Truck on Route 66
The incessant buzzing of flies beats the air—or maybe that's the coffee machine? He can't be too sure. The brown stuff goes down, molasses-slow and sludgy, and some of it dribbles down his chin. He wipes at his chin, feeling the stubble. His hand comes away wet. He wipes that too, on his pants this time. The incessant buzzing of flies beats the air. Not one of the men seated on the high stools at the counter bother to pay a nickel for some music to drown the static noise out.
The incessant buzzing of flies beats the air, and he really can't be bothered to stand up and feed the goddamned nickel into the machine. He orders another coffee. As brown and sludgy, he notes apathetically, as the three before. He knocks that one back too, but stares at his slice of pie. It is apple. Or maybe banana cream?
He's sure he ordered apple, but maybe the woman wiping down the counter had said something about running out of apple. The incessant buzzing of flies beats the hot air. A man sitting two stools to his left orders another coffee. Or maybe he ordered a slice of apple pie? It is clearly banana cream. He doesn't want to eat it to find out.
The door opens, and another walks in, cap low over his eyes. The newcomer slides up to the bar and orders coffee. A slice of apple--no, banana cream--pie. The flies buzz incessantly.
He isn't sure he can take this type of life much more.
Inspired by a bit too much of John Steinbeck. It must suck to be a lonely truck driver. No passengers allowed.