About six years ago, I think it was…six…or, maybe eight. Close enough. I picked up a guy heading out of Stockton on my way to Salinas. He was quiet but calm. Nothing sneaky about him. He could have been a criminal, I might have been more cautious, but he’s a man that needs a ride and I can do that. I had no reason to feel guarded in his presence, yet…
Hell, truckers been stabbed by fourteen year old truck-stop hookers while performing their duties…but then you have accept that Everyone is not outright dangerous, short-fused, cracked, screw-loosed, maniacs…most are recluses…refused...or just don’t give a you-know-what.
Besides, this is your world...your 'closed environment' for days, weeks, months at a time.
A passenger steps into the cabin of your truck, it changes the atmosphere, to which your sensors are so finely attuned. He didn’t seem to have any unusual ticks or quirks...nothing apparent. I just sensed a Calm, and I welcomed it.
A passenger steps into the cabin of your truck, it changes the atmosphere, to which your sensors are so finely attuned. He didn’t seem to have any unusual ticks or quirks...nothing apparent. I just sensed a Calm, and I welcomed it.
He
wrote in a journal. A small little leather bound book…not real…more like a
‘leatherette’…and he used a pen to jot notes here and there. Like he was
mesmerized by the highway and things came to him in the headlights, as if they were road signs.
“Tell
me,” he says, “do you think it should be:
“Down
and running out…” or “Out and
running down”? Now what the hell is
next…?”
"For
what?"
"Don’t
know…book…song…hook...? Just a line to try sometime."
"Use
them all."
"Whatdya
mean?"
“downandrunningout
– outandrunningdown-whatthe hellisnext?”
"Serious?
You’re-a-poet-and-don’t-know-it?
You want to be my editor?"
"Wouldn’t
have a clue."
"Yes
you do."
"They're your words. Can
you sing?"
HA!
"Me
neither. Then do you have someone in mind for your song? A band…singer, maybe?"
"I’ve
got some music friends, but they come, they go…you never know…"
"I
hear ya’."
"Oh
yeah? How’s that?"
"My
daughter. She sings. But mostly she comes and goes."
"Is
she any good…I mean, forget you’re her Dad…"
"I
tried that. And yes, she is. Not as raspy as Janis or that English gal with the
big hair… but she sure can kick some ass when she’s On."
"Janis?….Joplin?"
"There
are times that I forget how old I really am. As long as you keep her between the lines, and got some product to haul, everything's fine...life passes you by as you get paid by the load, and next exit-ramp...miles fly bye on life's odometer. But, hey, thanks for the reminder. Sometimes
I want to keep driving until I run out of gas…and cash…just drive on through to
the finish line…see where that might be. Deliver me to a place, where I’m finally prone’ta say,
'Who the hell would live out here?!'
And there I’ll be."
'Who the hell would live out here?!'
And there I’ll be."
"If
you don’t fall asleep at the wheel getting’ there…"
"Nah.
That won’t happen. I don’t miss a delivery."
"You
got a picture of your daughter?"
"Pull
down your visor…"
“Whoa.
She’s a good looking lady…”
“You
may have seen her naked. She’s been a model for certain publications and
recently refers to herself as ‘a
performer’ and I don’t think the singing career is paying her bills. I suspect
the Inner-net.”
“Holy
gees…you?!…”
“Never.
Never laid eyes on ‘er. Rather stick hot irons in my eyes.”
“Mind
if I write that down?”
“Go
ahead. It’s yours. Want to give her a listen?”
“Who?”
“My
daughter! Take that bright pink CD case there…go ahead…no the other one, with a
heart…that’s it. She drew it. It’s her first ‘demo’…”
We
sat quiet while my daughter ripped some poor soul to shreds on one cut then
lick his wounds on the other. Musically speaking. The Rider seemed impressed.
Sincerely so.
“So
you think I could write for her? I think I can get inside that head…”
“That’s
usually not where men go first…if at all…but that’s up to you. I warn you one
more time and then you’re on your own.”
“Correction,
Sir. I’ve always been on my own.
But I do heed warnings…up to a point.”
“That
point being?”
“…point
being ‘When I decide…”
“Fine.
I’ll drive you there…Then you
decide. You wanta’ stop by?”
“Pardon?”
“About
forty miles up the road…that is, if she’s home.”
“Her
Mom ?…the Mrs…?”
“Oh,
no, hell no…she’s long gone.”
“Sorry.”
"Don’t
be. You see, I Separated from Myself at re-birth. The old me, he died.
Shriveled up like an umbilical stem and fell away. She did not recognize the
new me…would not accept the new me. The Identical Twin, with a Logical Mind. She refused to even try as it made no sense. That’s when I took
back to the road. Thought that might be enough for her, but I was never far-enough-gone to suit her, so she headed off in the opposite direction. You’re sure to be
seeing some of her in Rita. Just hope you don’t get to know Her too well.”
I tapped the visor so he’d understand.
I tapped the visor so he’d understand.
“Rita
or your wife?”
“Yessir…correct…one
in the same.”
I
could see him perk up as I took the Turlock turn-off. Then sat up straight as I
pulled down the long gravel drive. The sheep were grazing the lawn flat, and
Cisco was minding herd. I gave him a whistle, he barked and chased me in, then
smartly spun and returned to his chore.
“Here
we are. Let me do the talking. I better know your name…”
“Nathan….Nate...”
“Whatever
you say.”
This
young man...Nate...writes songs…and poems…and such…
What’s
wrong with him?
He
seems to have his head on straight.
From
your perspective crooked is
straight…I’m not buying it.
What’s wrong with you?
I
got a big foolish heart.
Is
that one of your songs or your condition?
Both.
Goddamn…
you are a sweet talker.
It’s
what the Dr. said…purely clinical.
How
‘foolish’?
Are
there limits?
None
that I have met.
Limitations?
Yes.
Some. Who doesn’t?
Worth
discussing…you want a beer?
Sure.
Be great.
Daddy’s
been dry since his rebirth…
I
know…
Daddy?..
can I take the Dodge so Matt and…
Nate.
Damn.
Sorry, baby…Dad, Nate and I are going in for a beer.
Go ahead, take the Dodge.
But bring her back!
She
laughed. They drove off. Never did bring her back.
There are nights her songs play on the radio and accompany me on those long flatland-crazy drives over the plains. Like a raft at Sea. She smiles down on me from the visor. Almost mystical, you know?
Just warms my soul...sometimes a tear.
Postcard came from Florida saying she loves me.
That’s all that counts.
There are nights her songs play on the radio and accompany me on those long flatland-crazy drives over the plains. Like a raft at Sea. She smiles down on me from the visor. Almost mystical, you know?
Just warms my soul...sometimes a tear.
Postcard came from Florida saying she loves me.
That’s all that counts.
V
