The Triple T Truck Stop

Never fall asleep with the radio on. Even if it’s just a portable next to the bunk in your big rig, tuned to a talk station way out at the edge of the dial. Still, I was unable to fight overwhelming exhaustion, despite the attentive voice of Art Bell—late night companion of I-10 truckers with stories of the strange or supernatural. So, after parking safely in the Triple T truck stop lot, I lay back and drifted into a lucid dream in which I was being pursued cross-country by a blue UFO which disappeared and reappeared as a triangle in the sky behind my Kenworth. This was not surprisingly the same way Art Bell’s last guest had described it, if not what I’d seen myself.

 When I woke the radio was static in the first light of day. Opening my door, I could almost smell the eggs and sausages coming from the direction of the truck stop diner. In the windows on my approach, I eyed other truckers doing what I craved—drinking coffee—and then, while waiting for my own morning eggs, I soon read the headline of a newspaper the trucker in the booth nearest me was holding: WILLIAM SHATNER WINS NOMINATION FOR PRESIDENT.

 When my waitress circled back, I read her name tag and wriggled one finger at the paper. “Mavis? I thought Shatner died. Or at least he was doing Star Trek conventions. Not running for some office or other, certainly.”

 “What’s a Star Trek convention?” she asked. 

 I was stunned, and nearly dropped my coffee cup. Not because of Star Trek, but for the realization that the Shatner reference did mean President of the United States.  

 “Oh, you must mean the show he started out with,” Mavis added. 

 “Started out with?” 

 “Kinda like Trump. You know. The Apprentice?”

 Overhearing us, the newspaper man put down his copy, and joined our conversation, insisting Shatner rejected making any Star Trek movies, and so the franchise died in 1969. Shatner had taken to running for president, he suggested, because he did develop the Star Trek communicator into a cell phone, which made him and his engineering partner a billion or three. “And all billionaires wonder at one point or another if they should run for office.”

 I laughed, despite myself. “Right. . . But you’re serious.” I was aghast, but then thought about Wozniak. 

 “What about Apple Computer?” I asked.

 “Apple what?” the trucker said.

 “Come on—the maker of the iPhone.” I reached into my pocket for mine, and came out with a flip phone Android that clicked when opened. I stared in shock. “What the—“ 

 “Something wrong?”

 I tried asking Google about Apple, Steve Jobs and Woz. And it worked, to my chagrin. Seems Apple didn’t exist, although Google did. It just couldn’t find Jobs. And Wozniak had teamed with Bill Shatner, not Bill Gates. 

 Mavis got my eggs and sausage plate, left it in front of me, and went to service other customers. The trucker got back to finishing his steak. Their brief glance at each other had seemed to confirm that I was either a nut or just a pretend one, putting them on.

 I thought about my dream, which had been beyond strange, but what was happening now beat it all to hell. I’d often thought about such things. Just not happening to me, though. Me, I was nothing special, just a science nerd paying off my college loans by being a trucker. Until I found another job. I’ve always been interested in physics, though, and so I’ve read many books on the subject of the multiverse. The “many worlds” theory in cosmology occupies the attention of academics who often try to wrangle a niche for themselves in the flux of popular science. According the string theory, it is said, there are eleven or so dimensions besides the ones we see, but they are curled up so tiny you’d need a microscope more powerful than any yet invented. Also, something called a electron slit experiment has proved to some that there exists infinite alternate universes in which decisions we made or didn’t make play out in real time. Not one among the scientists really knows what dark matter or dark energy is, either. Still, I don’t always listen to Art Bell as a alternative. More often it’s Mindscape with Sean Carroll, and the Origins podcast with Lawrence Krauss. Although Bell has some interesting theories of his own. 

 “Do you mind if I read your paper?” I asked the trucker, when he put it aside. “My name is John, by the way.”

 “Be my guest,” he replied. “I’m Corey.”

 “Just the front page, if you don’t mind, Corey.”

 “Take the whole thing. Seems like you need it.”

 “It does, doesn’t it.”  I leaned forward and took his copy. The date was correct. It was today’s date. I scanned the cover article as I talked. “You seem quite sure that Star Trek is ancient history,” I said. “But this isn’t real.” I tapped the article. “It can’t be.”

 “Why do you say that?”

 “What about Joe Biden and Donald Trump?” I asked.

 “What about them? Biden retired from Congress, and Trump has his Apprentice show in Vegas. For the past year he hasn’t tired of reminding contestants to gamble everything on black or end up like Steve Wynn.”

 “Who is Shatner running against, then?”

 “Are you kidding? Elon Musk, of course.”

 “Of course. . .” I nodded slowly, digesting that.  Then I thought to ask about other names. “And Stephen King? Does he ring a bell?”

 “Died after being hit by a trucker while walking. James Patterson bought his typewriter at auction. Don’t you remember?”

 “No, I don’t. Taylor Swift?”

 “You mean that American Idol winner? She’s written hundreds of songs, still hoping to make the big time with one.”

 “Kim Kardashian?”

 “Who?”

 I consulted Google again, this time about the Kardashians. Not a word. Maybe they didn’t even exist. The thought thrilled and distressed me at the same time. “You’re not going to believe this, but I must come from another dimension or universe.” I looked out the window at the gravel parking lot with its hulking trucks. My gaze swept the road out front. “A UFO or something followed me here, and now this is the diner at the end of the world. A parallel place where the decisions made outside by people in the past has created a different reality. As trucks parallel park.” I looked back at Corey. “This diner exists between worlds. But I’m not sure if I drive out of here whether my world will come back down the road, or not.”

