“What can I get you?” A woman asked, her bangle bracelets clanging and gypsy headdress framing a face both austere and mysterious.”
“A double mocha,” I replied. “Got a head around here?”
“If you need to take a piss, go stand behind that tree over there; otherwise, you’re out of luck until you arrive in Contesburrow.”
“Never heard of the place.”
“Few have. It’s just a gas station, post office, bar complex—with a bathroom. You can pick up snacks there too.”
“Thanks for the info.”
*****
“That will be $5.28,” she shouted at me as I walked back towards her, having finished my business behind the large cedar tree.
“Here’s six dollars; keep the change.”
For over three hours, I drove down the road, looked for Contesburrow, but found nothing. Granted, I didn’t need the head or gas; nonetheless, I craved junk food and became obsessed with finding the elusive town. Oddly, I neither passed other cars or ran into fellow travelers on the road. Finally, I pulled over to take a nap.
The next morning, tapping on the driver’s side window woke me. Outside, a female cop uttered, “What’s up buddy? License and registration please.”
“No problem,” I assured her, passing along the requested materials.
“You’re a long way from home,” the officer noted, glancing at my driver’s license.
“Lost,” I sighed, shaking my head.
“Just where were you headed?”
“Contesburrow.”
“Where?” The officer seemed genuinely puzzled.
“Contesburrow.”
“How much did you have to drink last night?” she countered.
“I didn’t. Some gypsy chick at an expresso stand on the side of the highway told me to follow the road.”
“Who? “What? Where?” she questioned, a bit perplexed.
“She had bangle bracelets….”
“Of course, she did,” the officer replied and winked, “at least last night! Right?”
“No really, officer!”
“You’re dreaming dude; you’ve just driven through the most desolate part of Washington; what makes you think you saw and talked to anyone?”
“The fork,” I replied in a sudden fit of laughter.
“Say what?”
“Following Yogi Berra’s advice, when I came to a fork in the road, I took it!”
Leaning on the door, the officer smiled mischievously, farted loudly, returned my license, stood upright, and strengthened her white striped pants. Meanwhile, as the odor of her humanity floated silently through the open window, I stopped laughing.
“Just a lost driver lacking a sense of humor,” she uttered into her shoulder mike.
“10-24,” a voice replied through the static speaker.
Perhaps I looked shocked—I really don’t know. Regardless, as the officer walked away, she glanced over her shoulder, winked again, then counseled, “Lighten-up and grin, buddy! Even Mr. Rogers thought farts were funny!”