Samir knew the best place to get fries in Ohmoley was by the Fried Potato Truck that did nothing more than drive around town with a jingle that would drive him half-mad.
It was red and green, squared to the shape, with a dead guy behind the steering wheel.
The dead guy’s name was Tom, but everybody called him Dead Tom. He was no more than bones, sitting there every day with his hands on the wheel, soundlessly singing along to the Jazz he had on tapes played so often they had gotten worn down.
Dead Tom didn’t speak, just drove the truck and sang without a voice.
The fries were served from the side of the truck. There was only one kind of fries, and those were fried potato fries and they would be given to you by Dead Nancy, which was Dead Tom’s girlfriend. No one had seen Dead Nancy’s head, only her skeletal hands, which would reach through the truck’s one small window to give you your fries. She would hold them out, but not let go of them until you had paid her. What Dead Nancy accepted as a payment would be different with everyone, but all she wanted from Samir was for him to stand on his tippy toes and whisper through the window which girl he thought was the prettiest. Then when she had received the name, she would giggle, let him take his fries.
Then the truck would drive off, in it’s endless short melody.