CALL ME SNAKE

Halfway between here (my civilized city) and BF, New Hampshire (the exact location is immaterial, apart from the fact that it is a quintessential representative of smalltown New England), there is an outpost–an oasis in fact–called Mr. Mike’s where one can “gas up” (to use the local vernacular), buy a soda or snacks, and catch up on the local gossip. (Yesterday, for example, I asked the cheerful cashier about the fire in Troy we’d seen. We couldn’t have missed it, as traffic was backed up for miles. “Oh really,” she said. “I hadn’t heard.” Exchanges like that keep the customers coming back, day in, day out.)

Mr. Mike’s is open every day of the year–even on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s (as I know all too well)–and it’s a good stretching out point or “gassing up point” or basic junk food stop, seeing as it’s halfway, as I mentioned already.

My mother-in-law, who’s made the BF drive even more often than I have, uses Mr. Mike’s to keep track of distance: 40-some miles on Route 2, 10 miles on 140, and five miles on 12 bring you to Mr. Mike’s on the outbound leg. Another 20-some miles bring you to the metropolis of Keene and 20 or so more to BF.

Years ago, while driving home from Thanksgiving alone and somewhat fatigued (perhaps a result of an accidental tryptophan overdose), I saw Mr. Mike’s and was relieved, though surprised that I’d already hit the halfway mark. But things seemed off–the road kept going, well beyond five miles, with no sign of Route 140 or the McDonald’s that preceded it. How very odd. By and by, I passed Mr. Mike’s a second time–this time where it was supposed to be–just before the Golden Arches. The rest of the drive proceeded uneventfully, save for the moment I fell asleep at the wheel and caught myself as I drifted out of the lane.

For years, I’ve been puzzled by the strange case of the two Mike’s, though I forgot about it until yesterday when I drove back from BF with my mother-in-law, who began to recite the number of miles to Keene and then to Mr. Mike’s and then to our subsequent waystations: Route 140, Route 2, and a place the Car Talk brothers call the “fair city of Cambridge.” I confessed, somewhat tentatively, lest I be committed to the nearest institution, that I’d once seen two Mr. Mike’s during this drive, not just the one we normally stopped at. She said, to my relief, that there had been two but that the second one was shut down long ago.

And I think I know why. Having two Mr. Mike’s on that stretch of Route 12 was just too darn confusing. Can you imagine all the drug dealers setting up “buys” at Mr. Mike’s on Route 12 or the people on blind dates who arrange to meet there, let alone innocent drivers like me trying to figure out how close they are to BF, New Hampshire or, conversely, how far they are from BF?

No, I think they made the right move by turning that Mr. Mike’s into a regular old filling station. In my book, two Mr. Mike’s on the road to BF is one Mr. Mike’s too many.