I was stranded in a filthy tavern, one of those places that doesn't even have a front door but a mere side entrance without the benefit of a lighted sign. The beer, tobacco and saliva soot that appears in most places like this had already ruined the pressed cuffs of my khakis. So in this sad state of affairs I sat trying to collect my thoughts and get back in touch with society.

There's a particular species of barfly that has an inherent sense of who is approachable, but also is too polite to stem the tide of words coming from their mouth. These people consistently work the room, chatting up someone then getting waved away like a gnat, and then moving onto find another victim. These barflies, when not attached to bar stools like mold atop the month-old cottage cheese, have no qualms talking at you for hours, about everything and absolutely nothing.

I was targeted on this particular evening; perhaps it was because I wasn't watching "Wheel of Fortune" on the television with the rapt attention like every other patron or perhaps it was posture. So this fellow sidled up to me, as I inspected the salty snacks adorning the bar, and asked me how I was. He was wore a black winter hat, drank from Budweiser can and answered to the name Manny. After a weird exchange that resembled the awkward banter that goes on the VIP room of topless bars, Manny launched into his latest tale.

My entertainment had heard from a friend of a friend about one his or her friends who used to drive trucks for a living. The truck-driver was bearded fellow with good intentions, who loved the open road and simple pleasures in life that driving a truck allowed him. As the youngest member in his company's force, he continually logged the most miles in the fewest hours for months at a time. His calling in life was to drive trucks, that much is certain.

With an impeccable performance record he was a shoe-in for bigger and better things within the company. With the humility of Gandhi and indifference of a butler, he deferred and continued to do what he loved best; making runs. He felt there was a certain permanence to driving, the perfect union of machine and human, a complete mechanical and biological freedom. It was his craving. He was on adventures every day of his life and simply would not have it any other way.

His travels took him across the country, as national trucking companies are apt to do. Somewhere out near Omaha, Nebraska on Interstate 90, he slowed the wheels and steel to pay a toll. As he always did, he pulled up to the furthermost right tool booth, therefore staying out of the left lane when having to accelerate, done for the benefit of people in cars with faster acceleration.

He always felt that pulling up to the tollbooth was akin to the time-honored tradition of playing scratch-off tickets; there's that instant of hope that your ticket is a big winner. The attendant could either be someone worth talking to, or it a feisty job-hater that makes feel stupid for opening your mouth in the first place.

On this particular stop, he pulled flush to the window and met the almond eyes of an attractive toll booth attendant. Rather used to a certain type of blue-collar average joe who would normally work in a toll booth, the appearance of a young beauty at the window threw him for a loop. Regaining his composure after a brief second, they had the obligatory small talk; what he was hauling, how the traffic was, where the speed traps were, stuff like that.

It's always interesting to note where conversations end and how long it takes for that awkward silence to set in. In this case, it set in when the conversation had run its course and both parties nodded, exchanged "yeps", glanced around furtively, sat uncomfortably for a long moment, locked eyes again and then shared a good-natured laugh. The human being, and especially the shy human being, is such a stupid creature.

The truck-driver used his mirror to see how many cars were behind him, and found that the line was empty, got a case of the braves and fired off the eternal pick-up question, "So, are you from around here?"

The amount of instances that other truck-drivers had used similar lines on this young woman was staggering. The life of an attractive toll booth worker is not an easy one, as this sub-culture is always dealing with horny drivers, trying to find an quick and cheap alternative to masturbating in their cabs with the latest issue of Juicy Jugs. Our toll booth worker in question was quite a veteran in dealing with these testosterone-soaked sentiments, so she gave her typical "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that" smile and wished the truck-driver a good day.

Before he knew it, he was a mile down the road and wondering what the hell had happened. When he was tired he began to have Walter Mitty-esque daydreams during which he would rescue the toll booth girl, take her up in the cab and ride off into the sunset with her. But he would invariably play their first encounter over and over in his head, which made him feel progressively worse and worse. He didn't know what was coming over him; the hours on the road were being to lose their charm. The rest of the trip was not an easy one.

Setting out on the return trip, the driver wrestled with the thought of paying the toll in Omaha the entire way, and thus distracted he was startled as he was rapidly approaching the booth. He reasoned with himself that it was not mathematically probable that the same girl would be on the eastbound side of the booths at this hour of the day. He relaxed when buoyed with this fact, and slightly released his grip on the wheel, and had the toll money ready in his hand. Having toll money in the hand while approaching the window is defined by the rules of the road as being in a hurry. Truck-drivers spend long hours at the wheel and have plenty of time to figure out how much they owe at the next stop, although the veterans of the road know all the charges for their trip by memory.

The toll booth girl recognized the truck approaching and remembered the exchange she had a few days ago. She also had replayed their first encounter over and over and was ashamed of the way she acted. Though callous to the sweaty come-ons of normal truck drivers, she felt that she overreacted to the innocent question he had posed. And so, in that brief second before he pulled up, she made up her mind to try to make up for it. She first noticed that he had money in his left, but was undeterred in trying to chat him up.

He rolled up, handed over the toll money, waited for the change, the whole time his mind racing. Without thinking, he received the change and perhaps as a force of habit, he immediately pulled away from the booth, leaving the girl slack-jawed.

Both continued to think about their short-lived love affair for a long while afterwards. There's not much else to do on the road.