Three strangers walk into a Jack in the Box
A story about desert pit stops, mask anxiety, and human connection
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We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the dog began to get antsy.
“I have to pee too,” Christina said. “Should we stop in Barstow?”
I cringed at the thought. Barstow only sounds romantic to Hunter S. Thompson fans. The hard truth about Barstow is that it’s a dusty, grinding traffic jam of a town that sucks in motorists by the millions with promises of over-priced gas and under-cleaned restrooms. I spent a decade one afternoon in Barstow trying to wrangle a few gallons of gasoline and a veggie burrito. The experience added an hour to our drive to Vegas, but it took three years off my life. After that day, I vowed never to stop in Barstow again.
“Anywhere but Barstow,” I said.
Christina took out her phone.
“There’s a sign for a Subway,” I said.
“Subways usually don’t have restrooms for customers,” Christina said.
“You’re right. I guess you c…
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