It’s seven in the morning and I’m driving on a humming highway with no other cars around me when suddenly I see a big pink truck approaching in the rearview mirror. I think, Oh good, some company. And this thing, this thing, gets closer and pulls next to me and-honest to God-it’s a hot dog on wheels. Well it’s a car, I suppose, but it’s covered with a papier-mâché façade shaped like a large frankfurter in a roll. It has a squiggle of mustard on it too. Etched on the side of the bun is professional sign-painter’s lettering, which says OSCAR MAYER. “Incredible,” I say.
The driver, whom I can see through a little square cut out of the papier-mâché for side visibility, grins at me, showing all his teeth.
“Rebecca,” I say, nudging her. “Get up. Look at this, will you? If you don’t see this you won’t believe me.”
She sits up a little and blinks twice. Then she closes her eyes again. “You’re dreaming,” she tells me.
“I am not, I’m driving.” I say it loud enough to make her open her eyes again. This time the driver waves at Rebecca.
Rebecca, alert, crawls into the back seat. “My bologna has a first name,” she sings. “It’s O-S-C-A-R.” She doesn’t finish the song. “What is this thing?” She is looking for a telltale freezer door, a disclaimer, anything that explains this vehicle.
“Maybe I should slow down and let him pass.”
“No way!” Rebecca cries. “Go faster. See if he can match us with a wiener on the roof.”
So I push the gas pedal a little harder. The hot dog car can keep up with us at seventy-five, eighty, even ninety miles per hour. “Remarkable. It’s aerodynamic.”
Rebecca climbs back into the passenger seat. “Maybe we should get one.”
Then the driver of the hot dog car cuts me off, which makes me really angry because the tail of the hot dog grazes the luggage rack of my station wagon. Then he swerves into the breakdown lane so suddenly I shoot past him, but he quickly catches up to us. He rolls down his window and motions for Rebecca to do the same. He has a nice face, so I tell her it’s okay.
“Want to stop for breakfast?” he yells across the rushing air. He points to a blue highway sign that indicates food is available at the next exit.
“I don’t know,” I say to Rebecca. “What do you think?”
“I think maybe he’ll let us drive the car. Okay! ” Rebecca yells to him, and she smiles like she has all the charm in the world tucked into her back pocket.
We follow his car into the parking lot of the Pillar O’Salt diner. There are two windows boarded up, and only one other car, the chef’s, I imagine. However, there does not seem to be a warning from the Department of Health. Do they have one out here, I wonder?
Rebecca gets out of the car first and runs over to touch the material that makes up the bun of the hot dog truck. It is rough and stubbly, a disappointment. The driver gets out of the cab. “Hello,” he says, in a voice that sounds oddly prepubescent. “Nice of you to join me for breakfast. I’m Ernie Barb.”
“Lila Moss,” I say, offering my hand. “And my daughter, Pearl.” Rebecca, somewhat surprised, curtsies.
“Pretty nice truck, eh?” he says to Rebecca.
“Nice isn’t the word.” She reaches to feel the lettering on the bun. The O itself is larger than her head.
“It’s a promo truck. Not real functional but it gets people to notice.”
“That it does,” I tell him. “Do you work for Oscar Mayer?”
“I sure do. I drive across the country just drumming up interest. Recognition is a big factor in the sales of processed meats, you know.”
I nod. “I can imagine.” Ernie touches my shoulder to lead me towards the diner. “Have you eaten here?”
“Oh, lots of times. It’s better than it looks.” Ernie walks first, then me, then Rebecca, through the swinging saloon doors of the diner. I find myself wondering how they lock them at night.
Ernie has a yellow crew-cut spiked in haphazard halo around his face. Although I can only see the stubs of his hair it seems to grow thicker in some patches than in others. His skin is oily and he has three or four chins. “Annabelle!” he calls, and a short fat woman in the clipped dress of a waitress lumbers out of the men’s room, of all places. “I’m back, sugar.”
“Oh,” she says, in a gravelly voice that makes Rebecca jump. “And to what do we owe this honor?” Then, as if on second thought, she kisses him directly on the mouth and murmurs, “It’s good to see you.”
“This is Lulu and Pearl,” Ernie says.
“Lila,” I correct him, and he repeats the word, rolling it around his mouth like a marble. “We were together on the highway.”
“Good for you,” Annabelle says, another mood shift. She slaps three menus on our table and leaves in an unexplained huff.
Except for Annabelle and an absent chef (unless, I think, she is the absent chef . . .), we are the only people in the diner. It’s early, but somehow I get the feeling no one ever really comes to the Pillar O’Salt. Its decor is just a little off: homey ruffled curtains, but cut in a sick green plaid; sturdy wooden tables that have been painted the hazard shade of orange.
“It’s nice to have a meal with people for a change,” Ernie says, and Rebecca and I smile politely. “Lonely on the road.” We nod. Rebecca tries to explode the beads of water on her glass with her finger. “Pearl,” Ernie says, but Rebecca doesn’t need the clue. “Pearl!” It is the noise, not the name, that sparks Rebecca’s attention. “How old are you, girl?”
“Almost fifteen. I’ll be fifteen next week.” She looks at me, askingif this, like our names, is privileged information she shouldn’t be telling a stranger.
“Glory,” says Ernie. “This calls for something.” He squeezes out of his chair and walks into the men’s room, which from Annabelle’s actions, I’ve deduced, must connect to the kitchen. He comes out a minute later, carrying our meals. Rebecca’s scrambled eggs support a birthday candle that systematically drips onto her hash browns. Ernie sings “Happy Birthday” by himself.
“Isn’t that nice, Pearl,” I say. “An early present.”
“And it truly is,” Ernie says. “This meal’s on me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barb.” Rebecca picks up her fork and Ernie tells her to make a wish-which she does, blowing the candle onto a napkin and starting a small fire that Ernie douses with tomato juice.
Throughout the meal Ernie discusses his job: how he got it (an uncle in corporate); how he likes it (he does); how he’s been rewarded (HOT DOG! Publicity Award, 1986 and 1987). Finally he asks us where we’re from (Arizona) and where we’re headed (my sister Greta’s in Salt Lake City). Rebecca kicks me under the table every time I lie, but she doesn’t know any better. Oliver can be a very smart man.
This is what Ernie eats: a stack of raspberry pancakes, three eggs, with sausage, a side order of hash browns, four slices of toast, an English muffin, two blintzes, two grapefruit halves, smoke mackerel. It is only during his mushroom omelette that he says he feels stuffed. In the kitchen, Annabelle drops something that breaks.
In the end, Ernie doesn’t even pay for the meal; Annabelle insists it’s on the house. She stands at the doorway as we walk back to Ernie’s hot-dog car. “Ladies,” he says, “a pleasure.” He gives me his card, which has no home address, only the number for his car phone.
Rebecca and I stand in front of the diner, watching the fabricated hot dog disappear at a point on the horizon. We stand just far enough apart to not be able to touch each other.
“It was too red to look real,” Rebecca says, turning. “Did you notice?”