Amarillo By The Afternoon
A Joe Buck Tale
By:
Rick Beck
(© 2021 by the author)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
beck@tickiestories.us
Truckin' Across The USA
There are ways I assure, when I climb into the driver's seat, I'm ready for a problem free, uneventful long-haul. I'm a professional trucker with a thousand to two thousand miles ahead of me, and I need to know, once my eighteen wheels meet the highway, I'll deliver safely and on time.
After walking around the trailer, checking lights and tires, my inspection is done, I climb up, and into, the driver's seat. I'm ready to get down to business.
I'm not simply a truck driver. I'm an owner-operator. I own my own truck, and I lease my services to a company that books my loads. They tell me where I'm going.
Knowing my truck is ready to go, and once I make certain the trailer is ready, I crank up my Cummins diesel engine, adjusting my seat, checking my mirrors, and listening for any sound I don't recognize.
A driver depends on his ears, just like he depends on his eyes, to have a complete picture of what his equipment is doing. A strange sound far away, but persistent, could be a trailer flat. Eight of my eighteen tires, are on that trailer. There are eight up under my cab, and two steering tires.
Because I've driven to where I pick up the loaded trailer, I know my engine sounds fine, but my ears are tuned to it, just in case. When things go wrong, it start somewhere, and my ears might pick up when it begins.
Once all systems are go, I reach for the Willie Nelson tape. Willie and I go way back. He was always ready, when it was time, and I doubt I'm the only trucker who starts each run the same way I do.
I push the tape into my tape player, shifting my truck into first gear, and letting out the clutch.
I'm on my way.
“On the road again,” bursts out of my sound system. “I can't wait to get on the road again” Willie croons, as my tires hit the highway running beside where I picked up this load of freight.
My fuel tank is full. I picked my truck up that morning, from the shop where I leave it, each time I come home a week or two. My mechanic knows to go over it with a fine tooth comb. When I pick it up, I want to hear him say, “You're ready to go. I'll see you in a couple of months.”
I've been driving the highways of America for over a decade. My mechanic knows my schedule, and he has a good idea of when he'll see me and my GMC the next time.
Dave walks me to the driver's side door, waiting for me to climb into the seat and crank it up. We both listen to the same sound, and he nods, wiping his hand on a grease rag, and walking back into the shop.
It's time to roll.
Dave's message is the same as Willie's. I'm ready to go on the road again, for two or three months of problem free driving, until I see him the next time.
Heading off potential breakdowns, by doing preventive maintenance, is serious business. A breakdown on the road costs you time and big bucks. My mechanic charges a reasonable rate, and he takes a reasonable amount of time.
A breakdown on the road will cost you top dollar, once you've paid a lot of money getting towed to a place that won't charge reasonable rates, because I let my equipment fail me in his backyard. My loss being his gain.
In the last decade, I had one major breakdown on the road. I broke a drive shaft. I lost a week, which cost me two to three thousand dollars, in lost freight, and it cost me an arm and a leg to get my truck back from that mechanic.
Every other time, for ten years, when Dave gave me his nod, I was good to go, until I drove back into his yard. Yes, there are flat tires, dead batteries, and nagging little difficulties that arise when your tires are always turning, but little nuisances are built into the equation. If I lose an hour or two this afternoon, I'll get it back tonight.
I like to keep my miles behind me, driving the first five hundred miles by the end of the first day. I might or might not stop to stretch my legs, and get a bite, but I don't fuel, until the second day, and I know where I'll be, when I fill my tanks. That'll be one of the cheaper fuel stops on my route.
Once I begin a run, after my dispatcher and I agree on where I'm going, I immediately head for the closest Interstate. Being in Pennsylvania, I turn my rig west, until I hit I-81 south, an hour from where I picked up the trailer that needs to go to Long Beach, California.
