No Better Place

The gas station in Finland, Minnesota is a place where you might see another person every couple of weeks. At most. It’s an outpost, the final fill up before you head into the Superior National Forest. Most days the pumps are on auto-pilot, the station is shut, and employees of any kind are nowhere to be found.

Usually when filling my tank I can sing out loud and never be caught or embarrassed.

But yesterday while I was singing a deep voice asked, “How ya’ doin’?”

I turned and found a man of about 70, perhaps a bit too urban for a remote location like this, filling his Toyota Highlander. Not much of an off-road vehicle.

“Pretty good,” I replied.

“Good to hear. Wanna hear a joke?”

“A joke? Sure.”

He stroked his trimmed but full white beard, looked around to make sure we were alone, and walked close to me and my truck so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice.

“I just heard it and I want to start telling it before I forget it. There’s no profanity in the joke, just so you don’t worry. But still, I wouldn’t tell it if your wife was here with you, just so you know. Okay - “

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, as though the words to the joke can be read inside the lids.

“ - I’m just trying to remember it right or I’ll forget - okay - so, what did Raggedy Ann - the doll - you know - what did Raggedy Ann say when Pinocchio sat on her - no - shit - wait - what did Raggedy Ann say when she sat on Pinocchio’s face?”

I wait.

“Lie to me, lie to me, lie to me.” He chuckles, strokes his beard again. “Pretty good one.”

“Yup.”

“Sooo, anyway…” he says, long and drawn out, probably thinking the joke didn’t sound nearly as good as when it was told to him a few minutes earlier, quickly covers with “…what do you think of those rims on your Tacoma?”

I don’t know much about cars or trucks or how these rims compare, but I do know, “They get me home”, and this is what I tell him.

“Well, no better place to be and that’s no joke.”