Sometimes the voice in my head is mine, sometimes it's not.

Today it's not.

There he goes again.

"Trust everybody, but cut the cards. Trust is a two-lane street and you're on a one-way path. Love all, trust a few."

"Shakespeare?" I took my eyes off the road long enough to glance around the cab of my motor home. So far my guest was just a voice. "Shakespeare. Who was the first one from? Kenny Rogers? And I think you just made up the second one."

Silence reigned.

"So that's all I get? Some quotes about trust?" That's my lesson for today from beyond? The old geezer doesn't have to tell me about trust. I try not to trust anyone who is still inhaling oxygen on a regular basis. Of course, ghosts aren't saints either. They generally don't lie outright; just stretch the truth to suit their purposes.

Who was my messenger today? And who didn't he want me to trust?

It was late and I was tired. The lights from a diner flickered in the distance. "Good EATS ... World Famous Apple P ... rust Me."

It took me a second to realize that some important lights in the sign had burned out. It took me another second to wonder if I was getting another message. Regardless, I needed a break.

I slowed down and pulled into the parking lot. Lots of potholes and ruts. Judging from the empty lot, it didn't look like a lot of people shared the owner's belief in the tasty delights he was offering.

That was okay. Gave me more room to park Matilda, my 30-foot mobile home. I know. No need to name your mode of transportation, but I like to personalize things. I call my television, Burt; my cell phone, Juliet. Yeah, quirky is my middle name.

After I got sick a few years ago, I quit my job with the airlines. Let me tell you, those last few months, "no one," and I mean "no one," was better at finding lost luggage. My supervisor actually cried when I left. Cried. Big rolling tears and everything. Didn't matter though, I'd made up my mind to travel and use my new skills to benefit more than the traveling public. A permanent vacation. But one that involved keeping both feet on the ground, or rather pavement.

I packed my bags, sold my house, cashed in some stock I'd inherited, and bought this home on wheels. Am I rambling again? Probably just hunger.

The diner hadn't had any glory days, even in its glory days. The linoleum was butt ugly when it was first installed, maybe 30 years earlier. Flecks of brown on a tan background. Maybe the idea was to hide the dirt ... it wasn't working. I slid onto the cracked red vinyl stool at the Formica counter and looked expectantly at the guy with a stained t-shirt, standing behind the counter.

I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a piece of their world famous pie, then surreptitiously rubbed the grease from the menu on my jeans. I briefly wondered if they sold wine, but decided that a healthy glass of Maalox would be the perfect beverage to accompany my dinner.

Scooting across a couple of stools, I grabbed some copies of the local newspaper, which were stacked next to a Lions Club recycling box for used eyeglasses. It had been a long time since I'd seen one of those. There was a Kiwanis banner hanging on the wall. I'd also noticed a March of Dimes jar near the cash register when I'd entered. Small towns were notoriously big on civic groups and charities and writing about who was doing the most good works.

I loved reading these weekly journals. Fresh, honest journalism about the things that really matter to people. Reading the local papers was the quickest way I'd found to get to know the people in the communities I was traveling through, up close and personal. I mean if I just wanted to see things from a distance I would be flying my way across country, if I didn't hate to fly, which I do. If God had wanted me to fly with the birds he would have pasted a few feathers on my ass.

Traveling in Matilda lets me stop where I want whenever anything of interest strikes my fancy. And Lottawatah, population 1,452 according to the sign I passed a half mile back, was a hotbed of ... drive-by mailbox graffiti, if the lead editorial in last week's newspaper was any indication. In a strongly worded statement, the editors decried the lack of respect being shown the postal service by defacing the mailboxes. Damn straight.

I glanced at the headlines just as the counter guy flung my dinner down in front of me. The cheeseburger actually bounced a little, not a bad way to drain off some of the grease. I patted the rest off with my napkin.

"Blood, Body, But No Booty Found." I liked this editor. He had a righteous sense of indignation about mailboxes and a good sense of the dramatic about what I gather was the town's first bank robbery. I dipped my fries into the mountain of ketchup I'd squirted on my plate. Ketchup can fix just about any dish.

The crack police department of Lottawatah had already solved the murder case, although it appeared that the bank's $200,000 was still missing. They'd arrested Dwight McIntyre, 24, son of the President of the Lottawatah Farmers Savings and Trust, Frank, and grandson of the bank's founder, the late Victor McIntyre. A photo spread of the three men at a charity golf outing was splashed across the bottom half of the front page.

Savings and Trust. Damn. The photo told me more than I wanted to know. I threw some money down on the counter and headed for Matilda. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge, or rather, Lottawatah. I didn't know Dwight or his dad, but I sure knew Victor. He of fortune cookie wisdom. I needed to get out of that town before my heartburn kicked into high gear or Victor had any more advice.