The Glazed Imponderable of Highway 16

A senior couple, Bev and Ben, find themselves embroiled in a philosophical debate over a suspiciously perfect pie at a nondescript Manitoba truck stop, exposing the peculiar grandeur of the mundane.

"My dear Ben," Bev began, her voice a precise, almost clinical instrument against the low hum of the fluorescent lights, "one truly must question the structural integrity of this establishment's baked goods. Observe, if you please, that particular pie, ensconced in its glass sarcophagus." She gestured with a perfectly manicured hand, her finger stopping just short of the greasy display case, where a single, impossibly perfect blueberry pie sat gleaming.

Ben, whose gaze had been wandering over a chipped ceramic mug, slowly pivoted his head, his spectacles glinting. "Ah, yes, the blueberry offering. Its flawless crust, the almost geometric arrangement of its fruit beneath that almost industrial sheen. A compelling specimen, to be sure. One might posit, my dear, that its perfection is precisely its undoing. Too ideal, too symmetrical, to have emerged from the chaos of genuine human endeavour in a locale such as this. It hints at… prefabrication. A mass-produced ideal, perhaps, parachuted in from some distant, immaculate bakery corporation, designed to soothe the weary eye with an illusion of domesticity." He paused, adjusting his tie, a gesture incongruous with the stained vinyl of his booth.

Darlene, wiping down the adjacent counter with a damp, grey rag that had seen better decades, snorted. She was a woman whose face was etched with the cartography of a thousand early mornings and late nights, her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. "It's a pie, sir. Comes frozen. We thaw it. Costs us three dollars. Sells for eight. Big seller with the truckers, believe it or not. They don't mind the plastic taste, long as it's sweet and cheap." Her voice was a gravelly monotone, devoid of theatricality.

Bev raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "'Plastic taste,' you say, Darlene? A most evocative descriptor. Yet, it endures, thrives even, in this arid stretch of highway. Does this not speak to a deeper human desire, Ben? A longing for an unblemished ideal, even if that ideal is fundamentally synthetic? The triumph of aspiration over authenticity, perhaps?" She smoothed the pristine linen napkin on her lap, a stark contrast to the paper serviettes scattered across other tables.

Ben nodded sagely, as if contemplating ancient texts. "Indeed, Bev. A profound observation. The aesthetic appeal, however manufactured, still holds sway. It's the Platonic ideal of a truck stop pie, devoid of the charming imperfections of genuine craft, yet paradoxically more reassuring to a mind accustomed to the predictable rhythms of the open road. No surprises. No errant blueberries. Just consistent, unwavering, sugary blue perfection." He gestured expansively, nearly knocking over a sugar shaker.

Darlene merely grunted, moving to refill a coffee mug at the counter. The steady clang of cutlery from the kitchen offered a percussive counterpoint to their discourse. A solitary fly, emboldened by the heat and the promise of crumbs, buzzed lethargically against the windowpane, its flight a series of clumsy, disjointed manoeuvres. Its presence, however, went unremarked, overshadowed by the more pressing matter of the pie.

### The Perils of Predictability

Gus, who had been nursing a lukewarm coffee at the far end of the counter, suddenly pushed himself off his stool, his chair scraping loudly across the linoleum. He was a man whose frame seemed permanently moulded to the contours of a driver's seat, his face weathered to a roadmap of fine lines. He approached their booth with a slow, deliberate gait, his work boots thudding softly. "The pie," he announced, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to emanate from the very asphalt outside, "is a promise. A lie, maybe, but a necessary one." He pulled up a spare chair, settling it with a groan.

Bev regarded him, her gaze unwavering. "And what precisely, Gus, does this particular pastry promise? Beyond the obvious caloric intake, that is."

"It promises the same as last week's, and the week before," Gus clarified, leaning forward, his elbows on the sticky table. "It promises predictability. You drive a thousand kilometres, the world changes outside your windscreen, but that pie… that pie is always the same. It's a anchor. A point of reference in a universe that's always moving, always shifting. It's not about taste, see? It's about… stability." He punctuated this with a slight cough, the smell of diesel and stale tobacco clinging to his jacket.

Ben clapped his hands together once, softly. "Stability! An excellent summation, Gus. A fixed point in a relativistic culinary universe. One could argue, then, that its very lack of authentic charm is its greatest asset. It negates the possibility of disappointment, of the unexpected let-down. It's a functional food, a purely utilitarian construct, masquerading as a confection." He beamed, apparently pleased with his own rhetorical flourish.

---

Bev, however, remained unconvinced. "But surely, Ben, the very essence of human experience lies in the unexpected, in the delight of a perfectly imperfect, artisanal creation? Is this not merely a capitulation to the lowest common denominator of expectation? A surrender to the bland comfort of the known? I find it… disquieting. Like a perfectly rendered plastic flower. Beautiful, perhaps, in its own sterile way, but utterly devoid of the messy, fragrant truth of its living counterpart." She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, a flicker of genuine vexation crossing her features.

Darlene reappeared, refilling Ben's mug without a word, the dark liquid sloshing slightly. "Messy truth don't sell well in a truck stop," she offered, her tone flat. "People want what they know. What won't surprise 'em. You want a surprise, you get a flat tire on the Trans-Canada, or the gas pump freezes up in January. Not from a slice of pie."

Gus chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "She's right, missus. The road's full of surprises. This here," he nodded towards the pie, "this ain't one of them. And that's exactly why it works." He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes, dark and distant, seemingly gazing through the window, across the vast, flat expanse of the Manitoba plains. The heat outside shimmered, distorting the horizon into a wavering mirage.

Bev sighed, a soft expulsion of air that barely disturbed the stillness around their booth. Her gaze drifted from the pie to Ben, then to Gus, and finally to the window, where the relentless summer sun beat down on the parked tractor-trailers. The world, she mused, was full of these tiny, absurd rituals. These moments where the profound was sought in the utterly mundane, where a frozen blueberry pie became a symbol of constancy or a testament to the human condition. It was all so very grand, and yet, so terribly small. The quiet desperation for a fixed point, she thought, was perhaps the most human trait of all. Even the fly, after its haphazard journey, settled upon a forgotten sugar crystal, finding its own brief, sweet moment of stability.

Ben, oblivious to the existential musings unfolding beside him, finally made his decision. "I shall have the grilled cheese, Darlene," he declared, "and a side of the coleslaw. The pie, admirable as it is, requires a more… meditative approach. Perhaps another time."

Darlene merely nodded, her face unreadable, already turning towards the kitchen, the clang of pots resuming its rhythmic beat.

---

Bev watched her go, then looked back at Ben, who was now meticulously folding his napkin into a precise square. The light from the window softened just a fraction as a cloud drifted over the sun, casting a momentary, gentle shadow across the booth. The faint scent of distant rain, or perhaps just wishful thinking, seemed to enter on a breath of recycled air. The hum of the AC continued its unwavering complaint, a constant, low-grade thrum. She noticed a tiny scuff mark on the plastic surface of the table, a testament to countless hands, countless meals, countless moments of transient existence in this roadside pause. The world moved on outside, indifferent, vast, and silent, but here, in this small, air-conditioned pocket of humanity, a quiet, almost imperceptible theatre of the absurd played on. She didn’t know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? She just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second. The summer afternoon stretched on, a long, shimmering expanse, promising nothing more than its own unending present.

The fly, now replete, lifted off the sugar crystal with a drowsy buzz and headed for the sticky counter, pursuing its own simple, predictable path.