My driver turns the key on the ignition which roars to life like a tiger waking up from a sound sleep. “Name‘s Kevin Picknell,” he says. “But you can call me Pickles. They’ve been calling me that since the second grade and the nickname stuck.”
“Thomas,” I tell him, even though he already knows my name from my reservation. “You said you decided to pick me up on your way home. Do you live around Elk Lake?” I don’t really have a deep burning desire to know, but I like to make small talk with my drivers. It makes time fly by faster. And being that Kevin—I’m not sure I can call another person Pickles—and I will be on the road for at least an hour together, it would be awkward if we didn’t chat.
“I was born in Elk Lake Hospital, and I’ve lived there for my whole fifty-seven years,” he tells me. “I married my high school sweetheart, and we raised our kids in the house I grew up in.”
“That’s a pretty sound endorsement,” I tell him. “I did the same thing you did, but I was born in New York City. Haven’t been married yet and I don’t have kids, but I’ve spent thirty-six years there.”
Kevin turns the wheel sharply and merges onto the main road. “Why’d you leave?”
I give him an abbreviated version of my story. “It’s stressful being an emergency room doctor in the city. I decided to see if I like small-town life any better.”
“Better than New York?” I’m convinced he’s going to offer to take me back to the airport when he adds, “You’re never going to want to go back to the Big Apple. Elk Lake is heaven, man!”
“How’s the pizza?” I ask. “I’m a bit of a snob.”
“We got pizza. It’s pretty good too, but our fried cheese curds are the real prize. Trust me.”
“I’ve never had a fried cheese curd,” I confess.
Kevin stares at me in shock before slamming on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the car in front of us. “That’s like telling me you’ve never had a beer or a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“I’ve had both of those,” I assure him. “Cheese curds just aren’t a big thing in New York.”
Shaking his graying head, he tells me, “Your first meal out in Elk Lake needs to be at the diner on Main Street. Order the curds with all the sauces and then you gotta tell me which is your favorite.”
“Tell you? You want me to call you or something?” I don’t normally stay in touch with my drivers. In fact, I’ve never done that.
“Nah.” He waves his hand to the side. “Just come over to my house.”
This is getting weirder and weirder.“To your house?”
“I live next door to where I’m taking you. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Thought I did. You know, that’s why I decided to pick you up on my way home.”
This has been an odd interaction and I’m not sure my mother would approve. Even so, it’s not unwelcome. In fact, I think I just made my first friend in Elk Lake. “Well, then,” I tell Kevin, “I’ll do that.”
“I’ll do you one better,” he says. “I’ll go to the diner with you and walk you through it. You know, if you want.”
“That would be great,” I tell him, not quite sure if it would be or not. But now that I know my driver and I are neighbors, it probably isn’t a bad idea.
Kevin and I spend the next forty minutes talking about an array of topics that cover everything from his stance on the trans movement (judge not lest ye be judged, he’s decided) to his deep-rooted hatred of the Chicago Bears—they’ll never be as good as the Packers. Apparently, it doesn’t matter that the Bears have won more Super Bowls. The Packers have beaten the Bears in every encounter they’ve had since 2011, so that’s the end of that. The Packers have his heart.
As soon as we pass the Welcome to Elk Lake sign, Kevin says, “Welcome home, Tommy.” It seems he’s decided to use my childhood nickname, which honestly doesn’t bother me. My sister and dad still call me Tommy.
Kevin proceeds to give me the scoop on every building we pass. “That’s the Elk Lake Lodge,” he says proudly as we pass a large hotel set back in the woods. “It’s owned by some fancy pants billionaire from Chicago, but he’s a good enough guy.”
As we approach the intersection at Main Street, he points down the road to the right. “The diner’s on the left. Movie theater is across the street.” Turning to the right, he adds, “Grocery store is two blocks that way.”
“How many grocery stores are there in town?” I ask him. I shop at the Red Apple in my neighborhood, but D’Agastino’s, Zabar’s and Fairway are close-by options. They all have their specialties.
“One,” he tells me. “But we got two cheese stores, a bakery, and the diner. There’s also a pizza place, a pub, a couple other restaurants …” He pauses for a beat before adding, “The bait and tackle shop on the lake serves the best tater tots in the state.”
Note to self: Even with such a glowing recommendation, resist the urge to order food at the same place they sell fishing worms.
“It sounds like I’ll be well taken care of,” I tell him.
