Off a highway. Foggy. Drizzle. Open 24 hours. No neon. Parking lot full of long haul rigs, work pickups, battered RVs.
I walk in and I feel like I’ve walked into a modern Western, all except for the faux wood flooring. I don’t think blood will pool and flow the same way as real wood. Too slick and shiny.
Wranglers and knives. Boots and Trump ball caps. Thirty different pies on the menu and oceans of drip coffee.
Pay at the counter and they bring it out.
I grab a corner table that’s out of the way of gunfire, should it all go down.
I started writing my modern Western the other day. It’s getting darker than I imagined. Kinkier, too. I should write some of it here.
Three old Trumpian men in the booth next to me yuck it up about their winning hand. They are the type of rough men who made a living with their hands who should disdain everything phony about Trump and his working class rhetoric. Oh well. The working class man voted for Reagan, too. Look what that got them.
Orders of biscuits and gravy. An old man falls asleep at the counter. A vintage Ford roadster pulls up outside.
A phone rings. The old man wakes up and takes the call. He’s barking out his conversation. He ends the call and limps out of the diner with a cane.
I’ve got lots of driving today. My mind is filled with the Western. I will write when I drive. I’ll be wearing the threadbare corduroy coat while driving. That coat was born in Yugoslavia and born to write a Western. It will figure in the novel.