When I was reasonably sure I was just being 'noid and the drivers outside were merely having a snooze, a squeeze, or a snort, I headed for the ladies' room. I grabbed a handful of my shirt and used it to keep from actually touching the doorknob. Not bad. Pretty clean actually, but that didn't stop me from meticulously layering the seat with toilet paper before sitting down. I know, it's neurotic, but the lessons of youth are never quite forgotten—I had a friend who always traveled with her own over-the-door hook so she'd never have to put her handbag on the floor of a public bathroom. Undoubtedly something her mother once taught her.
I'd just unzipped and dropped trou when through the opened window I heard a car start to pull out and then stop after only a minute. I heard a door slam. Moments later the doormat's jarring buzzer sounded. Trapped in a toilet, I could be in big trouble. I sat there paralyzed. What could I use as a weapon if I needed one? A plunger? A toilet brush? Only if I touched them and that was a big if since whatever was outside was probably less deadly than either of those germ-riddled items. I was staring at the bathroom's small shuttered window, trying to picture my hips squeezing through, when I realized I was being ridiculous—the victim of an overactive imagination. I zipped up, washed up, and threw some cold water on my face, patting dry with a rough paper towel. This time, I wrapped another towel around the doorknob to let myself out. The door opened into the bathroom and I held it ajar with my butt and turned to watch the balled-up wad of paper bank shot into the trash.
"Nice shot."
I spun around in the tiny bathroom, slamming my shoulder into the door and my hip into the doorknob and coming face-to-face with the large pockmarked nose of a man with no visible neck. His double and triple chins melded into his shoulders and chest and I imagined that naked he must look something like the Michelin Man. Not a pretty picture.
"Thanks," I mumbled. I tried to get past him and we did that little dance you do when two people are trying to be polite and accidentally keep blocking each other's way, only this didn't feel accidental or polite.
"Sorry," I said. "I'll just scoot by." I skipped around him fast, my fingers grazing the cold leather of his jacket, which was so voluminous it must have cost two cows their lives. I was ready to make my exit when Ravi, the clerk, called to me.
"Lady, lady, I am ringing your order."
Michelin Man flashed an oily grin and positioned himself right behind me, between me and the door. I gave him a weak smile and moved closer to the counter to put as much distance between us as possible. He didn't seem to be buying anything; he just stood there, his frankfurter fingers laced in a loose cat's cradle, his stubby thumbs tapping together to some internal melody.
"If you're just getting cigarettes or something, you can go before me," I said, "I have a lot of stuff."
"I don't smoke. Filthy habit." He shrugged and showed me three candy bars buried in his laced fingers. "Sweet tooth." I was stuck.
Inside my pocket, I separated my keys so that there was one in between each finger of my right hand. That way if I had to throw a punch, it would do more damage. I'd read that in a women's magazine somewhere and hoped it was true.
"The big bottle of water is on sale, wouldn't you like that one instead?" Ravi asked.
"Sure, why not?" I said, watching him leave his perch to get the water. Every item was rotated twice, to find the bar code. It was an excruciatingly slow process.
"When you spend over twenty dollars, you get a free lotto ticket," he said, finishing up the sale. "Would you like to pick some numbers?"
Here I was, trying to get the hell out of there, and this guy was bucking for employee of the month.
"It's okay, I'm not much of a gambler and I'm in a bit of a hurry."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive," I snapped, taking out my wallet and clumsily nudging out my credit card with my left thumb.
Ravi flipped the card over. "Please, miss, you haven't signed your card."
"There's a picture of me on the front of the card, what else do you need?" I was instantly sorry for being rude.
"Not much of a gambler?" Michelin Man said. "That's too bad. I, myself, am a big believer in luck." I hoped he didn't think he was going to get lucky with me. What was with these guys? Was I sending out horny, lonely signals? First Nick, then Bernie, and now this manatee.
I couldn't manage a signature with my left hand, so I reluctantly let go of my keys to finish the transaction.
"Thank you very much, Miss Holliday," Ravi said, handing me my receipt.
Excellent. Now the Michelin Man knew my name. Luckily it was a fairly common one. If he was a crazed stalker, there'd be three or four other victims named Holliday before he got down to the Ps in the phone book. Surely the cops would find him before he got to me.
He still hadn't moved, and now I was grateful that the clerk was taking so long, double-bagging my purchases for the mad dash to my car. I redid the key arrangement in my pocket and planted my feet in case I had to land a punch and make a run for it.
Just then, the cavalry arrived. We heard them first. It sounded as if a helicopter was landing outside, then the sputtering died down. The doormat shrieked again and five guys who could have been the defensive line for the Hell's Angels' football team came in. The Michelin Man's face dropped; so did poor Ravi's. I was the only one grinning like a happy idiot.
One guy camped out in the doorway oblivious to the fact that standing there kept the doormat buzzer going. The other four scoped out the dining options. The biggest walked over to the shelves near the coffee machine. He picked up a cellophane-wrapped Danish and dropped it as if it was radioactive.
"Hey, man. I can't eat this crap. This stuff'll kill you."
Ravi looked hurt. "I have the PowerBars," he offered weakly.
"I know a great diner!" I said, a little too loudly. "I do." I quieted down and tried to sound seductive instead of like a basket case. What the hell, three other guys thought I looked hot that day, even if they didn't have the most discriminating taste. "It's only ten minutes from here," I lied. "My girlfriend owns it. I'll take you." I flirted with the big one closest to my nemesis, who looked a lot less threatening now.
That was how I got my Harley escort out of the service station, away from the Michelin Man, and all the way to Babe's Paradise Diner.
Ten
I was channeling Cher and mumbling the words to "Believe" under my breath. Five beefy guys on four bikes followed me to my car. Whatever it was the Michelin Man had in mind, he was no match for my new best friends, and we left him and Ravi, and whoever was in that second car, scratching their heads in the service station minimarket.
Charlie seemed to be the big dog. The biggest physically, he had the biggest bike, two-thirds as wide as the Jeep and encrusted with pipes and grilles that did who-the-hell-knew-what but made the bike look like a small spaceship. He stayed on my left, tossing me the occasional smile or thumbs-up, and the others trailed us, playing leapfrog until we got to the diner.
By the time we'd pulled into the Paradise parking lot, I'd convinced myself that Charlie and his friends had saved me from worse than death, and as they dismounted, I gave them bear hugs and back slaps as if we'd just ridden cross-country together instead of twenty minutes on a tree-lined suburban road.