After a moment's consideration, I turned back, popped the cap off the portable urinal, opened the passenger-side door, and emptied the contents into the back seat.  If Perry had someone come down to haul this back to Ohio (and he would, he was just that type), I wanted to make sure the smell when he opened the door would let him know just what I thought about his assessment of "top-notch condition."

As I was leaving the garage I could hear Cletus behind the closed door to his office shouting into the phone, "…kind of a brain-damaged, greasy little, no-balls-to-speak-of pickpocket are you, anyway, Mr. Perry of Perry's Used Cars on Fifth Street in Cedar Hill, Ohio?  Don't bother answering that—the smell of your breath'd probably come through the phone lines and knock every buzzard off of every shit-wagon in a fifty-mile radius.  You got any idea the outright, call-the-mortician danger you put your brother-in-law in by letting him drive off in that miserable excuse for transportation?  What's that?  I am calm, dunder-dunce!  If I was mad, I'd be getting unpleasant…."

Oh, yeah:  I really liked him.

The woman behind the motel desk was in her sixties and wore the type of horn-rimmed glasses that had been around for so long they were actually fashionable again.  She took one look at me, smiled around the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, and said, "Hello, you.  I'm Edna.  You must be that Mark fellah Cletus went after."

"Word gets around fast here."

"That it does, son, that it does.  'Course this has been one of them days where we got nothing new or interesting to talk about, so your little predicament's the big topic…that, and my new cookie recipe, which I finally got right after about a dozen tries.  Don't look at me like that; you work a stop like this, you get your kicks where you can.  Now, let me see…oh, yes.  I got just the room for you."  She slapped down a key.  "Number Twelve, near the end, first floor.  You got nobody above you, and nobody on either side right now, so you can get yourself some rest and have some peace and quiet… if you can get past the trucks rolling in and out of here."

"That sounds lovely."  I watched the dangling ash at the end of her cigarette grow longer; no matter how much she moved and spoke, the ash never fell off.

As I was signing in, she looked past me to the small stack of boxes I'd left outside the door.  "If you want, I can have my husband store them boxes in a room we got for that stuff.  We don't have many thefts from here, but you never can tell."

I checked with my back and found it didn't feel like hauling any more than necessary.  "I'd appreciate that.  How much more will that be?"

"It's free for Cletus's customers."

"Sounds like he's quite a popular guy."

"Cletus?  He's a stinker, is what he is, but you gotta love 'im.  Unless you're a Pinochle player."

"So I gathered."

She laughed and shook her head and still the ash remained in place.

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?" she asked.

I pointed.  "Not lose your cigarette ash?"

She grinned.  "It's a gift."

"You have no idea, do you?"

A wider grin:  "That'd be telling, and I got to leave folks with something to remember me for, don't I?"

I left just as Edna's husband—who looked as if he'd been an even more powerful specimen in his younger days than he did now, which was nothing to sneeze at—began moving the boxes to the back.  He gave me a wide and bright smile and I waved at him.  He, too, had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and just like his wife's, the ash on the end of his smoke did not fall off, in spite of all his movement.  I figured it was some kind of family secret, passed from one generation to the next.  Maybe they'd turn it into some kind of roadside attraction for a little extra cash.  I'd buy a ticket.

I was suddenly glad that I'd had car trouble, otherwise I'd never have met any of these wonderful, interesting people.

The room was clean and surprisingly spacious—it had a king-sized bed complete with "Magic Fingers" (twenty-five cents for "Fifteen Minutes of Bliss")—although it appeared to have been last remodeled by some groovy decorator around 1974, but I dug it, anyway.

I decided to grab a shower and a change of clothes before doing anything else.  Once out of the shower, I called Tanya (who'd taken the day off from work) and got our voicemail.

"Are you naked?  Touch it for me, baby, touch it slooooooowly.  Hey, hon, it's me—Jesus, I hope you knew that.  Do me a favor?  After you pick up Gayle and the kids at the airport, stop at a Radio Shack or someplace like that and buy me a frigging cell phone, please?  You were right, but more importantly, I was wrong.  Alert the media.  Listen, I'm in a motel just outside Jefferson City.  I've had serious car trouble and… it's a long story, complete with motifs and subplots and nebulous symbolism and would probably bore you into a coma, so….

"I'm going to head over to the restaurant here and get something to eat.  I'll try you back in about an hour or so.  I miss you.  Hope you still love me when you get this."  I ended by giving her the motel's name and phone number, as well as the number of my room, then breathed heavily for a few seconds before hanging up.  I am nothing if not a class act.

Tanya was probably talking to Perry at this moment; after the earful he got from Cletus, he'd feel compelled to call his sister and yell about how her doofus-janitor of a husband had ruined a perfectly top-notch car.  Tanya would let him go on for a few minutes, then tear him a new one.  Perry had never won an argument with her.  Come to think of it, neither had I.  My wife was a force of nature.  Lucky, lucky me.

God, I missed her.  Home seemed so very far way.  Maybe some steak and eggs would help with that, though I doubted Muriel's cooking (assuming she did the cooking herself) would be half as good as Tanya's.

The parking lot was crowded with SUVs, minivans, assorted cars and pickups, along with semis and their tractor-trailers—

—and, near the far end of the lot, almost-but-not-quite hidden between a pair of semi cabs, sat the twin butter dishes.

I stopped for a moment, staring, wondering why, if they'd twice missed their exit, they hadn't just stopped here the first time to check their map or trip-tick or simply ask someone how to get from here to there.  I'd've done it that way, had I been in their situation; but, then, I'm a lot less stubborn than most male drivers, and lack the prerequisite pride to be injured.

I chuckled at the thought of the little blonde girl or her mother finally screaming at Daddy to for goodness' sakes pull off and ask for directions because they had to go to the bathroom and it was getting hot in here; I imagined Daddy, shoulders slumped in defeat, pulling into the parking with all the majesty of a dog with its tail between its legs.  Lassie at her most heart-wrenching probably never looked so sad.

I entered the restaurant and was immediately overwhelmed with the smells of coffee, bacon and hamburgers, coffee, eggs and home fries, coffee, fresh doughnuts and toast, coffee, cigarettes and engine-oil-stained clothes, coffee, cheap perfumes and after-shaves, coffee, coffee, and something that might or might not have been coffee.

A tired-looking, but friendly and pleasant young waitress seated me at a booth near the middle of the restaurant, handed me a menu, and asked if I'd like anything to drink.

Oddly enough, I ordered coffee.

While I waited for her to come back, I took in the surroundings while looking for the little blonde girl among the customers.  I wondered if she'd recognize me.