Tok, Alaska

2

Erik pulled out of the motel's parking lot. It was only 325 miles to Anchorage, so he'd slept in, knowing he'd get there by the evening. He had asked the lady at the front desk where he could get some brunch, and she'd recommended a little place called the Busy Bee. He had learned that the name of the little town of just over 1300 people was pronounced "toke," not "tock," as he'd thought. He drove onto the main road, and saw for the first time in daylight what he'd seen the previous night: the junction of Routes 2 and 1. This was the intersection he'd always dreamed of. He mused to himself that it was strange that one should romanticize something as quotidian as an intersection so, but roads were the one thing that had always been there for him, except maybe his father. The notion that you could go anywhere, given enough fuel, struck him as exquisite. He'd memorized the routes to all his schools and other common destinations as a child, and it was inevitable that he would eventually seek a greater wanderlust. And he was finally there, at his heart's object.

Someone behind him honked and went around him, and he snapped out of his reverie, realizing he had been sitting in the road staring at the T-intersection. He pressed down on the gas pedal, went straight and drove for half a mile before seeing the sign for the Busy Bee Diner. The Busy Bee was a little shack, like nothing he'd ever seen before in New York. It had a run-down black and yellow sign at its top with the name of the establishment and a little painting of a smiling anthropomorphic bumblebee. He opened the screen door which let the late June breeze in and entered. There were two little tables on the left and then six or seven bar stools to the right in front of the counter, which was manned by a young woman with long blonde hair. She looked oddly pretty in her green apron. Pretty and overworked. He chose the closest stool, which was all the way on the left, and sat down. The only other people were a group of three at one of the tables and one solitary man sitting a few stools to the right. At the table were two young men who looked to be around his age and a much younger boy. One of the young men, who had long dark brown hair and a full beard, and the boy, who had long hair for his age but nowhere near as long as the other fellow, were wearing leather jackets and tall black hats with a feather apiece. The other young man was clean-shaven with curly blond hair down to his shoulders and a grey sweater. Erik looked at the menu and decided to order an omelet with fries. As he waited for his food to come he listened to the men talk. He didn't catch every word, but they were talking about music. Something about 90s progressive metal.

Finally, his food came. It was a big portion, perfect for his hungry stomach. He ate it quickly and it was delicious. Halfway through the fries, the man to his right got up. He was a strange man, short with thinning brown hair and grey stubble all across his face. He opened the screen door and looked to be heading out, but first he turned to the young man with the beard. "Hey, you." The young man looked up. "Why don't you go hug a tree, you faggot?" He smirked and left. Erik expected some sort of anger or resentment from the young man. Instead, he just stroked his beard and mused, with a smile, "Well... what better to hug a tree than a pile of sticks?" The other young man said, "Fucking asshole."

Erik finished his fries and paid. Just as he got up to leave, so did the party of three at the table. Erik ran up to the door and opened it for them.

"Hey, thanks, man," said the bearded young man.

"No problem," said Erik, and grinned as they all exited the diner. "That was pretty classy before."

He laughed and said, "Ain't no use getting upset over some dickless shithead dumping on you because of his own inadequacies."

Erik stuck out his hand and said, "Erik Schmidt."

The young man with the beard shook it and said, "Walt. Walt Whitman Duffy."

The other young man said, "And I'm Walter Corbino."