I watched him walk toward the men's room, and then I looked out the window at our rental car. I saw the driver of the truck next to it start to get into his cab.
As if by reflex rather than thought, I got up and walked quickly out of the restaurant and to our car. I opened the door, took out my bag, and knocked on the truck driver's passenger-side door. Then I opened it.
"What's up?" he asked. He was an African American man who looked to be about fifty, with graying black hair. He was tall and slim and had a white mustache.
"Would you give me a ride?"
"A ride? Where to?"
"Where are you going?"
He laughed. "Just anywhere but here, huh?"
"Yes."
"Hop in," he said.
I did and closed the door. He put his truck in gear and started the parking lot. I looked back at the restaurant. Buddy had not yet returned to our booth.
"So, don't tell me you're running away from home?" the truck driver said.
