Picnic In the Ruins by Todd Robert Petersen

Author:Todd Robert Petersen
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781640093232
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2020-10-28T00:00:00+00:00

Day Seven

An easier way to make money : Dynamite : Inauthenticity : There’s people in here : Pok-pok-pok : With winged boots : Vexations : Plan D

The sheriff’s deputy returned Reinhardt’s driver’s license and the rental car’s registration papers. “That German license doesn’t give you diplomatic immunity, Mr. Kupfer,” he said.

“No, of course not, Sheriff—” Reinhardt looked up at the man’s name tag. “—Sheriff Tanner.”

“Deputy. It’s just deputy.”

“It is very difficult to obtain a German driving license, but I understand you, and I will slow down.”

“That sign isn’t a suggestion.”

“I understand.”

Reinhardt watched Tanner return to his car, then he continued following his phone’s instructions to a diner for breakfast. He drove past the Kanab Chamber of Commerce until he came to a sign with three large columns of orange rock surrounding the name HooDoo Diner in red neon.

The waitress told him to sit wherever he wanted. There was a man in the first booth with a plate of eggs, link sausages, and hash browns covered in ketchup. Alongside his meal was a gray laptop, and he was reading the newspaper as he ate. Most of the other tables were taken, so Reinhardt took a booth near the back. As he sat, the waitress showed up with a tall, red glass of ice water. She asked Reinhardt if he’d like something to drink. He asked for coffee, and she set down a menu. “Specials are on the board,” she said.

There was a Belgian waffle for $5.99 and a Navajo taco for $6.50. When she returned, he asked about the Navajo taco. “We don’t serve that until 11:30, hon,” she said.

He chose the Denver omelet and biscuits, then took out his phone and started going through his photos. There was one of the kid at the rental car place giving him the peace sign with his two front teeth protruding from under his top lip, a picture of the black Mustang he rented, then blurry pictures he should not have taken while driving from Cedar City to Kanab.

There were pictures of towering sandstone walls and smaller minarets. Travel trailers and small clusters of cattle. There were many images of old buildings, contrails crossing the open sky. Thunderheads on the horizon, and the massive storm cloud he’d seen yesterday while driving from Cedar City as it opened up to the south on the monument, the dark tatters of rain localized and intense. On either side of that storm was calm blue sky as far as he could see. Next was a picture of his own two feet plunged into the blue waters of the Virgin River, then photos of vivid Indian paintbrush and pale sage. He was looking for the one image he could use to announce that he’d reached escape velocity and left the oppressive tour. None of yesterday’s photos were right. They looked like loafing.

The last photo, one he’d taken in the middle of the night, was a rectangle of black and pixel noise. This was the experience he wanted to share.

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