At a truck stop in Whiteland, Indiana. It’s the usual break stop on our way to Indy for events. This time we were going to work security for a country music concert at Gatebridge Field House. I knew what to expect: the songs all about True Love, Truck Nutz, God, and Country, with an audience that often confused Truck Nutz for Country, Love, as well as God. Even though I always take food with me, I usually buy water or coffee, or both. But this time I splurged on a bag of Combos: cracker and (Real!) Cheddar Cheese, the way God — or Truck Nutz — intended them, unless pretzel is available and it wasn’t. My other options were “Supreme Pizza,” “Buffalo Wing” and — I shit not — “Cool Ranch Dorito” Flavor. What is there to say about a world where a junk chip is so uniquely known that it’s an imitation flavor for other junk foods? The mind doesn’t balk. But maybe it should. All I knew was the world was hyper-real enough without unholy junk food flavors. There was no place in my life for such blasphemy.
