Pauses in vehicular motion- I

Driving to Pittsburgh yesterday I stopped at the Midway Diner, which overlooks I-78 in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. The exit consisted of two gas stations, the diner, and a Comfort Inn, the last two sharing an oddly vast parking lot. At the gas station it became apparent that the entire place smelled like rotting manure, a sickly, sweet smell that makes you check the bottom of your shoes compulsively I’ve only ever smelled while driving by the epic cattle farms of Nebraska.
The diner was some platonic ideal of a roadside greasy spoon. A long counter, colorful machines at the entrance that will tell you your fortune, your blood pressure or your weight for a quarter, a loop of cloth instead of paper towels in the bathroom, hamburgers and club sandwiches on the table, big red booths, rye bread distinguishable from wonder bread only by a vaguely off-white color, smoking permitted, married waitresses, regulars, and strangers. On the wall above the milkshake machine was the following sign: “Wireless internet now available at the Midway Diner! (Parking lot too).” The future is all around us.
I sat down at the counter, one seat away from an awkward looking older man, skinny, oversized glasses, a Vietnam vet trucker hat, and a bulky, non-digital camera, with a flash on top. Later in the meal he turned to me and, entirely unsolicited, handed over his business card for “No Bull Studios.” “If you know anyone who needs a photographer,” he said, “Or if you know any older ladies, I’m always looking.” At which point the two slim, local truckers, Tony and Parker, who had come in a few minutes earlier, started to snicker at him like they were all in high school. A couple minutes before, Tony, in a friendly attempt to goose the youngest, most attractive waitress in the place (married), had sent a cup of coffee flying in every direction.
My waitress, who looked kind of like Mercedes Ruehl, if Mercedes Ruehl was a 40 year old woman who had been a waitress all her life and not an actress playing one, was making conversation with the two truckers, who apparently come in most everyday, as there was a shorthand dialogue about Parker’s misbehavior this past Friday while they were waiting for iced tea and a club sandwich. To keep the conversation going, Mercedes said the following: “I saw Brokeback Mountain on Sunday,” then in a surprised, defensive tone, “It was good.” Tony and Parker both just sort of rolled their eyes. “No it was really good.” As this apparently was not engendering conversation, she repeated it to the younger, almost-goosed, waitress, who widened her eyes for a laugh. They got to muttering about it, and then the younger girl said, “It can’t be any worse than Desperate Housewives. Those two boys were really going at it,” and then turns to deliver some coffee, looking disgusted. Three hours outside of New York and everyone’s already behaving country. An auspicious beginning.