The sharp whine of the buses brake pulled me from my dreamless sleep as the tired gravely voice driver came across the intercom, " Bishopville, Texas, thirty minute stop".  I looked out my window now and was greeted by complete darkness save the blinking neon sign just ahead that read "Stuckey's Dinner…Good Food…Gas…Souvenirs." I laughed inwardly a little after reading the sign, "Good Food and Gas", boy, what a combination this will make for a long cross country trip. I pulled up my seat now into the upright position and looked around. The old man still sat in the seat across from me but the woman with the unruly children had somehow been replaced by what looked like two nuns wearing their habits. The bus eased silently into the side lot away from the gas pumps and stopped. The doors hissed once more into their open position and the walking dead filed out of the bus and into the parking lot. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was four in the morning and once outside, I was greeted by the smell of country bacon cooking and fresh brewed coffee, suddenly I realized that I was hungry.

 Looking upward into the blackness of the night, I felt small and insignificant. It was if the large moonless sky above me had taken a bite out of humanity leaving me to feel consumed by the immensity of it all, for I don't think that I had ever seen that many stars in my whole life. It looked to me as if that ten million tiny holes had been punched in the black blanket which shields out the light of heaven, and it was through these holes that we mere mortals could somehow attest to a greater purpose. I think too much I thought, as I shook the last of the cobwebs from my sleeping mind. I made my way slowly across the gravel lot and in the direction of the shaft of light that stretched out across the lot beneath the humming neon sign.

Silhouetted images moved from side to side by the large picture window and as I neared the door, I could hear the jute box spitting out the old Hank Williams tune, "I'm so lonesome I could cry". For some reason deep down inside, I felt as if Ole Hank was singing not only to me, but also about me. I abandoned the thought and stepped in through the foyer. Once inside it was like stepping back in time. Miniature jute boxes hung at each booth, green Formica and red vinyl dominated. On the wall were several deer head that were accompanied by photos of local sports teams. I walked  over to the swivel barstool and sat down. Soon a woman with bleached blonde hair that hung in wiry strands across her forehead approached through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. I would have to say she middle to late thirties, but looked as if she had lived more. A long white cigarette dangled from the corner of her brightly painted lips. She half looked up at me while reaching for her pen and pad and snorted "What will ya have hon?" I did a quick mental calculation of my money and figured  conservatively that I had enough for a cup of coffee and a piece of dried toast, so I placed my order and marveled at the long ash which hung almost suspended in time from the tip of her cigarette. Glancing at my watch I saw that we would be leaving Bishopville in about ten minutes, so  I quickly finished my breakfast off and turned to go to the register to pay when in walks this very old black women. She was a hundred if she was a day, but she moved with grace, almost gliding across the black and white tile floor.  I stood still just watching her as she came straight over to where I was standing. Without saying a word, she reached beneath a ratty, musty smelling shawl and produced a small red book. The book, which looked to be even older than she was bound in leather and had strange writing across the cover. She quickly slipped the book into my side pocket and before I could speak, she was gone. I looked around to see if anyone saw where this lady could have went, but no one seemed to have even noticed her presence from the beginning. Somewhat puzzled by all of this, I paid my bill and turned to go back to the bus. I slipped my hand into my pocket and touched the cover on the book. It was warm to the touch and felt like there was some type of current passing through it. I removed my hand from the book and stepped out into the cool Texas morning….

© J. Allen Wilson 2005