Conner drove, not wanting to do any more damage to the Bug and insisted Harry had taken years off the life of his precious car.

"That's at the end of its life," Harry said. "It's been a good car all these miles."

"It's my baby." Conner said and took quick glances at Harry.

They drove slowly for hours stopping once at a small diner for something to eat. It sat alone at the foot of a slow-rising hill covered in thinly spaced pines and juniper. Rocky outcroppings surrounded by laurel and aspen spotted the terrain. The whitewashed building was now faded, and under the fading paint they could still see the old sign in red from when the building was once a tack shop.

It now claimed the best flapjacks in the west twenty-four hours a day and it beckoned visitors to enter. Out in front of the building were two small glass-tube gas pumps, clues to the building's ancient lineage.  "O'Toole's Gas," could still be seen in faded and patchy color and the hoses and nozzles had been removed. It reminded Harry of a friend back home whose garage housed at least a dozen antique cars and even more gas station paraphernalia. He called it the Limbo Lounge because everything was in a state of continuous repair.

They pulled up and parked at what looked like old hitching posts. There were seven cars there.

"Are you sure this is a restaurant?" said Conner.

Harry pointed at the sign above the building that read 'DINNER,' "This looks good enough. Don't you think?" 

"For a perfectionist, you sure lower your standards when it comes to food."

"Who are you kidding Conner? You'll eat anything anywhere."

"That's because my mom burnt everything," Conner said.

Harry thought back to the jungles of the Amazon, to the unmentionable things they ate there. He and his father were obliged as a courtesy to eat their host's food. They found themselves eating large thumb sized grubs, which the natives ate raw, but, for the sake of the White Ones, they toasted in a fire. He thought at the time it tasted a lot like chicken. "Hey, seven cars can't be all that wrong."

Conner, who was driving, put the car in neutral, pulled up the brake, and turned off the engine. He looked dubiously at his friend who got out and headed for the building.

A crudely made vestibule adorned the front of the structure. It had a wooden floor, and thinly framed walls. Air and light seeped through the aluminum framed louvered windows that covered the front and sides. The cranks were missing, the screws rusted, and the windowpanes either damaged or gone. Thick remnants of old spider webs clustered at the ceiling near the windows and door.

Just as they were about to enter, the windowless door opened and a very large man with a red knit cap came out laughing, filling almost the entire vestibule with his bulk. He walked past them, pushing both aside with his huge frame, and let the door swing closed behind him as he walked out to his car.

Inside, two people sat at the counter talking to an old man in a plaid shirt and apron. Shelves full of glasses and liquor flanked an opening behind the service bar. Beyond that was the kitchen where the sound and smell of cooking came rolling out. The counter had stools bolted into the floor that swiveled and a brass foot rail that ran along its length. The counter itself was covered with linoleum, pieces of which had been broken off over the years. In the middle were two beer taps and in the one corner next to the kitchen was a door marked "Private," written in what looked like crayon.

The bartender stood on a wooden riser and with each step the glasses on the edge of the counter would clang together and it sounded to Harry like he wore spurs that jingled.

To the right of the bar was a small dining room that led to a hallway and the bathrooms and to the left were some tables and windows. A jukebox at the entrance had rings left from glasses, and cigarette burns dotted the glass cover. Harry went to look for a bathroom and Conner found a table and the old man behind the bar glanced at them without stopping the conversation he was engaged in with one of the customers there.

Harry walked into the dining room lined with booths. It was empty except for three men playing cards. "Two," one man said, and laid two cards down. When Harry came out of the bathroom they were gone.

"Where'd you go?" Conner asked.

"Back that way," Harry said. "No soap."

"Doesn't surprise me," said Conner.

The old man at the bar twisted his head toward the window and called out, "Sara."

A woman who looked to be in her twenties came out of the kitchen, grabbed a tablet off the counter, and walked over to their table. She wore a low-cut blouse and tight blue jeans and she had tied her blonde and sweaty hair in a ponytail. A loose strand hung down over her one eye, which she kept brushing out of her way. She said nothing but stood pen in hand ready to write down their order.

"Hi," said Conner.

She smiled back. As she moved, Harry could smell a hint of perfume. Her hands were smooth and well groomed, and she seemed at ease with herself and the world. Her eyes were bright and clear, and she looked through them into some place other than there.

"What's good?" Conner asked.

She looked from Harry to Conner and back again, and then rolled her eyes. "Number one special," she said, and wrote that down.

She looked over at Harry, who asked, "What's number two?"

She chuckled and said, "People often can't tell the difference." 

That caught Harry off guard, and he had to think about it.

"Two number ones," she nodded. "You'll thank me." She winked, and turned back into the kitchen to prepare two number ones.

The old man came over with coffee and poured two cups.

"I'd rather have a Coors," said Harry.

"Comes with coffee," he said. "Beer is fitty cents extra."

"Well, that'll be fine."

