Chapter 31

Roxie stood in the parking space that Bubba’s truck had just vacated. She stared down the road at his taillights until she couldn’t see them anymore. She knew it was pointless to do it but couldn’t help herself.

A small breeze came up and she could feel Bubba’s money flapping like a flag as she held the bills in her fingers. She stuffed the money in her jeans pocket, picked up her bag with her belongings and turned back toward the restaurant in the distance.

Well, there was only one thing to do, she thought, buy a bus ticket and make her way back to Appleton as best she could. People there were used to seeing her make a fool of herself with a man, she knew. There would be a lot of gossip for a while—which she would do her best to ignore—and after that died away she would be back to where she started.

“I bet if I approach Millie in just the right way I could get my old job back at the diner.”

She thought about that last proposition as she approached the main building of the truck stop. She conceded that if that were to ever come true it would take all the finesse she could muster.

The main building of the truck stop wasn’t unlike those in most rest areas on the interstates. The only difference was that the restaurant was a conventional type, a lot like the Bluebird Diner. Most of the rest stops on the interstates had given over to fast food chains.

Roxie looked around for some kind of information booth, even a poster or display that might have bus schedules on it.

“I guess that there aren’t too many truckers looking for information about bus schedules,” she had to admit to herself.

There didn’t seem to be any activity in the building at that time of night, except in the restaurant. She looked in from a distance and saw that the tables were about half full with truckers taking in a late dinner as they satisfied their logs. Roxie decided to go in and see if she could find out some information.

A short, rotund man in his fifties met her as she walked in. He had salt and pepper hair that was combed backward from his forehead. His most prominent feature was his roman nose that made his eyes look smaller than they really were. In short sleeves his thick, hairy arms looked like they were coated with fur. Roxie glanced at his name tag. It said ‘Rolande’.

“You want a table or sit at de counter?” he asked through a French-Canadian accent.

Even with his accent, Roxie could detect the suspicion in his voice.

“Well, there’s no one else around,” she said, “I just thought...”

“You don’t want to eat?”

Roxie’s stomach growled and she thought about how good any meal would be. All she had was Bubba’s fifty dollars and that was her ticket home. She didn’t dare spend any of it.

“I just need some information,” she said.

The short, fat man called “Rolande’ did an about face and began walking away.

“Please,” Roxie yelled after him, “I just need to find out how to catch the bus.”

The chatter in the restaurant ceased at the sound of a woman yelling.

Rolande halted in his tracks. He about-faced again and walked back to her.

“What!” he demanded.

“I need to get on the next bus,” Roxie explained. “When is the next one? Does it stop here?”

“Bus?” Rolande asked as he squinted at her. “Why would a bus stop here? This is a truck stop. No one here needs a bus.”

Roxie had to admit to herself that in all the confusion of Bubba dumping her she’d never thought of that. She thought that she was wise in the world’s ways, but Bubba had sandbagged her, she realized.

The short man leaned forward just a bit and squinted at her, as though he’d forgotten his glasses.

“You stranded, or somethin’?” Rolande asked.

His interest in her situation lifted her up just a bit.

“You could say that,” she answered.

She felt tears welling in her eyes. She knew she had to fight them off.

“I’m not afraid,” she told herself, “just tired.”

That was it—she was tired—and once she got on the bus she could sleep for a while.

“Look,” Rolande continued, “for de bus you got to go to Presque Isle. It don’t come here.”

‘I thought I was in Presque Isle,” Roxie argued.

She found out that she was really on US Alt-1, not US 1, which is a bypass around the small city. To get to Presque Isle she would have to go about ten miles to the west.

“But you can’t go now,” Rolande explained. “Nothin’ open at this time o’ night. Just dis truck stop.”

Rolande looked at her for a second and then turned go back behind the restaurant counter.

“Hey Rolande,” Roxie called to him after he had taken a few steps, “if I clean up around here do you think I could get a meal?”

Rolande had turned around when she called his name. He didn’t say anything.

“Look at the place,” Roxie said. “It’s a mess!”

Roxie’s claim held more truth that fiction. Unbussed tables were scattered throughout the place. Discarded napkins littered the floor and trays full of dirty dishes were stowed on carts in various corners.

“I’m a waitress by trade,” Roxie added. “I was a waitress in a diner just like this one.”

