Chapter 42: Wilbur will when nobody will

Wilbur's Texaco was just east of the city, off highway 66 in the middle of nowhere. The identifying clues were a Texaco sign, partially hinged to a pole, that swung like a bush-league pennant, in search of a winning team. At the entrance was a red and white small-bed 1951 Ford pickup truck, parked like a cemetery marker. Written in block letters on the driver’s door it read, Wilbur's towing and service. Written in cursive script along the length of the bed it read.

Wilbur Will when nobody Will!! call 565-5656

I pulled the rented truck up to a gas pump and jumped out, looking for the illusive Wilbur. A surly large man in tan Carhart overalls and wife beater tee-shirt approached me, munching on a cigar and scratching his crotch.

"It's about time you punks showed. You’d in charge of this circle jerk?”

"Wilbur?"

“Who’d the fuck you think I was? Engelbart Humperdinck?

"Well I guess, you must be Wilbur?" I replied.