“Who is this?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. W’shansky, I don’t mean to take up your time…”

“Oh, it’s you. Well please don’t.”

“Please. It’s very m’portant. You folks have-ta get outta there, least fer a little bit..”

“Now listen here, sonny. You got my Karl all worked up last time you called, he’s not been well lately and we you go around exciting him like that.”

“I’nderstand. It’s juss that….it’s not safe…”

“What’s not safe? Is this about money?”

“No, not all…”

“Paula?”

“Not exactly…”

“Then I’m afraid we have nothing to discuss.” Click.

“Stupid, blabbin, won’t shut up fer a moment….” The driver grows a darker shade of tomato as he lists the grievance against Mrs. Warshansky. He sums up with a “…gonna get what’s comin ta her, an have nobody ta blame but herself.”

The driver rejoins the hitchhiker, who is launching into a steak so large, it overhangs both sides of the ornamental plate. Two pools of grease collect on the tablecloth at either end of the great slab. Atop it is a mess of fried onions and to the side, a sizzling mound of chopped potatoes. The smell is mouthwateringly greasy, and though the driver wouldn’t consider himself to be hungry, he sure could do with a hearty slice of that steak and a mouthful of the crackling onions.