“You mean work under de table?” Rolande asked with a tone of sanctimony.

Roxie glanced around the restaurant and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“You think these guys are going to turn you in?”

Rolande stood with his own furry arms crossed. He took a pose as if he was thinking things over, but Roxie knew it was for show.

“You work first, den eat,” he said as he pointed his finger at her.

“Of course,” Roxie replied.

Rolande nodded.

Okay,” he said, “go find an apron in the room behind the kitchen and get started.”

He turned and walked away.

“You won’t be sorry,’ Roxie said, and started off toward the kitchen.

“And one more thing,’ he called after her, “don’t call me Roland. It’s Rolande. The accent is on the end—not on the ‘Ro’, it’s on the ‘lande’.”

Roxie was seated in a booth at the back of the restaurant. She had worked six hours straight and then Rolande told her to knock off and get herself some dinner.

She looked around and had to admit the place looked a lot better than when she first came in, including a mopped floor and cleaned tables. She even went behind the counter and took orders. It was like being back in the Bluebird.

There were only a half-dozen patrons left in the restaurant and most of them were eating at the counter. The main part of the kitchen had closed down but the grill worked around the clock. Roxie took the last of the daily special and shoveled a bit of extra gravy onto her plate.

She was thinking that meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, with peas on the side never looked as good. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Rolande coming her way. When he came to her booth he sat across from her.

“You got no place to go, do you? No money for a room?”

Roxie shook her head.

“How you gonna get into Presque Isle tomorrow mornin’? You gonna walk?”

Roxie shrugged.

“I hadn’t thought about that much, but I guess so.”

Rolande leaned closer in the booth.

“Look,” he said pointing at a grizzled man in a white shirt, “that’s Phillipe. He’s de night manager. I got to go home now. I told him all about you. So, if you got to stay here, d’en Phillipe knows who you are.”

Roxie looked at Rolande.

“Phillipe, he looks rough, but he’s okay. In de mornin’ he’ll drive you to Presque Isle when his shift is done.”

“I’ll be alright,” Roxie said.

She was too tired to say much more.

“Sorry, that’s all I can offer you,” Rolande said as he stood up, “except, I almost forgot dis.”

He shoved his hand into his pocket and took out a handful of crumpled bills. He put them on the table next to Roxie’s plate.

“I only asked to work for a meal,” she said to him. “You don’t have to...”

“You work hard,” Rolande said. “You earned it. It’s forty dollars. Think of it as your share of de tip money. And, you were right, de place was a mess.”

He patted her on the hand.

“Good luck to you. You’ll be gone by the time I get back to work tomorrow.”

He turned and Roxie watched him walk out the door. She picked up the money he’d left on the table and uncrumpled the bills and arranged them in a neat stack in her hand. She looked up to see if, maybe, he’d not yet left so that she could give him the big ‘thank you’ that he didn’t ask for. He was gone. Roxie thought about him driving home at that moment, perhaps to his family, or maybe to an empty house.

“Thanks, Rolande,” she whispered to herself, “I didn’t know you were a nice person. You should have told me.”

Roxie hadn’t remembered letting herself fall asleep. She remembered finishing her meatloaf dinner and thinking about what Rolande had done to help her. She thought she was in the Bluebird Diner back home, with men barking out their breakfast orders. She had never left Appleton. Running off with Bubba had all been a dream—she thought.

She felt another nudge at her shoulder and forced her eyes open.

“Mam’selle, Mam’selle,” she heard a man’s voice and felt him shake her by the shoulder one more time. “Mam’selle, my shift ends in fifteen minutes. Rolande asked me to give you a ride into town.”

It was the man Rolande had pointed out as Phillipe. Behind him she could hear the men barking out their breakfast orders. She realized that dreams and reality had been juxtaposed.

“You fell asleep right after Rolande left last night. “There was no one here, so I let you sleep; I let you sleep in de booth.”

Roxie looked through a window. She could see that night had turned into morning. There were about a dozen truckers scattered through the tables and counter eager to get their breakfasts and get out on the road.

“Do I have time to get cleaned up?”

“Oui, I got to work fifteen minutes more,” the grizzled man replied. “You meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

She was trying to remember something, she was sure that it was important. She noticed that the dishes and utensils she’d used had been cleared away. All at once she tore through her handbag. Phillipe let out a laugh.

