Somewhere between desert towns off the interstate, I stop at a gas station. Inside, everyone looks like an unruly bunch of rednecks. Feeling intimidated, I grab some Cheetos and girly magazines in an attempt to fit in. As I walk to the cashier, I notice the truckers sipping tea, reading aloud from James Joyce’s Ulysses while listening to Bach. They look up at me disapprovingly as I hold the snacks and magazines. I walk back to the car feeling like an idiot. I do a search my phone and run back yelling the ending to Ulysses, “and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” Those truckers beat me up pretty bad.