CALL ME SNAKE

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, which means another trip to my inlaws in New Hampshire. Every time I make the drive, I count a different number of Mr. Mike’s–gas stations/snack bars/oases–along the way. A year ago I could have sworn I saw three of them between Boston and my destination in the Granite State. Sometimes I’ve seen two. But this time, I only saw one–despite some serious looking, as serious as you can do while driving without ending up wrapped around a tree. The only thing that’s predictable about this thing with Mr. Mike’s is that it’s never predictable: Every time I go I see a different number of them. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Are these franchises popping in and out of existence like particles in the quantum vacuum? Or is somebody up there (a.k.a. “the Big Guy”) playing games with me? Tune in next Thanksgiving for the continued chronicles of the “Mystery of Mr. Mike’s.”