When he wakes the truck isn’t moving. He looks out the window. It is dark and the truck rests among others in a constellation of running lights, amber in the settled dusk. The driver appears from the sleeping compartment with a duffel bag in one hand and a plastic sack in the other. He squeezes into the front seat and slides the plastic bag over to Simon.

“Look,” he says, patting the duffel for some unseen object, “I don’t mind Indians. Not at all. But I do mind stink, and you stink.”

“Sorry,” mumbles Simon.

The driver ignores his apology.

“There’s a pair of pants and an extra T-shirt in the bag. I’ll give you a dollar and you can shower up inside. Hear? The shower takes quarters.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Well you really stink.”

With that he pops open the door which swings slow and heavy like a barn door, and hops down onto the cement. Simon follows more slowly, like an old man.

As he crosses the parking lot, weaving between the parked semis, Simon hears the freeway off to the side. They clear the last of the trucks and cross the oil-stained parking lot to the truck stop, its lights blazing against the rush of night and cars. When they enter Simon tries not to look at the truckers lined up along the counter and in the booths, a society of men used to sitting, unshaven and red-eyed, their hands permanently curved from gripping their steering wheels.

“I’ll be in here when you’re done. I got a schedule, so don’t stand around tickling your ass all night.”

Simon nods and heads to the door under the sign that reads Showers. He strips and leaves his tattered clothes in a heap but takes the plastic bag into the shower with him. Inside the bag is a bar of anonymous hotel soap and a washcloth. He inserts a quarter and the shower gushes hot water that steams the mildewed tiles. Simon steps into its path and gasps as the water pummels his tender skin. It stings as his flesh turns red instantly but he doesn’t move and begins soaping his entire body. The dirt comes off in waves and his face sheds layers of skin and grime.

He rinses and soaps again. Twigs and bark leap free from his dirt-caked neck and scalp. Once he is done he shakes off as much water as he can and puts the jeans on. He steps from the shower and dries his torso with paper towels and punches the electric dryer and turns the loose nozzle until it points up and begins blasting his hair. He puts on the white T-shirt and looks at himself in the mirror.