Somewhere in Texas.

I need to stop paying the blamed phone bill.

0630, Central Time. A happy dream featuring several celebrated hotties is interrupted while it's still dry by the dulcet tones of Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London.

Profanity. Your Wandering Gentile fumbles about the bunk of his Kenworth sleeper for his spectacles, his telephone, and the little Bluetooth thingie so his caller can be heard. It is understood that one can use the handset, but we have gotten past Lon Cheney, Junior having a pina colada at Trader Vics, and usually this driver, Patchy Ground Fog (not his real handle), does not call at this foul hour unless it's important.

"Professor! I'm lost in Atlanta."

Expressively vocalized profanity. "What are you looking for?"

"Toronto Circle Industrial Park."

"Exit 38D off the Perimeter, turn right between the Quik Trip and the Waffle House."

It should be noted here that in Metro Atlanta, QT and the Waffle House have such aggressive expansion strategies that if one forgets to set the alarm, there will be scattered, smothered and chunked hash browns, nine drunks, a large soda cooler, and an Horchata smoothie fountain downstairs before one feels the need to get up to pee.

"Can you be a bit more specific?" PGF asked.

"There's a decommissioned Kroger that's now a dollar store with day laborers in the parking lot across the street."

"That's no help."

"I gotta go. Mrs. Wandering Gentile is on the other line."

Frantic, exclaimatory Spanish fills my ear. One of the Hijastras has overslept for the third time this week, and it's only Tuesday. "...so I need to go down to the QT and get twenty dollars for a taxi..."

"The QT is a block from the school! The walk won't hurt either one of you!"

"What is that supposed to mean?" At this point, I realize that my comment was not understood to be reflective of the cardio-pulmonary benefits of a brisk walk on a delightful Atlanta fall morning. It was understood as a critique of Mrs. Wandering Gentile's physique, which is also delightful and requires no change whatsoever. There was no way I was getting out of this; I needed a crowbar to get my foot out of my mouth.

"I only meant to say..."

"Who are you with in Texas? Are you with your ex?"

I made a biiiig mistake two years ago, and confessed to once having a girlfriend in Laredo. To be honest, I cannot recall what she looked like, aside from the fact that she bleached her hair, but there are days when it seems that Mrs Wandering Gentile believes that I was pleasuring every female from El Paso to Beaumont. I was near Brownsville, closer to Miami than the most distant parts of the Lone Star State.

"I'm by myself."

"Are you shooo-wah?" The funny thing is that Mrs. Wandering Gentile's long residence in the Garden State has left her with a perfect Marisa Tomei inflection on this particular phrase, despite English being her second language.

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm at my receiver. I have to get rid of this trailer. I'll call you in a few minutes."

Boop handset dead. Before I can unbuckle my seatbelt, Springsteen informs me that he was born to run. Mrs. Wandering Gentile's ringtone seemed appropriate for a woman with a deep connection to New Jersey. "Who are you with?"

"Nobody."

"I'm checking." She hangs up. Oh, this is a needy morning.

Warren Zevon is back.

Mr. Zevon beat the Boss by approximately one nanosecond. Seatbelt unbuckled, I explain to Mrs. Wandering Gentile that I am still alone, and I have Patchy Ground Fog on the other line.

"Oh, so your friend is more important than your wife? Have you turned gay on me?"

"He's lost on the Perimeter," I explain, and Mrs. Wandering Gentile comprehends instantly that it is a sin of genocidal proportion to leave anyone lost on the Perimeter.

"We will talk later..."

"PGF, where are you?"

"I think I got off on the wrong exit. None of the signs are in English."

"What language are they in?"

"Tagalog."

"Okay, that's Little Quezon City. Turn right on Georgia 761, follow it to US 37, turn left, and that will put you at the rear entrance to Toronto Circle."

Patchy Ground Fog hesitates. "Landmarks?"

"Three Waffle Houses and a Quik Trip. Oh, and there's a Sunoco between one of the Waffle Houses and the Quik Trip."

"Sunoco?"

"It's the only one inside the Perimeter. It used to be a Quik Trip." We hang up, and I finally deliver the paperwork for the load.

My phone trills. Area code 307. Wyoming. Somehow, I don't think Dick Cheney is calling to thank me for using extra gasoline in the Pornstar Minivan. I am not in a good mood. In fact, I am in a pretty bad mood. "Do I know you?"

Silence.

"Do I know you?"

A cheery voice comes across the line with my given name, which I haven't used since Reagan's first term. The great thing about not using one's given name is that anyone who uses it without a proper introduction has already confessed that he wants money. "This is Brett Cooledge from Nightcrawler Home Warranty! We fixed your air conditioner last summer."

"No, you didn't. It got so bad that Chuchu the Parakeet was sweating and swearing like Roseanne Barr passing a kidney stone. Now what the hell do you want?"

"Why, we would like to give you the opportunity to renew your home warranty!"

"Renew it? The contractor you sent showed up without tools in a rusted out Gremlin, and his kid ate the remote for my television."

"He brought a child with him?"

"No! He brought a small goat! No thanks." Patchy Ground Fog called back and I switched over to him.

"Professor! I got issues like Reader's Digest! 761 was blocked for construction, and I got diverted back onto the expressway. But it wasn't the right expressway. Do you know how to say 'sorry about what happened to your shrubbery' in Urdu?"

I need an unlisted truck.