We are invited to travel with the Poet to Raleigh. We leave in the morning, before the sun rises. We drive south on I95, then we veer southeast on I85. Around 6:45am, we cross the Virginia-North Carolina border.
Soon after, the Poet pulls into a rest stop parking lot. Outside the car, several squirrels run and play. One squirrel sits atop the blue-lidded recycling bin, surveying her domain. A few of the squirrels hop over to the doors. They stop and wait.
“They’re hungry,” says the Poet. “They demand we feed them.”
We follow the Poet to the picnic benches underneath the pavilion. An ant crawls up the side of your coffee cup. You flick it off. It flies through the humid air and lands in the grass.
I look over the Poet’s shoulder. His handwriting is atrocious, but I can decipher his notes. He writes:
In general, lying during negotiations negates the possibility of reaching a mutually beneficial agreement. So says the Philosopher.
A bug crawls up your leg. You pluck it between two fingers and fling it into the grass. A small RV pulls into the space beside the Poet’s car. A woman exits with a cat on a leash. She walks the cat along the path to the designated pet area.
I look over the Poet’s shoulder. He writes:
To say that lying is “off the table” is extreme. Lying is a tool that negotiators must sometimes employ. It is dangerous for the Philosopher to say that lying is only permissible in certain circumstances. If one side listens to the Philosopher and one does not, then they enter negotiations on unequal footing. When both parties reserve the right to lie, they are equal. The Philosopher is disingenuous and out of touch with what is acceptable. So says the Politician.
We drink coffee and wait for the Poet to finish writing. He scribbles furiously in his notebook. I look over his shoulder. He has written a list of phrases from signs and vehicles at the rest stop.
NO OVERNIGHT PARKING
REFERSHMENTS
FREEDOM ELITE
RESTROOMS
The automatic sliding doors to the restroom lobby open. A janitor sweeps the sidewalk. I squint at the sign that says RESTROOMS. Some words are difficult for me to make out. My eyes are aging, and words at a certain distance are blurred.
The janitor looks at me and assumes that I am looking at him. He says “Hello, sir.” I say hello. He finishes sweeping but his eyes never stop watching us. When the Poet finishes writing, the janitor watches us leave the picnic table and start the car. He watches us drive to the end of the parking lot, accelerate and return to the highway.
We are about 70 miles from our destination.