Chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Empty cans of beer on a table. Dirty dishes piled high. An overflowing trashcan sits in the corner. Small black and white TV plugged into a loose socket. Lines run across the screen in silence.

He’d lay in bed, hummed a Bob Seger song about two teens in a cornfield, looked at pictures on walls, Polaroids he’d pinned up with names and dates on the back of them. He stopped and took one down, held it in his hand.

Pretty, he said. Real pretty.

She was a blonde dancer who worked at a strip club out by the truckstops. On paydays, he spent all his cash on her, tipped her fives and tens. She sat on his lap and played with his hair. He lapped it up like a dog getting a bone. Like a kid with an ice cream cone. He sat there for hours till closing time. You could say he was a fixture.

Her name was Irene. She had dreams of being a model. The girl wanted to go out West to California. Every night, she asked truckers what direction they were going. Most were heading to Chicago or Detroit. Some to Cleveland and St. Louis. But no straight shots to Los Angeles. She knew what she had to do; dance her way across America. Stopping in towns and cities on the western route till she got there.

Hotels and motels. Strip bars and adult bookstores. Talked to men behind glass about their fantasies and wearing different colored wigs. She had a dream. Dreams can’t be stopped till a noise wakes you up. She never woke up.

He stopped going to the strip club. He just came home after working at the car- wash. Dreamt about her at night. Fell asleep while staring at her picture. He never woke up, either.

The two of them would lie in bed a thousand miles away from each other just dreaming. Dreaming.