The Middle of Nowhere Truckstop

It was just a few minutes past sundown. Stillman Jameson heaved a sigh of relief as the road crested a hill and could see the lights of the truckstop about a mile ahead. He was lost, low on battery, and hadn't eaten since breakfast, but he was now less than a mile from remedying all three of these conditions.

As he neared the entrance to the parking lot he could make out the neon sign announcing The Middle of Nowhere Truckstop. There weren't many trucks in the parking lot; not a good sign but Jameson was out of options and even if the food was bad it was better than nothing - or at least he hoped so. He followed the signs directing him to the charging station. Once he had his i5 hooked up, he headed to the diner.

Inside, it appeared to be quintessentially cliched in its decor. Stainless steel and formica, the round seats lining the counter. The booths had those tiny juke boxes and condiment caddies on the tabletops. There were dingy metal venetian blinds girding the windows. 

"Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere!" 

The man behind the counter greeted him in a loud and overly friendly voice that clearly needed some more practice. He was made up and dressed in drag; all blues and greens and sparkles; more fashionably stylish than over the top. It stopped Jameson in his tracks for just a moment before he gathered himself and continued to an open seat at the counter. It was certainly out of the ordinary but, Who am I to judge?, he thought.

"I see what you did there," Jameson said. "Clever. How did you get the naming rights?"

"More obvious than clever," the Counter Man said. "This is quite literally the middle of nowhere."

"I suppose so," Jameson said. He pulled a menu from the rack on the counter.

"Coffee?" the Counter Man asked.

"Please," Jameson said. "Black is fine."

"Coming up," the Counter Man said, as he turned around to pour a cup from one of the carafes on the warmers behind him.

Jameson looked around the room. There were two other drag queens seated in a booth; three more at a table, another at the end of the counter. In fact, Jameson noticed there were nothing but drag queens - and himself - in the truck stop's diner.

As the Counter Man put the cup of coffee down on the counter in front of him, Jameson said, "I'm feeling a little underdressed."

"A little promotion," the Counter Man said. "When you're stuck out in the middle of nowhere you've got to be creative. 10 percent off fuel and a half-priced blue plate special if you bring a goat, or correctly guess the seven herbs and spices in our chef's meatloaf, or," he shrugged, "you dress in drag."

"I wasn't criticizing," Jameson said. "I like to think of myself as an ally."

The Counter Man smiled and winked at him.

Jameson wasn't sure what he'd just seen.The Counter Man's eye had closed sideways when he winked? It couldn't be. I'm even more exhausted than I thought. And hungry, too. He took a sip of coffee. He consulted the menu. "Could I get the cheeseburger deluxe with a side of fries, please?"

"You don't want the meatloaf?" the Counter Man asked.

Jameson hesitated. "Okay, I'll try the meatloaf."

"You got it!" The Counter Man nodded and winked again.

Again Jameson saw it. Like a nictitating membrane? Jameson wasn't sure that was the right term. Like a lizard's eye? Do lizard's eyes close sideways? Had he really seen it? Just before the eyelids - heavy with a deep, iridescent blue eyeshadow - had closed?

He surveyed the room again. Aside from the hair, makeup, and the dangerously tight sequined pantsuits, yeah, everything looks completely normal, Jameson thought. He saw the sign for the Rest Rooms. "Be right back," he said as he was already on his way.

He considered his reflection in the mirror. No obvious head injuries. He splashed cold water on his face and felt a little better, a bit more awake. He gave himself a slap. It hurt. He felt satisfied that he wasn't dreaming.

Contacts! he thought. It must be special contact lenses. He heaved a sigh of relief. Show business. He chuckled to himself and shook his head. There’s a logical explanation for everything, he thought. You just need to look for it.

He returned to his seat at the counter. 

"Right on time," the Counter Man said as he put the plate of food down in front of Jameson.

"What's this?" Jameson asked.

"The hash omelet, home fries, and an English muffin, toasted, no butter."

"I ordered the cheeseburger deluxe," Jameson said. "I mean, the meatloaf."

"Are you okay, mister?" the Counter Man asked. "It's okay, if that's what you really wanted for breakfast, I could do that, I guess."

"Breakfast?" Jameson asked. "It's -" He pulled out his phone. How can that be? "This doesn't make any sense. It's 6:45 am."

"I know," the Counter Man said. He nodded towards the side windows. "Sunrise in about 10 minutes."

Jameson looked out the window. He could see it. How did that old saying go? Red sky at morning, sailors take warning…

"Where does the time go?" the Counter Man asked with a grin. "Am I right?"

But Jameson's gaze was fixed on the semi that had just lit up, its engine causing the rig to seem to vibrate. Jameson gasped as the 18-wheeler rose a few feet into the air, hung there for a split second, suddenly shooting straight up, clearing the rusty horizon, then disappearing into the half light of the predawn sky.

