The North Las Vegas Petro has been open a week at this point in time. You don't even believe it's really here, Tony. You make your mind up and that's the way. Like 11:00 am: I can't call now; they're at lunch. Like 12:30 pm: I can't call now; they're at lunch. Or how about: It's Saturday; she must be on the Cape. Even though you haven't seen her for six months and haven't called for weeks. Your reality is unflinching and not based on facts. It's hard to argue when there's no foundation. Arguements skitter any which way on a layer of wet ice. If you haven't stayed at a particular truck stop Tony, then that truck stop doesn't exist. In desperation I buy the truck stop book.

But it's the signs that steer us to the North Las Vegas truck stop.

We've been staying at the old TA up until now. It's crowded. Rows upon rows of trucks, all idling in a small lot. A one guy truck wash operation. Dust and grit in the air. Every pole has a print of a "college" girl named after a precious gem, posing on all fours staring back, wide eyed, at the camera. There's a motel that's missing some siding across the back road. Across the highway is a cheap casino, the one where the waitresses are middle aged or older and they slouch. The customers line up for the limited buffet and then clog up the penny slots.

What do we have to loose Tony?

You start to feel better when you realize the New Petro is the same exit as the raceway. Oh, that's a good omen. But here comes the truck stop sign, big and green and lit up. The place is almost empty, dark, flat asphalt. You pull straight in dead-center. There's a strip of gravel in front of us and then nothing but desert. We let Tip wander a few minutes. Maybe being North of Las Vegas the breeze smells fresher, not so many french fries in the air. You and I walk to the fuel island. There's one guy pumping diesal into his big red Englander. You wait outside with Tip. I walk in. It's clean, it shines. I head toward the coolers. I've been on a juice popsicle kick. Only about a third of the truck stops stock them. This place doesn't have them either. I peer through the freezer windows. I press my forehead against the cooler. Then, as soon as I open the door, the glass fogs. I take my time and let the air coat my face. I shut my eyes. Then, eyes open, I fish out two Hagan Das ice cream bars.

Outside we peel off the paper and toss it in the bin. The Englander driver says quiet night. We nod.

You and I follow after Tip and step into the desert.