The Franchiser

I

Past the orange roof and turquoise tower, past the immense sunburst of the green and yellowsign, past the golden arches, beyond the low buff building, beside the discrete hut, the dark top hat on the studio window shade, beneath the red and white longitudes of the enormous bucket, coming up to the thick shaft of the yellow arrow piercing the royal-blue field, he feels he is home. Is it Nashville? Elmira, New York? St. Louis County? A Florida key? The Illinois arrowhead? Indiana like a holster, Ohio like a badge? Is he North? St. Paul, Minn? Northeast? Boston, Mass.? The other side of America? Salt Lake? Los Angeles? At the bottom of the country? The Texas udder? Where? In Colorado’s frame? Wyoming like a postage stamp? Michigan like a mitten? The chipped, eroding bays of the Northwest? Seattle? Bellingham, Washington?

Somewhere in the packed masonry of states.

He guides the pale-blue Cadillac up the perfectly banked ramp, around one loop of the creamy cloverleaf, positioned, in the large, long automobile, centripetally as a slot car — lovely. And down, shooting the smooth rapids of traffic, into the wide cement of American delta. Like a water skier brought, still on his feet, to shore. He waits at the lights, in some darker medium now, a rich topsoil of city asphalt, waving to the man next to him, miming petition, throwing thanks like a blown kiss, and on green edges forward, to his left. Coming into the service station. (There is cash in his pocket. Credit cards. A checkbook. Licenses. His name and address a block braille on a dozen plastic cards.) And stops. Out of the way of the pumps. And seeing the attendant, his politeness on him like a mood, good behavior premeditated as a sentence in a foreign language, as a question from the floor, gets out of the car, goes to him, the attendant, a young man who barely glances at him. Waits. Walks with the fellow as he goes behind the Chevy Impala at the Regular pump to copy down the number of the plate onto the clamped carbons, accompanying him to the driver, smiling at the silent transaction of proffered charge slip and returned signature, waves to the lady in the Impala as she moves off, turns cheerfully to the attendant, and addresses him in chipper, palsy-walsy American.

“Say, buddy, can I bother you a minute?”

“Sir?”

“I was wondering. Can you tell me — can you tell me just where the hell I am?”

And knows that whatever Jack — he reads the name stitched in red on his coveralls — tells him, it will be welcome news, for he already likes this town, likes the feel of it. He has seen from the highway the low modern buildings of new industrial parks, their parking lots comfortably settled with late-model cars, a bright convoy of good machinery in the wide sealanes of parallel parking.

“Why, this is Boyle Avenue,” Jack says.

“Boyle Avenue,” he repeats, smiling. Yes, he likes the sound of it. “But what city, please?”

“What city? Why, Birmingham.”

“Michigan? Alabama?”

“Birmingham, Alabama.”

“Ahh.”

Jack moves away, going toward a Pontiac Grand Prix which has just pulled up to one of the pumps. “Birmingham, Alabama,” he calls after him. “That’s wonderful. I thank you, sir. I thank you kindly.”

He turns back to the Cadillac, suddenly remembers something, and pauses. “Golly, what’s the matter with me? If my head weren’t on my neck I wouldn’t know where to put my hat. Here, son. Here, Jack.” He tries to give Jack ten dollars. “For your trouble. And thanks again. You’re a life saver. ”

“Hey,” Jack says, “you don’t have to—”

“No no. You’re entirely welcome. My pleasure.” He gets into his car. Birmingham, Alabama. I’ll be. It’s a beautiful day in the United States of America.