 A truck fired up in the lot, on cue, and pulled out as we both watched. 

 Corey got up and then sat in the seat opposite me. “A UFO followed you here?” he asked.

 I nodded, munching my eggs. “I’ve seen one before, and Art Bell was talking about it, too.”

 “I saw one once myself,” the trucker declared. “Who’s Art Bell?”

 “Late night talk show host. I’m surprised you—”

 “Oh. Well, I listen to Rush Limbaugh mostly, myself. Where you headed?”

 “Away from here,” I said. “Phoenix. Rush Limbaugh is alive?”

 “Of course. And I’m headed to Vegas, out of Texas with Rodeway. Plan to see Elvis.”

 “Do you? Elvis has a show there too?”

 “Yup.”

 “Like Trump.”

 “Yeah, he’s older than Trump, though. He’s eighty-nine.” 

 I stood to leave. “I have to know,” I declared. “I’ll call my sister from the road, see what she has to say about all this.”

 Corey suddenly reached over and gripped my forearm with one hand. “You better not go,” he whispered, “until you’re sure.”

 I sank slowly back down into my seat. “Sure of what. . . that Shatner might be President? That Trump is a Vegas side show?” I looked into his eyes. “That my sister is still alive.”

 “You probably won’t know that until you call. Either way, you might not like what you hear.”

 “You ever heard of OJ Simpson?” I asked.

 He shook his head, no. That did it. I threw up both hands, in surrender. Which is when we both ordered a slice of deep dish apple pie and ice cream from Mavis.

 

“What did your UFO look like?” Corey asked, after a long pause. I noticed he looked around before asking, and kept his voice down.

 I thought about it. What I’d seen a week before was small, a blue triangle in my rear view mirror. But I remembered what Art Bell’s guest had said. “A big blue triangle with sharp edges,” I concluded, sipping my coffee.

 Corey winced. “My God, really? That’s not unlike what I saw! Only mine wasn’t too big, maybe about the size of a car. And nobody believed me, either.”

 I thought of calling the home office in Atlanta next, to ask more questions. But I thought better of it. And shivered. “More coffee,” I said when Mavis passed. 

 “Me too,” said Corey, nodding once.

 “So nobody believed you,” I repeated. “Friends, family, or co-workers.”

 “Nobody,” Corey confided.

 “Was there any effect to your sighting at all?”

 “Like, did I wander into another dimension or something?” He chuckled, huskily. “Not hardly. Didn’t tell the newspapers about it, either. Not like Trump did.”

 “Like Trump did what?” I inquired.

 “Saw a UFO. For him it was a big red triangle, pulsating. You don’t remember that news, either?”

 “Must have escaped the NBC Nightly News.”

 “No, just about everybody covered that one. Because he dropped out of the race soon after. Faced with the Musk/Bezos ticket, and all. He shouldn’t have done that laxative commercial, either.” 

I’m on my final cup of coffee, staring out the window at the road fronting the lot when I think of it. “Corey, do you remember the old Twilight Zone show?”

 “Sure.”

 “Great. Do you recall an episode where a couple are arguing in a cafe about putting more pennies into a small machine that gives fortunes? One of the actors was—“

 “—William Shatner. Yes, I do remember that one. They got really involved with getting his fortune, didn’t they, being as it’s a crossroads moment in their lives?”

 “Right. When this feels like a crossroads moment to me, I’ll go.”

 “Don’t do it, though,” Corey admonishes me, “until you’re sure.”

Another fifteen minutes passes as we sip coffee and watch other truckers come and go. “Unfortunately,

I have to be going now,” Corey announces, suddenly. I’d been telling him about the verbal battle between Stephen King and Elon Musk on Twitter. I’d been dropping names of many famous people, but none of them seem to have an effect on Corey’s decision.  

 Not to be put off, Corey leaves me sitting there, at last. He just walks out, gets into his 18 wheeler, and pulls away. He can’t go, can he? I’m wondering. It’s started raining, after all. He should wait.

 “Wait!” I start to shout.

 “Another cup of coffee, love?” Mavis asks.

 I am a jittery mess. “No thanks,” I say. “Time for me too, I guess. I mean it’s my turn.”

 “All rightee, then,” she says, grinning. “Good luck.” 

 I leave her a good tip.  “Have you got a tip for me?” I ask.

 “Excuse me?”

 “A driving tip or tourist tip. Whatever.”

 “Vote for Shatner,” she suggests. “You’ll sleep better.”

 I make it to my Kenworth without looking back. Then I strap in and hit the ignition. Checking my gas gauge, I decide I’d better gas up. To the back of the truck stop, then, and the pumps. Cut off.

 Talk about alternative fuel, I am thinking as I fill. Alternative reality fuel.

 I crank up again, one last time. Then, in first gear, I roll my way back to I-10, somehow. One glance back in the sideview shows the Triple T glowing in the drizzle. That sign is like a big blue triangle. 

 Soon I’m moving faster, gearing my way back to the world I know. The truck stop fades in the drizzle. Did I choose the right moment to leave? No way to tell if Elvis has left the building.

 I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone. My iPhone.

 Then I remembered what Corey said, don’t do it until you’re sure. I look forward into the traffic ahead, wondering what Nancy will have to say.  Still, I figured I’d better wait until there’s a rest stop on I-10. That would be the right moment. And not a moment before. 

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(Stories by Jonathan Lowe: CAT ON A COLD TIN ROOF, and JUDGE JURY, both at Amazon.)