Free Mosquitoland by David Arnold

chicken-petroleum soup. It makes sense, too, because where I’ve had good luck with Carls, I’ve never met a single Ed I didn’t want to ninja to death. They’re scoundrels through and through. I enter Ed’s Place not with an attitude of optimism but with an attitude of ninja-ism.
    There are four tables, each with checkered paper tablecloths. I wait until Poncho Man sits, and then pick the table farthest from him. Unfortunately, they’re all pretty close together.
    â€œMim!” he whispers. Pointing to my hair, he gives a thumbs-up. “Looks great!”
    I throw on my most sarcastic smile, give him a thumbs-up, and slowly raise my middle finger. A bald man with a biker beard and apron hobbles over to Poncho Man’s table and greets him by name. “Hey, Joe, want the regular?” Poncho Man smiles, nods, then carries on a short, albeit jovial-looking conversation with the guy.
    He’s been here before
.
    I don’t have a chance to process this information fully before the Bald Biker Beard is at our table taking drink orders.
    â€œWhat kind of coffee do you have?” I ask.
    â€œWhat kind?” says the waiter, only he says it like,
Wit kand?
    â€œYeah, I mean, Ethiopian, Kona—it’s not Colombian, is it?”
    Under his beard, the waiter’s jaws are chomping something, presumably a piece of gum. After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, I spot the name sewn on his shirt pocket: ED.
    And all is right with the world.
    â€œNever mind.” I sigh. “I’ll just have a chicken sandwich, please.”
    â€œAin’t got chicken sammich.”
    I choose a smile over a
judo
chop. “The subtitle of your establishment indicates otherwise.”
    He raises an eyebrow, chomps, says nothing.
    â€œOkay, fine,” I say. “Burger?”
    â€œWhat’d you wanna drink?” he asks.
    â€œOrange soda. Please.”
    â€œWe got grape. We got Coke. We got milk.”
    â€œMilk? Really?” I hate this place. “Fine, I’ll have . . . grape soda, I guess.”
    Ed goes around the table, takes everyone’s order, then shuffles off. In order to avoid the uncomfortable nearness of strangers, I thumb through the thick envelope of vouchers from Greyhound. One coupon offers a half-price massage at some mall in Topeka. The next is for a free go-cart ride at a place called the Dayton 500. The only coupons of any real value are three free nights at a Holiday Inn, a fifteen-dollar gift card to Cracker Barrel, and a few Greyhound vouchers. Fair trade, I suppose, for almost murdering us.
    After maybe ten minutes, a tray of food crashes into the middle of the table. Ed leans over my shoulder, his beard brushing my face, and tosses a plate at each person in turn, announcing the orders as he goes. “And last but not least,” he looks down at me, not with a twinkle in his eye, but a twinkle in his voice. “A gourmet burger for the little lady. And a
milk
to warsh it down.”
    â€œI didn’t ord—”
    â€œBone-appeteet!” he says, hobbling away with a maniacal laugh.
    I poke at the burger, which could probably double as a hockey puck. Choking down half of it with the milk, I push my plate away. I’ll eat in Nashville.
    Carl announces a fifteen-minute warning; I grab my bag and follow a long hallway toward the back of Ed’s Place. The restroom is a two-staller with a filthy sink, foggy mirror, and wallpaper of creative expletives. I deadbolt the door, hang my bag on a hook, and, careful not to touch
anything
, pee in record time. After washing my hands, I unzip my bag, and just as I’m about to add the vouchers to Kathy’s coffee can, I hear it—a cough.
    Just one. Quiet. Timid, almost. But definitely a cough.
    Cash in hand, I peek underneath the stall divider. There, in the second stall—one penny loafer, one too-big sneaker.
    What the hell . . . ?
    Slowly, the shoes