"Did you see that?" Jameson exclaimed. 

The Counter Man shrugged. "Just another day ending in Y here in the middle of nowhere. Your breakfast is getting cold."

"I'm, uh, I'm not hungry," Jameson said, thinking his i5 must be fully charged by now, given that 'now' was 6:45 am. 

"You should eat," the Counter Man said. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, after all."

"No really. I've got to run," Jameson said, standing and reaching for his wallet as he scanned the room. All of the drag queens looked back at him, nodding, seeming to agree that breakfast was, indeed, the most important meal of the day. "What do I owe you?"

"There's no reason to be afraid," the Counter Man said.

"I'm not scared," Jameson said, but he knew the catch in his voice and the shaky left hand holding his wallet gave him away. He took a deep breath and gathered himself. "I know what you are," he said. 

"Do you?" the Counter Man asked.

"All right," Jameson said, his voice tightening. "Maybe I don't know exactly which planet you're from but I know you're not from around here."

The Counter Man shrugged. 

“You’re going to kill me?” Jameson asked, his voice shaking. 

“Oh that won’t be necessary,” the Counter Man said. 

“I’ve got a gun,” Jameson bluffed. “And I know how to use it.”

“No you don’t,” the Counter Man said. “But if you did I’d just turn it into metallic dust with my Molecular Modulator Q3V Ray Gun. Haven’t you ever seen a movie?”

“So, you’re just going to let me walk out of here and drive away and tell everybody what I’ve seen and what’s going on here?” Jameson asked. 

The Counter Man heaved a succinct sigh. “You’re going to leave here, but I doubt you'll tell anyone about anything. Somewhere on the hour-long drive to the next town and what you laughably call civilization, you’re going to ask yourself, Did that really happen? You were tired, exhausted really. Dehydrated. Was it a dream? A hallucination?A mirage?”

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Jameson said. 

“What am I trying to do?”

“Reverse psychology. It’s like a post-hypnotic suggestion.” He made a broad gesture with his right arm. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” Jameson said. 

“That’s… humorous, I suppose, and I do appreciate the reference but really, I'm just trying to help you.”

“Help me,” Jameson said. 

“Let’s say you head west, tstraight to the police station in the middle of nowhere adjacent town down the 236. I think it's called Carrizozo.  Anyway. You tell the local sheriff your story. He's an older guy who's seen his fair share of what too much alcohol or not enough water can do to a man in the desert. You don’t think your story won't sound… insane and yet somehow familiar? Let me recommend that before you tell anyone else your story, you find a mirror, look yourself in the eye and see if you can convince yourself any of this really happened. But before that, you really should eat some breakfast."

Jameson took a twenty from his wallet and put it on the counter. The Counter Man frowned. "You really should eat something," the Counter Man repeated his entreaty. "At least have some orange juice."

"I didn't order -" Jameson began, looking down to see the glass of juice next to the plate of food. Had it been there before? It was a small detail, but for Jameson, it was that one thing too many. He felt lost; ungrounded. He bolted for the door, noting the unblinking eyes of the drag queens following him as he smashed into and then through the front doors to the diner, barely breaking stride as he sprinted to his i5.

He practically flew out of the parking lot and down the highway. He checked the rear view every few seconds and nothing was following him. Then he remembered the semi taking off and did his best to try to look up, contorting himself to try to see what might be tracking him from above, peering through the windshield and then the drivers side window. He couldn't see anything but the sky bluing up against the yellow of the rising sun. He took a breath.

Carrizozo 37 Miles

He glided into town about an hour later, thinking to himself that the little town was very much middle of nowhere adjacent. It definitely happened, he thought. It was no dream, no hallucination, no mirage; it was real. He drove slowly down the main drag, looking for a police station or a town hall.

He saw the SUV police cruiser parked out front of the building before seeing the sign that read Carrizozo Sheriff's Department. He pulled into an open space next to the cruiser. He sat for a moment to gather his thoughts. He ran through what he should say a few times and despite his best efforts he had to admit, his story sounded… crazy. Delusional. He tilted the rear view mirror down to look himself in the eye. Stillman Jameson, restaurant supply salesman, the man who'd been mistaken for Paul Giamatti more than once in his life despite being ten years younger than the actor, that was the hero who was going to save the world from an alien invasion?

The knock at his window startled him. It was a large, older man in uniform. His nametag identified him as Sheriff Terestre. He gestured for Jameson to roll down his window.

"Can I help you, sir?" the Sheriff asked.

Jameson smiled, suddenly unsure. "I'm, uh, I'm on my way to Albuquerque," he said. "But I'm running late and thought I'd just pull in here to make a call." He held up his phone to support his lie. "But I'm not getting any signal."

The Sheriff bent down and rested his forearms on the door frame so he was face to face with Jameson. He smiled. "Well. We are kind of next to the middle of nowhere here, you know?"

Then he winked.