illinois 1:1
A man at a toll booth asked us to stop for coffee. Hot cup? he asked as I pitched my coins at him. What? Cup of coffee, he said. Park there in the employee lot. We all crammed into the booth space, me and the kids and the toll booth man. He went on taking tolls while he talked to us, cars and trucks and buses - thank you, exact change, have a nice day, nice tie - and the television hashed out the raw comedy of mid-afternoon. The coffee was rancid, the doughnuts fibrous and hard, but I drank and the kids ate. They were not my kids. Still I'd have to get them some decent food once we were past Chicago. The smell here, in the booth and out, was foul, a sort of organic industrial brew. Breathe a lot of exhaust, the man talked, job like this. But there's waitin' lists. Governor's cousins run tolls, coveted, he said, like that was the going word for his place in life. He acted like he invited travellers into his booth everyday, and why not. Probably he gets laid, too. Say miss, Hot Cup? What?
move on... 
Other Roads...
Back Up...
other roads:
