was an unlikely friendship. From back in grade school when he was consistently picked first for kickball, to high school where he was the starting quarterback freshman through senior years, Dallas had always been ‘the man.’ Herb, on the other hand, was not. He had been terrible at kickball and spent most football games duct-taped to something. It’s not that he was unliked growing up, he just wasn’t liked and made an irresistibly easy target for the other kids to practice their meanness. So it was really just another day in the 8th grade when Herb was surprise-wedgie’d by Joey O’Connell and shoved into the girl’s bathroom. The commotion caused a handful of girls to run screaming to the hallway, including Denise Landry who exploded out of a closed stall. Joey was using the leverage of Herb’s hiked-up undies to shuttle him toward the recently vacated stall when Dallas stepped out, fist already heading toward Joey’s nose.
“Whadaya think you’re doing! I was gonna get to second base!” Dallas yelled, punches punctuating his words. Joey went down, red pluming from his nose, leaving Herb to wrestle with his underwear and watch in awe as someone actually stood up for him.
When Mrs. Rafferty burst in, she separated the pugilists and turned to Herb for answers. Still squirming in his skewed undies, Herb blurted out, “Joey wedgie’d me and was gonna stick my head in the toilet when Dallas stopped him.”
Joey got detention, Dallas got a gold star, and Herb got a friend. It worked out pretty well. Herb needed distraction from his own humdrum existence and occasional protection from bullies. Dallas needed an audience to endure hearing about his over-the-top escapades with an endless string of girls. They basically got along great.
“That Lois, I’ll tell you what,” Dallas continued after taking a stool next to Herb at the diner counter. “Ten minutes. If she’d just give me ten minutes, that girl would be stuck on me like white on rice, know what I mean? “
Herb nodded, uncomfortably aware that Dallas had no inkling of Herb’s obsession with Lois, being too busy entertaining his own. Dallas looked past him, brow furrowed in deep thought.
“Course, a guy like me could use a lot more than ten minutes, you understand. Sure, we both know that. I’m not implying that ten minutes is all I’d be good for. It’s like... well, here’s a metaphor, Herby. It’s like a train only needs a few hours to get from Milwaukee to Chicago, right, but that train, it could run all night and not even break a sweat! I’m the train, right? Damn right! I’m the train, I’m taking her to Chicago, where I’ll bet she’s never been, least not with a dude, you know? Maybe she’s gone a time or two for some girlie shopping weekend. But with a guy, a real guy, hell, I’ll bet she ain’t even been to the Pleasant Prairie,” he finished on an authoritative note. It took a moment before he realized his own lame joke, but when it did register, Dallas started to laugh. Herb knew that ‘knee-slapper’ was just an expression, but also knew that whoever came up with it was referring literally to Dallas.
“Pleasant Prairie! Damn, that’s good. I ain’t gone down to Chi-town, but I’ve been to Pleasant Prairie. Ha!” Dallas sang out, slapping his knee in time.
Herb nodded again, in what he hoped was enthusiastic support. Inwardly, he was having some trouble following Dallas, due in part to Dallas being rather long-winded, but more as a result of Lois. Herb was continually stunned by everything Lois. It wasn’t that she was the only cute girl in Trappersville. While not an avid dater, Herb had been known to have more than a few unrequited crushes in his day. Truth be told, Herb had been ignored, snubbed or flat-out rejected by lots of girls over the years, starting with Wendy Jacobsen in 3rd grade and ending most recently with Janis Lewinski last New Year’s. Herb was still a little ticked at Dallas about that one.
“She’s TOTALLY digging on you, dude! It’s New Year’s Eve, she’s been watching you for like hours. C’mon, go show her some moves.” Dallas poured encouraging words and shots of Wild Turkey in rapid succession until Herb actually thought that maybe, just maybe, Janis was the one. A nice girl, someone he would be happy to bring round on the holidays. She had such a nice smile, and Herb always wanted kids with nice teeth. And Big D was right, he was a good catch. A job, a little rambler in the woods, four wheels ready to burn. Well, maybe not burn, but by George he had a car, right? And he liked good music. Maybe he was carrying a few extra pounds over the belt, but damn if he couldn’t still shake a tail-feather when the mood was right. Yessir, Dallas was right! Janis was the one and Herb was the one and they were gonna be one happy couple. Or perhaps they would have been, until Herb weaved over, smiled, and puked on her lap. Sadly, after that opening move, Janis joined the ranks of women that were anywhere from oblivious of to plain old repulsed by Herb.
But Lois was different. Those other girls, minor crushes at best, while Lois was in a league of her own. A league that Herb knew he wasn’t in. Dallas, sure. She’d go for a guy like Dallas. Tall, fit, good looking. He probably never burned light toast. Everyone liked Dallas, especially the girls, he grumbled to himself, the thought a dark cloud across his mind. Bet they wouldn’t like him so much without his face. It was suddenly so clear. All Herb had to do was rip Dallas’s face off and eat his eyeballs. Then he’d see how lucky Dallas was with the girls.
“... with a feather. I kid you not, Herby,
I am always going to use a feather from now on. Wow. A goddamn feather. Who’da thunk?” Dallas said, an expression of wonder on his face.
Herb blinked, realizing he’d completely spaced out. “Oh. Yeah, ah, me too. For sure,” he offered, sending Dallas into a fit of laughter. Herb reached for his half-eaten turkey sandwich, only to discover his appetite was gone. Sliding the plate away, he leaned on his elbow and faked listening to Dallas, all the while thinking of Lois’s smile and scratching his neck.
Chapter 3
Herb was about halfway home when inspiration struck. The bake sale, he suddenly remembered. It was an annual affair that drew Trappersville’s gerontological society into a mostly-good-natured competition to raise funds for the church. Banana breads and lemon bars squared off against cupcakes and krumkake while the blue haired bakers fawned over each other’s concoctions and caught up on town gossip. Herb had visited in years past, since it was impossible to skip a sale devoted entirely to dessert. This year was going to be different, though. This year, Lois was going.
Turning back toward civilization, he rolled into the local supermarket. The Pinto made a knocking noise every time he turned right, so Herb proceeded to turn left and head toward a space near the front door. As he drew closer, another car came in from the other direction and smoothly pulled into the spot Herb had his eye on. With a friendly smile and wave to cover a mumbled curse involving firstborns and explosive diarrhea, Herb headed past the spot, making a right turn to head for the next row. Brong brong brong, the Pinto’s wheel-well complained as Herb navigated the turn and headed down the next row of spots. One spot was too narrow; a full-sized pickup had parked diagonally, taking up most of two spaces. The next spot was blocked with abandoned shopping carts. Herb turned left at the end of the row, and started heading up the next. Long, weaving minutes later, he finally settled for an open spot near the back of the lot, killed the engine and headed for the store.
Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp Page 2