A fella he knew from the neighborhood in Detroit, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had moved out to central Missouri. He sent Joe his address and insisted he visit should he be in the area. Cloyce knew there was a good chance of that, Grandpa liking to travel and all. And of course, one day heading across Missouri Joe did find the place and drop in.
Cloyce said that they ought to go have lunch at a local truck stop because the grub was real good for road food. That was okay with Joe, whose culinary tastes were, uh, not particular.
What a truck stop it was: Joe was impressed with the size of the place. It had a huge restaurant and he figured there were several hundred, yes, several hundred trucks parked around as drivers filled their gas tanks and their bellies. Once seated, the old friends ate a greasy meal before Cloyce excused himself apologetically, promising to return soon.
Now say what you want about Joe, he had a considerate streak. As he was intruding upon Cloyce's time he figured he'd cover the tab. Leaving a reasonable tip at the table, he went to the cashier to pay. "You were with Mr. Cloyce?" the girl asked.
Joe chuckled, "I never heard him called Mr. Cloyce, but yeah."
"You don't owe nuthin, sir. He said to give you whatever you want; he owns the place."
Some guys have money and just don't show it. And that's probably not a bad idea.
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