The Feet of God

3 - TRUCKIN'

Me and the speeding trucker headed up 99 over 46 and onto 5 before the sun went down.  Good-bye Pumpkin Center, hello Kettleman City.

“How long ya been driving?” I asked the wild-eyed driver.

Through clenched teeth and a grinding jaw he replied, “Eight years.  My daddy turned me on to truckin’.  He used to take me on runs when I was just a little brat.  I got hooked, hell yeah.  Truckin’s in the family blood.  My granddaddy still drives.  Hell, my great-granddaddy used to tag-team coast-to-coast with my great-grandma back in the early 50’s.  This is all I ever wanted to do.  The first toy truck I got for Christmas sits on a shelf at home.  Every now and then I take her down and run her back and forth across the floor just like when I was pint-size.  Yup, truckin’s the life for me.  Been on the road here 33 days out this time.  Two weeks since I last seen my wife.”

I’m not sure how Red reckoned time, but the intensity of his constant rocking to and fro increased as he talked.  Then he dropped one hand from the wheel and began rubbing at his grimy, oil-stained jeans.  With another of his long sideways looks I could feel his copper-colored eyes on me.

“Maybe it’s time you considered another career opportunity,” I vaguely suggested, “ya know, something to keep you closer to home.”  I simply nodded and gazed ahead at the passing flashes of neon, staring at the hypnotizing white lines zipping down the middle of the road.  And all I could think about was how tasty an icy cold beer with a chaser would’a been in a friendly drinking establishment far, far away.

Thankfully, an unusually quiet hour went by before ol’ Red started to downshift his rig and pull into the slow lane.  He spoke in a quiet and oddly kind voice, “I got a delivery about twenty miles off the interstate.”  He looked me in the eye.  “You can’t be with me when I get there.”  He looked at me some more.  “So I’ll drop you here.”  My eyes looked away as I heard him say, “If you’re still here when I get back, I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay,” I replied noncommittally, as we rolled to a screechy airbrake stop at the end of an exit ramp.  As I jumped out I yelled, “If I don’t see ya again, I appreciate it.”

I reached up and banged the door shut, which was followed immediately by the sound of crunching gravel under 18 wheels of big-rig.  I stood by and silently watched red taillights trail off into the night.

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