“Do you know what a little America is?” Kyle uttered the first words either of us had spoken since we had left San Francisco five hours ago.
“What?” I asked back in a tone that even I would have to admit was pretty bitchy.
“A little America. Have you ever heard that term?” He asked again.
I was the kind of tired that even moving my lips felt like a chore. It wasn’t just that I was pissed off at Kyle. I simply wanted to go to sleep and wasn’t interested in hearing one of his history lessons or informative tidbits that he frequently liked to share as if he was providing the footnotes of my life.
“A little America is a truck stop along lightly populated freeways that has everything that a trucker might need – restaurant, hotel, bar, store, bathrooms, even like little porno shops. They are like little slices of America out in the middle of nowhere. Hence, the name, little America,” Kyle said this with his eyes still glued to the desolate road in front of us that we were traversing at around 85 miles per-hour.
“Cool,” I could not have sounded any less enthused.
I could hear Kyle grinding his teeth from behind the wheel when we journeyed back into the cone of silence.