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The Truck

A short story by H.J. Ted Gresham

Bobby opened the car door and slipped beneath the wheel.  He looked back towards the house.  There on the porch in front of his aging mobile home stood a woman of thirty-five, long brown hair now damp and clinging to her face.  He shook his head to clear it, cranked the engine, and backed his old Chevrolet in a semi-circle to the right.  The hell with all of it, he thought.  He took one more long look at his wife, now soaking wet in a blue cotton nightgown, still staring at him.  He sucked in a breath, turned the wheel to the left, and drove across the short gravel entrance and onto the highway.

“DAMN!”  Windshield wipers slapped lazily back and forth, clearing away the drizzle that didn’t seem like it was ever going to stop.  “Damn, damn, damn!”  Bobby pounded his palm on the wheel, cursing life itself.  He looked out the windows at passing buildings, not seeing more than colored shapes moving by in an array of sizes.  “It’s her damned fault!”  His hand moved without being asked, the back of it rubbing away moisture that was collecting beneath his eyes.  More words formed in his stomach, but his mouth would not let them out.

Ten minutes after leaving his home he somehow found himself in the parking lot of the company where he worked.  “Duggins Trucking,” a sign said.  It hung precariously on two rusted chains near the entrance of the employee lot.  As he reached for the car door his phone rang.  He shifted his weight to extract the cheap little device from his pocket.  It was her, he knew.  He knew because he had a special ring tone for her.  John Michael Montgomery’s “I Swear” came un-muffled as Bobby extracted the phone from his jeans pocket.  His thumb hovered over the little arrow to answer; then more swiftly than he could stop it his gut directed his hand to swipe the “Ignore” button.  The phone went quiet.

For a minute Bobby sat in the seat of his car, waiting for the knots in his stomach to unravel.  When he realized they were there to stay he flung the old Lumina’s door open.  It went wide, bounced against restraints and came back at him with a vengeance.  He caught it just before his left leg caught a bruise.  “Shit,” he muttered, pushing the door slower and throwing his feet outward and onto the crushed rock of the lot.

Across the lot, Bobby passed George Benton, who gave a short wave and nod in recognition.  George was new to the company but an old hand at trucks.  “What’s eating you?”

“Oh, shit, George, you just don’t want to know,” Bobby muttered, stopping beside George who was crawling around the front of a Pete with its hood up. 

George replaced the oil stick.  “Damned old trucks, they need to get them all steam cleaned.”  He wiped dark grime from his hands with a wet paper towel.  “I take it you’ve had a crack in that domestic bliss of yours?”

“Hell, do you know what….”  Bobby started to talk, lost his breath, shook his head.  “Yeah, George, you could say that.  She… that woman.  She drives me insane.  She never fuckin’ thinks!  She just acts.  I work my ass off for money enough to ….” Bobby shook his head.

“Always money, my boy,” George said, dropping the hood on his truck.  “Always money.  We drive, they spend.  That’s how it goes.”  He wiped fingerprints from the edge of the hood with the paper towel.  Water dripped from the hood of his raincoat into his eyes.  He tossed the sloppy towel on the ground.  “Except for an old dog like me, ain’t nobody to spend.  Too long on the road.”

“Yeah, well, maybe,” Bobby looked at him, “maybe that’s a good thing.”

“You think that you just toss that phone in your hand there in the trash,” George said.  “Ain’t nobody gonna call it.  Old Bill will give you a nice company flipper and you’ll have your Qualcomm.  That’s all the communicating you’re going to do.  It’s such a happy life, you know, kissing pillows and taking long looks at lot lizards.”

Bobby looked down at the phone still in his hand.  He’d forgotten it.  It was wet.  He slipped it in his pocket.  He watched George climb into the cab of his truck.  “You and Carla have a good thing, boy.  I ain’t been here long but I know crazy love when I see it.  Now I gotta zip, I have a hot date with a cold warehouse dock.”  The truck whined and rattled to life.  George shouted some parting words, “don’t throw it away!”

Bobby’s mouth turned into a half-frown.  He nodded goodbye to George, who was now scribbling something on a pad resting on his steering wheel.  “Later, George,” he said above the noise of the truck.  George nodded back, waved briefly, and returned to his writing.