“Here” he said, handing her a fistful of bills, “you fell asleep with d’ese in your hand, so I keep them safe for you.”

Roxie felt a little embarrassed. She was tempted to count the money but stopped herself before she could do it.

“Thanks,” she said, “thanks very much.”

“Twelve minutes now,” Phillipe reminded her.

Roxie hoisted herself to her feet and picked up her handbag and small suitcase with her belongings. She shuffled out of the restaurant toward the lobby. There was a woman in a waitress uniform glaring at her from behind the counter.

“Is there a Ladies’ room...” she started to ask her.

“Go to de lobby. Turn left,” the glaring woman replied in her French accent and then turned away.

When Roxie emerged a few minutes later she felt a lot better. She’d brushed her teeth and washed the sleep out of her eyes, and a few other things. She still felt clean from the last night’s shower. She found Phillipe waiting for her.

Roxie followed him to his car, an older model Saturn and soon they were on a country road.

“Who was the waitress I saw?” Roxie asked.

“That’s Marguerite,” Phillipe answered.

“I don’t think she likes me much.”

Phillipe laughed, like he had in the restaurant when she was looking for her money.

“Probably not,” he said. “Marguerite is the Queen Bee. You were in her hive. She don’t like other queens buzzin’ aroun’ her hive—you know what I mean?”

“Well, she won’t have to worry,’ Roxie answered. “All I’m going to do is get on that bus.”

Phillipe drove a few minutes more. He stopped at a traffic light and then turned left. Roxie could see the business district of the small city ahead.

“So this is the real US-1,” she said as she read to signs at the intersection.

“Dat it is,” Phillipe said, “and dat is the bus station over d’ere.”

“It sure was nice of you and Rolande to help me out,” Roxie said. “I don’t know what...”

“Aw, forget all dat,” Phillipe interrupted.

He stopped the car and Roxie reached into the back seat to pull out her bag. She opened the door and stepped out, but poked her head back in.

“Phillipe, thanks for the ride.”

“Take care o’ yourself,” he said. “Maybe you come by dis way again.”

Roxie shut the car door and Phillipe drove off. She saw the car make a left turn at the intersection in the distance, and then he was gone. She turned around and headed for the entrance to the bus company office.

She opened the door and was inside a dark, dusty room. There was a large service counter at the front. Further inside she could see a man in a glass-walled office who appeared to be busy with something on his desk. Other than Roxie and that man the bus office was empty.

Roxie waited for the man in the distant office to see her. She waited a few minutes and began looking for a bell she could ring. There was none, so she called to him.

“Hello there—hello there, can you help me?”

The man looked up and squinted at her, then went back to whatever he was pouring over on his desk.

“Hey, can you help? I want to buy a ticket.”

The man waved his hand at her like he was trying to shoo away a bothersome fly.

“Hey. I want to buy a ticket.”

The man looked up again and seemed to breathe a big sigh. He put some kind of visor on his head and came out of his office and began making his way to the counter. Roxie glanced at the visor. There was a logo of the bus company and a title printed underneath: “Station Manager”.

“I heard you the first time,” he said in a yankee accent that Roxie had only heard in old movies on television.

He was a bit taller than average height with wavy grey hair that Roxie thought might have been blonde once. He had a slim—perhaps gaunt—frame. Roxie thought he looked about sixty.

“Well, where d’ya need t’ go?” he asked in his accent that Roxie found even more difficult than those of Rolande and Phillipe.

“Appleton, New York. It’s south of Syracuse on Interstate 81,” she answered, adding the last part when she thought he was looking at her funny.

He typed some information into a keyboard on the counter.

“D’ya spell that with two ‘P’s’?” he demanded.

“Yes, two ‘P’s’,” Roxie assured him.

The man made a little grunt and squinted at his computer screen again. Roxie was patient as he tapped a little more and made what she thought were some disapproving sounds, although he said nothing.

“Well, I got t’ say—ye got a long trip ahead o’ ye,” he informed her at last. “Best part o’ twenty-four hours, once ye get started. That’s two hours from now.”

Roxie sighed. She hadn’t bothered to guess how long it would take to get home.

“Well, that will have to be it, I guess,” she said.