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a Shell service station appeared first on the left.   Beyond that was Main Street, which might just as well have been named Only Street or Lonely Street.   What looked like a drug store and a country café could be discerned amid a cluster of old red brick buildings on either side of the dirt road.   There were several farm houses dotting the distant rolling fields off to the east and west, too, with a scattering of trees rising from the clearings—elms, oaks and sycamores.   But other than this, what was visible straight ahead was only more corn, and more bad road.
    I walked quickly toward the Shell station—toward its rusting sign and the big Coca Cola plate that hung on a nail above the entrance, next to two open service bays.   As I passed one bay I saw a mechanic’s booted legs sticking out from under a battered Chevy pickup.   I paused, lifting one hand to shield my eyes from the sun prisming through a high rear window.
    â€œExcuse me, can you help me?” I asked tentatively.
    The silence was commensurate with what might be heard in the city if one put on a pair of those really good hearing protectors.   Something was out there, way off in the ether, but I couldn’t hear anything distinctly.   And so I couldn’t decide if the only sound I could hear was a distant Weedeater or a closer bumblebee.   It was certainly not the sound of tools being used under the pickup.
    I repeated myself.   “Sir?   Excuse me?”
    Not even a twitch.   Was the man asleep?   I stepped into the bay and tapped one boot with my foot.   It had no effect.
    â€œHey,” I said, nudging harder this time.
    Still nothing.
    I finally bent over, and wiggled the boot with my hand.   Then I pulled at the dolly.
    The man was not dead.   It was not even a whole man.   The legs were fake.
    I jumped back, startled, just as laughter bellowed from behind me, which momentarily stopped my heart.   I whirled to see a mechanic.   He was a fat man in his early forties with a round, pockmarked face, patchy blond hair, and a thick, unruly mustache.   He carried half a sandwich in one pudgy hand.   The name WALLY was embroidered on his dirty orange jumpsuit.   He looked like Sgt. Schultz of the old Hogan’s Heroes TV series, if the actor’s cherubic face had been to hell and back.   This Schultz needed Propecia , too.   In his youth he could have used heavy doses of Cleocin or Minocin as well, because his cheeks were so scarred by acne that both of them deserved a Purple Heart.
    â€œSorry, partner,” the mechanic said with effusive charm, trying to calm himself.   Although he also laughed actual tears.   “That’s my stand-in when I’m on break.”   He wiped one hand across his chest and offered to shake my hand, but I just stared at it.   “Name’s Wally.”
    â€œI can see that,” I told him.   “Thanks for waking me up there, Wally.   I’ve been sleep walking for the better part of a mile.”
    Wally lowered his hand slowly, his face registering confusion and mild disappointment.   “You stranded?”
    â€œHow’d you guess?”   Thought you see nothing, know nothing.
    â€œI never seen you before.   So are ya outta gas?”
    â€œNo, I’m stuck in the ditch.   About a mile north.”
    â€œHow’d that happen?”
    I didn’t answer.   Wally finished what looked like a chicken sandwich on rye with two large bites.   He munched hard, now, working the final mouthful while he mumbled, “Anyway, no problem, partner.   Got a tow truck.   Won’t cost ya a dime.”
    â€œA what?” I asked.
    â€œYup.   Just a few dollars.”   His laughter was not quite as big and booming this time.   “Sorry, just kiddin ’ ya . . . pullin ’ yer leg, so ta speak.”   He slid the fake feet back under the