I'll be on I-81 through Virginia, and into Tennessee, where I'll pick up I-40. I-40 will continue taking me southwest, until I hit Memphis, where I cross the mighty Mississippi River, where I-40 turns west for the next two thousand miles.
By fueling after dark, once I've passed the Nashville exits, I'm up at two or three, and I drive into and through Memphis before the four-wheelers get out of bed. I plan to avoid potential bottlenecks, like Memphis, by catching a few hours of sleep, and by going through Memphis at four o'clock.
Once I hit Arkansas, it's hammer down, until Little Rock. I'll hit morning rush hour, but the worst traffic will be coming toward town, while I'm heading away from town.
On the first day, while still in the east, and with steady, if not heavy, traffic, I don't push it. I go with the flow of traffic, because this isn't where I make good time. Once I stop to sleep, five to six hundred miles into my trip, I'll be nearly alone on the road through Memphis.
After Little Rock, and whatever traffic I find there, it's hammer down into Fort Smith, where I'll stop at the scales, won't get a second glance, and I'll leave the Ozark Hills, and be on flat smooth highway for five hundred miles.
This is where I put the hammer down, easing up for Oklahoma City before noon, and it's hammer down to Amarillo, and straight on to New Mexico, the second night.
By the way, we weren't introduced. I'm Joe Buck, cross-country trucker, and I've let you ride along, until early on my second day of a run to California, but I'm going to need that seat somewhere along this stretch of highway.
some sleep. I'm up and running well before dawn on my second day out.
You might find a hitchhiker at any time, after you leave Memphis, but one of the more certain places, where I often find hitchhikers, is on the ramp from I-35 south, where it joins I-40 west, just south of Oklahoma City. With two major Interstates merging, there's plenty of room to pull over.
I've picked up more hitchhikers there, than anywhere else in the country. Today, it's not noon yet, and the traffic is moving right along. Keeping my eyes open for some company means slowing down a bit.
By this time on the second day, a thousand miles behind me, I need someone to talk to me. I need someone who will keep me more alert. Before my driving day ends, I want to be well into New Mexico, and two thirds of the miles will be behind me, before I get up on the third morning.
As with all plans you make, when you're on the road, some don't yield fruit. The ramp is empty, but I'm not worried. As many hitchhikers as I've picked up there, I'm sure some take local rides, to get off the ramp, and out of the city.
I'll keep my eyes open.
Now, I don't pick up just any body. A prime candidate to ride along is in his early twenties, clean looking, and no sign that he might be trouble. It's hard to tell these days. Young men have become very good at deception. When I began driving the highways, most guys I picked up were exactly what they seemed to be, but it isn't true any longer.
I'm lucky enough to be able to spot someone who is not what he seems. Someone who is hiding the truth, acts like a fellow who is making an effort to hide something, They are usually too forward, and they talk too much.
There is a look that clean cut young men have, without making any effort to look out of the ordinary, and he's the guy I want to pick up. I know one of those when I see him.
Once you reach your mid-twenties, if you're a halfway decent sort, you aren't on the road hitchhiking. Twenty-five year old men, have started building a life. Up until then, he might make a false start or two, and takes to the highways, going in search of himself, and that I understand.
Most of my best helpers, were standing on the side of the road, when I was going by. If a guy is young, looks fit, and doesn't look dangerous, at a glance. I'll stop for him.
It doesn't take long to find out what he is looking for. There are a lot of young guys who have no idea where they are going, but what they do know, they've got to leave where they are.
Once I establish that they have no plan, after leaving, I offer them work. What boy hasn't seen himself driving a big rig, and a good place to start is, being a helper on a truck.
It doesn't take long for a young man, who is going no where, to see my truck as a port in the storm. They are safe, making money, and have nothing to worry about.
Slowly, there story comes out. They need to tell someone, and I guess I fit the bill.
More than half the boys I pick up hitchhiking, end up working for me. Some might stay a week or two, but most stay for two to three months. By that time, they have some sense of their own value. Hard work can give them that.
