I headed back to the 99 and took up my southbound journey. Forty miles outside of Bakersfield, I checked my watch. It was 11:45 and I was starving. I hadn’t bothered to eat anything before I left the hotel. I’d been more interested in getting the journey under way than in feeding my face. How foolhardy was that? I’d never make it to Santa Teresa without something to eat. I wouldn’t arrive until midafternoon and by then I’d be gnawing my own arm. I pulled my shoulder bag closer and fumbled through the interior, but all I came up with was a sugarfree breath mint of no known nutritional value. At that very moment, I realized I’d forgotten to call Henry to advise him of my estimated arrival time. That did it.

I started scanning for highway signs, looking for the closest rest stop. Of particular interest was the crossed knife and fork, the universal symbol for fatty foodstuffs. Coming up on the Tejon Pass, I took the Frazier Mountain Park Road where the Flying J promised numerous forms of relief: weighing scales, a pump dump, liquid propane, diesel fuel, a travel store, and overnight RV accommodations. The parking area was expansive, probably three hundred spaces, only a small number of which were taken. Most important of all was the Denny’s restaurant rising up in splendor.

I parked two aisles away from the entrance, locked the Mustang, and went in. I availed myself of the facilities and then found an empty booth. A kindly waitress brought me water, a menu, and silverware. Since I’d eaten breakfast a scant three hours before, I skipped that section of the menu and looked at the garish photographs of burgers. Most were alarmingly large; double-meat patties with cheese and all manner of folderol piled up in a bun. Feeling virtuous, I opted for a salad, knowing that before I left I could hoof it over to the minimart and stock up on candy bars.

When I paid my check, I asked the cashier to make change for a five-dollar bill. I’d seen a pay phone outside the service station and I was headed in that direction when a middle-aged man approached from the parking lot and tagged me by the arm.

“Is that your Mustang?”

I turned to him with surprise. “It is.”

“I thought so. I saw you pull in. My wife and I had a booth by the window and she’s the one who called it to my attention. We were just having a closer look.”

“I take it you’re a fan.”

“Yes’sum, but that’s not why I came looking for you. Are you aware you have a flat tire?”

“You’re kidding. Flat as in dead flat or low on air?”