He went back behind the bar, set two beers on the counter, and opened them. Then he reached down and put two tiny glasses on top of the bottles.

As they watched, Harry turned and said, "F-i-t-t-y? This place would make good fodder for one of your plays. Look at these people. No one seems to be enjoying themselves. That guy has his face buried in his glass, the bartender has about three teeth and looks like a character out of a science fiction movie, and the waitress seems like she hates this place. You could call it Zombie Diner."

"Damned Diner," Conner said. They waited while sounds of someone cooking came out through the open window behind the bar.

Conner fussed with the silverware and looked out the window; then at Harry, who stared at the kitchen.

"Nice tits," said Conner, craning his neck toward Harry so no one else might hear. 

"So subtle," Harry feigned indignation. "I hadn't noticed."

"You're full of shit." He paused and tapped the table nervously with his fork. "I don't think she's up to flirting."

Sara came over with the beer and set the two bottles on the table, bending over as she did so. She had no bra and they both stared down her open shirt. Harry looked quickly away and nudged Conner with his foot when he lingered too long.

"What's your name?" asked Harry. He already knew, but he wanted to hear her say it.

She didn't respond and stayed bent over long enough to make Harry uncomfortable. "That'll cost ya boys." 

When she walked away, her hips swung pendulously like Marylyn Monroe's. She walked behind the counter and stepped in front of the old man, grabbed the coffee pot and refilled an empty cup for the customer.

"They don't learn to walk like that, Harry. Its nature made."

"I thought we weren't supposed to think of women on this trip."

"That's easier said than done."

"Well, it took me two years to get this trip together and I'd like to stick to the plan. You're a hard man to pin down, Conner. Your plays are getting a lot of attention. Before you know it, you'll be so famous you won't even recognize me."

"At least I don't gallivant all over the globe in search of gold and 'Jools'."

The cook was banging pots and pans and the kitchen door swung open and Sara came towards them with two plates in hand.

"The name's Sara," she said. "You want anything else?" She brushed the hair out of her face again.

"Sara," said Harry. "You working late tonight?"

"Oh, I ain't never heard that one before," she said and smirked.

"Just asking," he said.

"Don't bother." She went back to the kitchen. Once there, the pots and pans started banging again.

"Now who's thinking about girls?" Conner said wryly.

They both looked at their food for the first time.

"What the hell is this?"

It was pale and unappealing.  "I thought Number one was supposed to be meatloaf," Conner said. "This looks an awful lot like number two."

Harry picked up the menu and looked at what number two was and put it down, He was starving and ate his food regardless of what he thought of its appearance and Conner waited and nibbled and drank his beer and sipped the coffee. Harry finished his meal and pulled Conner's uneaten food over and ate that as well.

Conner watched him as he ate. "Shovel that in."

"I learned to do that in the college," he said and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I didn't have a meal ticket and worked at the cafeteria.  I snuck food when the lunch ladies weren't looking and swallowed it whole. It was best to get it over with." 

He finished and joined Conner, who had already gotten up to pay at the counter. Only one customer remained, and he sat alone in the corner of the room. He had not moved and looked as though he had grown out of the furniture. His eyes never lifted off the coffee cup, which he held firmly between two hands.

"Two-fitty," said the old man in plaid. He was talking to Harry who couldn't take his eyes off the lonely man. "Two-fitty-nine" he repeated.

Conner fumbled in his pocket for his share of the bill.

Harry was non-responsive and was too focused on the man in the corner. He'd seen him before, or men like him, in the lonely cantinas of small villages in Chile and Bolivia. On the table next to the man was a weather-stained hat with frayed edges. He reminded Harry of the Russian he had met in Chile, and he tried to remember that day only two years before, but something disrupted his train of thought. Harry suddenly realized everyone was staring at him.

"Let's go," said Conner. Clearly, he had noticed Harry's distraction and had paid for Harry too.

Harry looked at the man behind the counter and raised his head. The old man looked at Sara and held up the twenty-dollar bill, and said, "Fer two-fitty."

With the change, Conner put a tip on the table.

Once outside, Harry looked around and counted the cars in the parking lot. Maybe he was being overly paranoid, but if his experiences in South America taught him anything, it was that was better to be sure than sorry. "There are three people in the diner and five cars in the lot," he said.

"So?"

"That doesn't seem odd to you?"

"It belongs to the cook," Conner said dismissively.

"What does?"

Conner sighed audibly. "Four. One for the cook, one for the old man and one for Sara. and one for that guy in the corner."

"Yeah, I guess." He could not shake some vague trepidation. It almost felt to him like that whole experience was significant in some way and it bothered him because he couldn't put his finger on it. He kept thinking about the waitress and how out of place she looked.

"She looks better than that place," he said suddenly.

"How's that?" Conner asked.

Harry slowly looked over at Conner who was driving now, "Just thinking."

Her destiny, Harry thought, was elsewhere.