Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-14-

I smell like wheat and wet dog. It's killing my appetite though, which is a good thing, since it's almost noon and there hasn't been anyplace to get any food.

Lila and I have finally reached a town. La Plata, established 1855, population not mentioned on the sign. It's bigger than the last town, at least there's a separate gas station and grocery store. As we get closer, passing buildings and apartments and warehouses, my stomach starts to rumble with the scent of food. Pizza and Mexican and Italian. We're still pretty far from the cheap restaurants, but I can smell it over the exhaust fumes and sewage. Hot dogs. I smell hot dogs most.

That would be because there's an old man in the parking lot of a strip mall selling hot dogs out of a silver trailer. Not a trailer big enough for someone to sit inside, out of the weather, but a cart-like deal. The man is sitting on a stool reading.

I'm standing in front of him before I even decide I want a hot dog more than an entire double-cheese-pepperoni-and-sausage pizza.

"What can I do you for?" he asks, putting his book aside. It's On the Road by Jack Kerouac, which I've actually read. I found it lying on a park bench last summer, and I must have read it five times between that summer and that winter, before I holed up in the abandoned house and found other things to read.

I look over the four hot dogs roasting on the grill. "I'll take all of them," I say. "Two on buns with ketchup, mustard, relish... everything except onions. And the other two plain. For my dog," I explain.

"Sure thing."

With practiced hands the man prepares the hot dogs. He's not as old as his white hair makes him look from far away. His hands are big and strong, worn with years of work.

"Anything to drink?"

I order a soda and a water and add two bags of chips, then pay with bills I've peeled off the roll hidden inside my sweatshirt pocket. I toss one of the plain hot dogs to Lila and stuff one of the loaded dogs in my mouth.

"Have a nice day," the man says.

"Thanksh," I mumble around the food in mouth. His mouth quirks in a smile that softens his face a bit.

Lila sits at my feet chewing on her hot dogs while I make a seat out of the curb. Food never tastes so good as when you're hungry. My eyes are half-closed in the savoring of it. I try not to think about the winter coming and the scarcity of food. It's the here and the now and hot food in my belly and the sun on my face.

When I've devoured everything on my plate, I put it on the ground and pour some of the water in it for Lila to drink. Not the world's best doggy dish, but it serves its purpose.

The strip mall is small. There's a convenience store, a Dollar Store, and a Laundromat. The door of the Laundromat is propped open and lets out the rolling sounds of the dryers and the industrial hum of the washing machines. It's been ages since my clothes smelled like lemony detergent. It's been ages since I had deodorant, too. At least I had a shower yesterday. Most of the time I can find a gas station bathroom to clean up in, but a full shower?

Let's just say it was a long while before I ended up in the shower in Paul's hotel room.

None of the stores here look promising, so I ask the hot dog vendor. "Do you know of any places around here that sells clothes?"

The man looks up from his book, squinting at me. "Clothes? Huh. Not much of a shopper myself. There's a Walmart up to Kirksville, that's where I go for pretty much everything."

I've got no clue where Kirksville is, but if the town is anywhere near as spread out as this one, it'll take two days to get there.

(unless I hitch a ride and I don't want to do that)