arbitrary:
based on random choice or impulse.
I woke up to the smell of diesel fuel and to lights flashing into my eyes—a neon sign that said HOME COOKING.
“I’ll drop you here,” the driver informed me. “It’ll be easier for you to get another ride.”
I blinked in the darkness. We were in Colorado already? I didn’t know if I’d slept thirty minutes or thirty hours.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked.
Oh, yeah. I was gonna be great.
I jumped down from the rig.
“Good luck, Pal,” he said.
I gave a fakely cheerful wave. I was on my own again, not a good feeling.
The truck stop was as busy as if it were daylight: the pumps lit up, the diner filled with truckers. I could smell the food wafting through the air: meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, cherry pie.
I wished I had thought things through better. Like, I could have gone back to the motel and packed some food, or at least had a meal before I set off. I could’ve gotten some money from Stacey, and said good-bye.
I stared into the windows of the diner, at all the forks and spoons being lifted so easily to mouths; then I searched my pockets as if dollars would magically appear. Finally, I walked to the exit and stuck my thumb out. The ground was wet, like the place had been hosed down. When trucks passed, water sprayed up at me.
To occupy myself, I tried to remember every great meal I’d ever had: my first bite of meat ever, with Bud’s family at the Portuguese American Club steak fry; the summer clambakes at Third Beach; Mira’s cilantro shrimp and savory bread pudding. I remembered how food at our house improved after I started going out with her.
The first time Mira came to dinner at our house, Mom made her “famous” lentil casserole and an iceberg salad with alfalfa sprouts and mayonnaise dressing. Mom’s cooking was something Dad and I felt was best not talked about. Once and once only, Dad suggested that Mom check out the cookbook section of our shop. “Why?” she asked. “Food is so … boring.”
He slid me a glance. I looked the other way.
“Don’t you guys like my cooking?” She sounded hurt.
“No. No, it’s great,” Dad assured her. “Better than mine, anyway.”
“Adam?”
“Well, you know me. I like meat and all, but otherwise, it’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure,” Dad echoed.
Mom stared us down until we both went back to our tasks. “Food,” she mumbled. “What’s to read about?”
Mira wasn’t quite so tactful. She took a couple of swallows of lentils and her eyes got wide. “Have you got any … rice vinegar? Or … Tabasco sauce, maybe?” she asked hopefully.
We didn’t.
The second time she came, she barged right into the kitchen. “What’s cooking?”
“Tofu scramble, cabbage, and rye toast. Taste.” Mom offered Mira a spoonful of tofu. It looked like gray scrambled eggs.
Mira tasted. She had to work hard not to make a face. “Tell you what, Mrs. Walton,” she suggested. “You bring out all the spices you have, an onion, and some garlic, and let me just… work on this a bit.”
“Really?” Mom peered over at me. “Well, that should be fun.”
“I’m going to be a chef,” Mira confided. “Did Adam tell you?”
I hadn’t, since Mira had never told me.
Mom pulled out all the spices she had, which consisted of salt, pepper, and something called Spike.
A couple of days later, Mira showed up with a bag of stuff from her house. After that, she was the chef at our house on the nights she was there. Mom’s tofu scramble became sesame ginger tofu. Mom’s baked gluten became spicy basil gluten with roasted garlic. I didn’t know who was more grateful, Dad or me.
The darkness thinned. To the east, a strip of pale light expanded. In the light, I noticed a group of people congregating in the corner of the parking lot. It was as if they were waiting for a bus, only there didn’t seem to be a stop.
As I walked over to them, I realized that they were Hispanic, all of them. One of the men turned to look at me. He wore a straw hat and a T-shirt that said FRANK. I wondered if it was his name or a statement about his personality. “Gringo.” Frank smiled. “¿Qué pasa?”
In answer, my stomach growled loudly.
He chuckled, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a Snickers. There was half of it left. He shrugged, an apology, and handed it to me. I smiled in thanks and scarfed it down.
We stood there about an hour. I knew I should head off and try to hitch a ride, but being with the group made me feel safe. Unlike the trucker, I wanted to be part of a pack.
Finally, a pickup screeched to a halt in front of us. The man in the passenger seat jumped out. He pointed at different people: “You, you, you, you.” He started to go, but then the driver said something to him. He turned back and pointed to Frank and then to me. “You two.”
Frank climbed onto the back of the truck, then he motioned for me to follow. “Vamos.”