"Excuse me. Do you work here?"
The man looked up from the restroom sink, slowly appraised me from head to toe, and asked, "Why, because I'm black?"
"No, because you're filling up a 5-gallon cleaning jug with water."
He looked down at the jug under the faucet, back at me, nodded, and laughed.
"Something is going on with my radiator. Not sure what. This is the only jug I had in the car, so I rinsed it out and filled it with water."
"I hope it's nothing too serious. I would offer to help, but I'm clueless about cars."
Thus began a half-hour conversation with Charles—in a men's room at a Mississippi truck stop. Once he realized I was not a racist, Charles spoke openly and easily.
It's interesting being an introvert on a road trip. I am drawn to the straightforward intimacy of transient life. These brief interludes force me to live outside myself, to interact with people as well as the landscape.
I find folks from all walks of life are open to answering questions if those questions allow them …
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