The Feet of God

 35 - THE PREACHER MAN

Up ahead in the miserable darkness I could make out the neon glow of a truck stop with gas stations and a well-lit diner.  Brightly lighted signs for I-84 and I-86 and I-15 pointed directions every which way.  Trucks was busy pulling in and pulling out, and rows of ‘em was tanking up or sitting idle in a long line.  The trooper cruised up to the diner to let me out.  “This is as far I go.”

“Thanks,” I opened the passenger side door to exit.

“Hey,” he reached over into the backseat and pulled out a hooded sweatshirt.  “Can’t do much to help you with those wet trousers, but here’s a dry top to get you started.”  He tossed it my way.  I took the red, white and blue hoody inscribed across the front with “God Hates Long-Haired Hippie, Commie, Pinko Fags.”

I quickly removed my soggy flannel shirt and pulled the hoody over my head before leaving the warm confines of the officer’s vehicle.

The trooper gave me a short salute as he headed back into the cold and dismal dark world we’d just come from.

I breathed in the frosty night air, just thankful the rain and sleet had stopped.  I stood in front of that interstate diner absorbing the aromas of hot, deep-fried food.  Inside, the place was quite a commotion.  It was state-of-the-art truck stop construction, too.  Chrome gleamed everywhere under recessed lights.  Powder blue leatherette booths lined the outer walls almost as far as the eye could see, and dining banquettes formed a giant cloverleaf around a centralized kitchen bright as a brand new copper penny.  Uniformed waitresses roamed about the crowd carrying piles of steaming plates in a faint blue haze.

I slid onto a seat at the outer curve of the horseshoe Formica counter, the first open spot I could find.  I rotated myself in and waited as I studied the menu, but not for long, as a tall dark-haired waitress splashed coffee in a cup without even asking.  She pulled a pad and pencil out of the pocket of her apron.

“Wha’chu havin’?”

“Wha’chu offerin’?”

“Specialty’s grilled chicken livers and onions.”

“Hmm, I was thinkin’ something sweet.”

“We got pie.”

“What kinda pie?”

With eyes closed her hips swayed seductively to a bored sing-song, “Apple, peaches, pumpkin piiie, you were young and so was I.”

“Ya got any lemon meringue?”

She hollered over to a waitress at another counter, “Hey, Marge, we got any of that lemon meringue left in the kitchen?”

The waitress named Marge slammed down her pot of coffee.  “No, Bernice, we do not.  Just apple, peach, pumpkin.”

As I meditated on my choices the customer sitting on my right advised, “Try the devil’s food.”  The stranger’s voice was buried deep under a broad black hat, face hidden.

“Huh?”

“The chocolate cake.”

I looked at the man sitting one seat over.  All I could see was a black Stetson with a silver hatband pulled down low, and a long black leather coat that touched the floor over heavy black boots.

“Is it any good?”

He grunted some kind of approval.

I figured it was wise to trust the locals.  “I’ll go with the chocolate cake,” I informed our waitress.

“Want that à la mode?”

“See voo play.”

“Swell,” she sniffed and stuck the pencil into her pile of hair.

In minutes I was eating my cake and enjoying it too, licking fudge frosting and vanilla ice cream off real silverware, and washing it all down with bottomless cups of coffee.

“Love your country, do you?” the dark stranger asked.

It took me a second or two before I realized he was referring to the patriotic theme of my hoody.  “Oh, this?  A Smokey gave it to me so’s I wouldn’t get froze any sooner than necessary.  I was not of a mind to raise any issues under the circumstances.”

The black hat nodded.  “You can’t be too careful about who you choose to hate.  The gift of discernment is of the Spirit.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

Between sips of piping hot coffee I heard him say, “Quo vadis?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Where are you going?”

“East, southeast,” I answered.  “Florida, most likely.”

I caught a sudden glimpse of the man’s face.  Thick white hair stuck out from under the crown of his cowboy hat.  His narrow face featured a neatly trimmed goatee streaked brown from nicotine.  Yellow eyes captured secrets of someone who had a story to tell.

“I gotta hit the shitter,” he stood up.  “If you want, I can offer you a ride.  Only headed about two hundred miles down the road in your direction, but it’s better than nothing.”

“That’s great,” I smiled real grateful.

The man’s knuckles rapped hard on the counter.  “I got both checks, Bernice.”

I offered a polite phony protest, “You don’t gotta do that.”

“Don’t gotta do nothing.  Meet me when I’m finished.”

The waitress splashed a little more coffee in my cup.  “You must need to get someplace bad,” her head tilted toward the men’s room, “if you’re going with him.”

“Whattaya mean?”

“People leave with The Preacher Man, but they never come back.”