The highway café was buzzing the way only roadside diners ever are—boots scraping tile, coffee cups clinking, engines rumbling outside like they were waiting their turn. A long-haul trucker stepped in, jacket worn soft by miles, and slid into a vinyl booth that had clearly seen a lifetime of stories. He didn’t even glance at the menu.
A brand-new waitress approached, notebook ready, smile bright with first-week confidence.
The trucker leaned back and said, “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll take three blowouts, two high beams, and a couple side steps.”
She blinked. Paused. Then nodded, because nodding feels safer than admitting confusion. She hustled toward the kitchen, quietly repeating the order like she was studying for a final.
At the service window, she leaned toward the cook and whispered, “There’s a guy out there ordering blowouts, high beams, and side steps. Are we… repairing his truck or feeding him?”
The cook froze—then burst out laughing so hard he had to grab the counter.
“Relax,” he said, catching his breath. “Truck talk. Blowouts are pancakes. High beams are sunny-side eggs. Side steps are bacon. These guys eat like everything’s mechanical.”
Understanding dawned. Pancakes hit the griddle. Eggs sizzled. Bacon snapped. As she plated the food, she noticed a pot of baked beans nearby and smiled. Why not?
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