There comes a time, when even the best helper, has had enough of going back and forth, back and forth. Sooner or later, they'll say, “The next exit, I'll get out there.”
The last thing I see of him, a fading shadow in my right hand West Coast Mirror. It's sad seeing someone go, after I've gotten to know him. It's good to see them give life another try, but it leaves me with a seat to fill.
I'll be keeping my eyes open for the next hitchhiker, somewhere down the road, and once he gets in, his story won't be much different from the story of the boy who has just left me. The road is weird that way, and how many reasons can there be for a young guy to hit the road.
I see what I'm looking for on the far side of the Oklahoma City's suburbs. There are still houses, but they're few and far between, but on a ramp, leaving an Oklahoma secondary road, stands a hitchhiker, thumb out.
He is smart enough to leave plenty of room for my rig to get completely off the road's surface. If there isn't enough room to pull safely out of the way, the hitchhiker stays where he is.
This one is sprinting for the passenger's door, as quick as he hears my hissing air brakes. It announces to him, he has gotten a ride.
I watch the door open, and a gym bag flies up into the second seat, and he follows it into the seat. He's out of breath from his dash to the truck, as he looks me over, not forgetting an appreciative smile.
I'm surprised at what I see. He isn't simply clean cut, he's squeaky clean. Most young men who climb aboard my truck, don't look as though they've just come out of the shower, but he does, and I attempt to hide my surprise, as I shift up through the gears, merging back on I-40, not wishing to waste more time than is necessary.
Back up to speed in the light midday traffic, I feel comfortable turning my head to face my passenger. He's young, college age, and he looks as fresh as a daisy.
“What's wrong?” he asked, looking straight at my face.
“Where you heading?” I asked, which is where we needed to start.
I wondered if he was heading a few miles up the road to school. He was carrying a gym bag.
A hesitation tells me he doesn't have a made up story. It's not unusual to get a load of bull, before you got the truth. He doesn't know me, and I don't know him, and he might be gone in a mile or two, but I sincerely hoped not.
This clean young man looked very nice.
“I'm Cassidy,” he said with a big Midwestern smile. “Cassidy Lane,”
He reached across the doghouse for my hand, once I was back up to cruising speed.
After we shook, I looked at his face. What a smile.
“Joe Buck,” I said. “Where you heading, Cassidy Lane?”
“I'm going west. I guess that's obvious, isn't it?”
“West covers a lot of territory. You from OK, City?” I asked, thinking about his fresh and clean look.
“I'm from Appleton. That's in Wisconsin.”
“I've been there,” I said. “You may have noticed, I'm a truck driver.”
He had a sudden tragic look on his face, like he'd just farted in front of the student body.
“I thought you might be from nearby. You look like you just stepped out of the shower,” I said, waiting for a story.
“I did,” he said, a little more cautiously. This nice man picked me up in southern Missouri, near Joplin. He took me home, fed me, and let me sleep in his spare room. When I got up this morning, he had breakfast ready, asked me if I wanted a shower. I did, and he let me off on that ramp.”
“He didn't live in Joplin. He lived here,” I said.
“Oh, I get out ahead of myself sometimes,” he said. “Yes, he lived a mile from the ramp. I was only there a half hour or so. On the ramp, not at his house. Traffic's light.”
I smiled. He'd become very precise rather fast. I don't know why I found that amusing.
“Everyone's at work, except for you and me,” I said. “Except me,” he said. “You take your work with you.”
“Very good,” I said. “You're fast on your feet, and a lucky guy,” I said. “There are some nice people out there. Glad you found one of those,” I said.
“You mean there are some not so nice people? I was in my sophomore year at school, and, well, I needed to get away, and, well, here I am.”
“Most college students are anxious to get done with their education. You want to take time off. That's unusual.” “I decided not to go home. I've been there all my life. It's time I did something on my own.”
