“Mrrrrrhrrrrrrr,” concurs the hitchhiker. He hardly touched the sopping platter in Smokey’s smoky club, and didn’t eat at the party. He was too busy…well, he missed the opportunity all the same.

“Wha’d ol chief woodenhead give ya? A bunch a dried bull testicles?”

The hitchhiker opens the sack cautiously and spills some of the contents into his hand. They’re unidentifiable, but certainly dried.

“Dunno.” He takes a whiff and reels back. “Aw God! They’re moldy!” He throws them back into the bag, twists the string, and wipes his hands, reluctantly, on his trousers. The sets the driver off laughing.

“Goddamned savages! They’ll dry horse shit an’ tell you it’s a delicacy.”

“Well just be glad you didn juss pop em inta your mouth.” The driver continues his chuckle. “I’m sure we’ll fine some place soon nuff.”

The thought comes over him: he sounds like a father –not his father, though- consoling a hungry child. He wonders: how is it possible for him to be feeling like a father to this reproachable tramp when, not minutes ago, he was ready to clock him over the head with a rock and abandon him to the Nevada wilderness, shit-drying Indians and all? The hitchhiker looks over with a mealy grin and the driver is more perplexed at his own emotional floundering than anything else.

One minute he’s flying off into a rage, and now he wants to find this unruly stranger a hamburger joint. Maybe that’s what parenthood is: a never-ending, and wildly fluctuating, parade of incongruous emotions. A few days ago, with Paula scheduled for a doctor’s visit, the driver was entertaining thoughts of soon finding out for sure. Now, it will take a little bit longer. The dismal train of though is derailed.

“A diner!” The driver makes the momentous discovery of a rusting sign. It could be pointing down the road to a truck stop that was demolished years ago, but it offers just enough a hope. The promise is in “38 Miles” and includes a gas station.