In another ten minutes Bobby had his own truck, an aging FreightShaker, locked under an empty trailer and sitting at idle next to the dispatch office.  The Qualcomm went off just as he was about to exit the truck.  He slid back across the seat to his right and turned his feet around into the cab.  He reached for the com device, secured out of reach of the driver when the truck was rolling.  He tapped the screen.  Email.  Carla.  The anger in his stomach growled and he tried to claw at the pain in his chest but could not prevent Bobby’s hands from pressing a button to read the note:

“Bobby.  I am sorry.  I am really, really sorry!  But the kids needed those clothes, and I can’t help if the car needed, well, how the hell was I to know what the car needed?  Mechanics are supposed to know.  I am sorry, Bobby.  I will look for work, or something.  We’ll find the money.  There’ll be another chance.  I love you, Bobby.  I am sorry!”

“Another chance,” Bobby muttered.  “No, and hell no there won’t.  That was a damn good truck.  Now it’s gone.”  The anger gained control.  He slammed the com into its receiver and threw his legs back to the left, expertly dodging the gear shift.  “Now I’m stuck with this piece of shit,” he muttered.  He slipped from the cab, one step and another long one and he was on the ground.  His temper was still scalding his ears when the cool of the dispatch office swept over him as he entered.

“Where am I going,” he asked a dumpy middle-aged man sitting in an office chair that had seen better days. 

“It’s on your com,” the man said, never looking up from the computer screen he was staring at.  He waived a hand.  Bobby wasn’t sure if it was in dismissal or a half-assed attempt to point at his truck.

“I don’t give a shit what’s on my com, where am I going, Chet?”

The man looked up from the screen to judge Bobby’s mood.  He saw the remark was not in jest. “Don’t you give me any shit,” Chet said, “I sent your load info half an hour ago.  But you’re going to Chicago, if you have to ask.”

“Damn,” Bobby said.  He saw Chet’s temper rising to meet his and he felt bad for his remark.  “I’m sorry, Chet, my wife… I mean, I shouldn’t piss on your shoes, it ain’t your fault.”

“Yeah, well, fuck it, I’ve heard worse,” Chet said.  “Pick up at Perkins.  Three days, Chicago.  I’m working on the next leg now.”

“Great,” Bobby muttered.  “OK, Chet, thanks.”

Just as Bobby started to turn away from the counter Chet spoke.  “Oh, hey, Bobby, sorry about the truck.  I know you wanted it.  Sweet tractor.”

“Yeah, well, I did, but ok, yeah, there’ll be more come along.”

“Not like that baby,” Chet said, holding his eyes on the screen.  “She was special.”  His voice faded.

“Yeah,” Bobby said.  He gave a glance to the bulletin board on the wall across from the dispatch counter.  Nothing much there.  Mike Collins’ dog dropped another litter.  Somebody had a pickup for sale.  Just ordinary clutter from the several dozen employees working for Duggins.  Conspicuously absent, at least it seemed so, was the index card upon which was written the simple note: “2003 Freightliner, ten speed, red, for sale.”  It had been the cleanest and nicest truck Bobby had ever come close enough to buying.  Close!  But Carla.  “Damn.”

Dammit to hell, Bobby thought, she tossed our savings out the window for shit.  Along with it his chance to pay down on that truck.  Who knows when a truck like that would come along again.  It had only been for sale because its owner was permanently injured and needed the cash.  Now it’s gone, snatched up by some jerk while Bobby stood by and watched with empty pockets and a depleted savings account. 

Bobby was trying to stir up the anger again as he slipped through the door back outside and into the rain.  It was rain, now, not the crappy drizzle before.  He paid it no attention, walking the few feet to his truck.   He yanked at the door with wet hands and climbed up into the cab.  The Qualcomm was beeping.  He pulled his phone from his pocket and started to drop it into a cup holder.  Then he noticed the screen was blank.  He’d turned it off.  He didn’t remember doing that.  He held a button down and the phone lit up.  One missed call.  Two texts.  “Shit.”

