A Tree-Hugger Forsakes his Volvo for a Big White Pickup Truck

Fried egg and scrapple sandwich

I used to feel self-conscious pulling the Volvo wagon into the parking lot full of pickup trucks and SUVs at Bob's Market on Route 301 in Queenstown, Maryland. Nobody ever said a word, but I could sense their eyes on me as I stood in line for my coffee and breakfast sandwich, dressed in a pair of pressed khakis and tassel loafers. Bob's, you see, is a Dickies and Carhartt crowd. The kind of place where the scruffy young guys buy Mountain Dew and boxes of doughnuts and the older guys flirt with the "Wingback Wandas" in blue eye-shadow and white Reeboks, cooking behind the counter. There are lots of fishing magazines, snack foods, and jars of purple pickled eggs. You know the place.

Now that I'm driving a truck, I don't feel so out of place at Bob's. Why just this morning, I swaggered in and ordered myself a fried egg and scrapple sandwich. Yep, scrapple. Toasted. No cheese. And ambling over to get my coffee, I even felt cocky enough to cast a bold, appraising glance up and down the backside of the well-built fellow shoveling sugar into his coffee. He looked hung over, but cute, in that redneck kind of way. And I could tell by his package that he had a fried egg and scrapple sandwich too.

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