In Iowa, most of the two door rest areas are gone. More glass now with an illusion of levels. Wyoming has solar heat. Utah holds on to the red stall doors that only come up as far as your chin. Texas has some big, fancy rest areas. When you cross in from Louisiana, that rest area has a whole community of armadillos. But Texas keeps it picnic areas with toilet paper strewn in the brush. I don't even talk about the east coast. The east coast is packed with capri, pedal pushers, hair that's just made its exit from the stylist. East coast I use the chamber pot.

What rest areas hold in common is no mirrors. The most there is a wavy square of metal pinned on the wall above the sink.

This is the fun house.

The truck holds two hundred gallons of fuel. One hundred in each of the chrome cylinders each side of the tractor. If the load is light, the wind comes from behind, we can get most the way across the country. No need to see your face in a mirror. I loose track.

This day, you drove into the morning hours. I slept. Five a.m., while the coffee makes in the cab,Tip and I walk around picnic tables in this desert rest area. Standing in the open, I use my water bottle to brush my teeth. Migrant workers, ruffled black hair, bend forward off the seats of their dusty cars. They unbend like stems toward the pale light, stretch up slowly. Little kids hang on to their legs. There is a silence.

The driver's side of the truck is facing east. Every rim on the outside wheel reflects the orange glow of dawn. My eyes follow the line to the end of the trailer. The face in each mirror is the face of the sun.

Tip jumps from truck step to cab ledge and on inside. I have to grab the rail, the steering wheel. Tony's sleeping on the bunk facing the back wall. I pour coffee into two cups, both for me. Tip jumps on the passenger seat. The truck starts ka-pow and as the idle smooths I log the date, hour, milage,the rest area.

Driving a truck is slow and steady. It's full of wide turns and looking a long ways down the road so that quick maneuvers that make your heart pound, hardly happen. All these tires and wheels, they ground you right within the motion and navigate you under the sky. I put my blinker on. It clicks its rythm. The truck coming up the interstate starts gliding into the passing lane as I keep pulling out and gaining speed. The other truck is in front. I flash my lights and before I finish, his right hand signal already comes on .

I look at Tip. Tip looks at me and then back out the window. We're heading east; the sunrise is upon us.