Putting the phone messages off, Bobby slid off his seat and lifted the com device as he stood in the cab.  His truck was older but wasn’t a bad place to spend his off hours on the road.  It had a high cab, double bunk, plenty of room.  He reviewed his load information and then pressed the email button.  It was another short message:

“I love you, Bobby.  I am sorry.”  He frowned and hooked the com back in place.  Then he lifted it up again, entered his log information, dropped it back and slid behind the seat.  The old truck growled at him as he shoved it in gear and rolled towards the exit.  Then he remembered the phone.

“I am sorry.”  Carla’s voice sounded as if she’d been crying.  “I love you.  I’ll, um, sell the ring.  You can get a nice truck with that.  I’ll, I just, I love you.  I am sorry.”

The two texts were both from Carla and had the same message.  Bobby’s anger was losing ground to the thumping in his heart.  He and Carla had been together for a long time.  She was just no damn good with money.  He told her the savings was for a new truck, something better than this rattle-trap company crap he was driving.  But no, what did she do?  She blew it.  On clothes!  That’s what Good Will is for, wasn’t it?   Clothes for kids that will tear them up and out grow them in five days!  And the car.  Shit, she should have called him.  He’d told her, “never trust a mechanic.”  But no, she takes the thing in for an oil change and winds up blowing five hundred bucks on shit the car didn’t need. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” she’d said.  “You were out there, somewhere, not answering the phone or com or anything.  Chet said you were out of pocket, something, I don’t know.  I had to have that car!  What am I to know about mechanical stuff?”

“ASK ME FIRST,” he had shouted back.  “AS ME THE HELL FIRST!”

He shouldn’t have shouted.  The whole three days he’d been home he shouted and banged around the house like a nutcase.  He knew it.  She blew his chance to have a good truck.  But not just a better truck, but a way out of this gone-all-the-time grind.  His own truck meant he could pick and choose his loads.  Stay home more.  Because he wanted to be home.  Because… he loved Carla so much.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he said to himself.  He’d been rolling through town on his way to the warehouse to pick up his load.  He checked his watch.  Time.  He had time.  He took the next turn, a close one at a narrow intersection, made a couple blocks and rolled back the way he came.  He took a cut-off to avoid passing the shop again, a few more turns and fifteen minutes later he pulled the brakes on his truck.  It sat dead-center in the two-lane road in front of his house, four-ways flashing. 

Rain pelted him as he walked around the front of the Freightliner and towards his drive.  He instinctively ducked his head from the wet pounding but otherwise he was getting soaked.  His feet crunched on gravel.  He didn’t know she was coming until her arms passed beneath his and she slammed against him.  She’d been running.  “I love you, Bobby!  I love you!  I so damn love you!  I’ll sell mom’s ring!  I’ll sell blood.  I’ll go down to the Strip and sell myself!  I’ll get you a truck!”

“Like hell you’ll sell yourself,” Bobby said, grabbing Carla up in a tight hug.  “That’s not funny.  And you won’t sell the damn ring, either.”  He held her another second and then moved back, holding her shoulders at arm’s length.  “I love you, you crazy ass woman,” he said, looking her in the eyes.

“I love you too, you damned grumpy ass old truck driver!”  She grabbed his head and began a kiss that lingered while her hands moved along his shoulders, beneath his arms and around him.  Presently she put her head against his chest.  His fingers moved through her soaked hair.

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

“You’re wet.”

“So are you,” Carla said.  “Where you going?”

“Chicago.  And I know.  And I’m sorry.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”  He thought about the truck blocking traffic.  He had a load to get.  But fuck it, he said, standing in the middle of their drive in front of the old trailer house, next to the car with the five-hundred-dollar repair it didn’t need.  The load could wait.  This was his home, his life, and his reason for breathing.  “I’m an idiot.  I am sorry.”

“You are an idiot,” she said, her voice muffled in his shirt.  “And I forgive you.”

“I’ll find another truck.”

“Not like that one.”

“Remind me,” he muttered with a frown.  Then he said,  “I don’t care.  I love you.  You are all that matters to me.”

“And you me!”

Bobby felt his phone buzz in his pocket.  Probably Chet.  He was now officially late for the load.  But screw it.  This was his life. 

“I love you,” Bobby whispered, holding his wife as tightly as he could, standing in the rain on a gravel drive on a Monday morning somewhere in Texas.   That shiny new truck was worth nothing compared to this moment.  Nothing at all.

Copyright © 2014, H.J. Ted Gresham, All Rights Reserved.