“I'm heading for Long Beach. That's in California. It's about as far west as you can go. Long Beach is on the Pacific Ocean,” I said.
That got no response. He'd grown tired of looking at my face, and he began studying the highway ahead of us.
By the time we were nearing Elk City, where I fueled up, Cassidy had grown quiet, sitting forward in his seat, looking apprehensive, as he watched out of the windshield. Cassidy Lane carried a heavy weight with him. He was unable to leave it in Wisconsin, but I doubt he carried it in his gym bag.
“You're going to the right spot with a name like Cassidy Lane,” I said, wanting to start a conversation before we stopped for fuel and food.
Leaving him to stew in the juices of the life he'd left behind him, wasn't a good idea. I needed to get his mind off his troubles, and onto more pleasant considerations.
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at me.
“Rocky Lane and Hoppalong Cassidy are two famous Hollywood cowboys,” I said.
“His name was Hoppalong?” Cassidy asked.
“William Boyd was his real name, but he played a character he developed and he rode it to fame and fortune.”
“My friends call me Cass,” he said.
“I'll call you Cass as well. I take it California is far enough, at this point?” I asked.
“Yeah, I'd like to go to California. I wasn't sure where I wanted to go, but that sounds good to me, if you don't mind me riding along.”
He was presuming nothing. My picking him up was no guarantee, I'd take him to the end of the line. Behind the smile and friendliness that he couldn't fake if he tried, was someone who had hit a patch of rough road. Rough enough to make him leave school behind. It was the middle of the second term for his sophomore or junior year, I guessed.
“We've come the same distance,” I said, wanting to keep the conversation going.
“How's that?” he asked.
Appleton would be a thousand miles from here. I left Pennsylvania before noon yesterday. It's a little over a thousand miles for me.”
He had a strange look on his face, as he looked at me.
“How in the hell can you know how far it is to Appleton, Wisconsin, from here, in the middle of nowhere.”
“Did I mention, I'm a truck driver. It's nearly eight hundred miles to Chicago from here, and I calculated a little less than two hundred and fifty miles to Appleton,” I told him.
His mouth had opened, while he stared at me.
“No one could possibly keep all that inside his head,” Cassidy said, not looking a way. “You a magician or just your every day genius.”
“I go to Chicago two or three times a year. I get into Wisconsin and Minnesota at least once a year. Once you've been, you know how far it is. You know how long it takes to get from here to there, and you know what you need to know about where to get food and fuel. I've been doing this for over ten years. I know as soon as I hear my destination, how I'll get there, and where I'll stop along the way.”
“That's not possible,” he said. “I don't even know how I got here,” Cass said.
“You took I-55 to I-44, and I-35 to I-40, you're on I-40 west,” I advised him.
“Shut up,” he said, looking straight ahead.
I laughed. My basic trucker's knowledge amazed Cass.
“There's a Loves fuel station a half hour ahead. I'm going to stop there for fuel, and to pick up something to eat. It's what we call a quick stop. No time to waste, I've got to be in California the day after tomorrow,” I advised.
“And just how far is Long Beach from where you stop for fuel,” Cass asked, wanting to test me.
“You don't really want to know that,” I said.
“Yes, I do. Come on smart guy. You don't know, do you?”
“It's fifteen hundred miles from OK City to Long Beach, and it's a hundred miles from OK City to Elk City. That would make it fourteen hundred miles from Elk City, to Long Beach,” I said.
“You made that up?”
I smiled, shaking my head, and I reached under my bunk and pulled out my road atlas.
“There's a distance guide between major cities in the front of this. If you check Oklahoma City to Los Angeles, it will be fifteen hundred miles, give or take ten miles or so,' I said.
He looked at me like a deer caught in the headlights of an on rushing car. He did not open the road atlas. The next road sign gave the distance to Elk City as twenty-nine miles.
“It's actually easier on me to have someone in the second seat,” I said.
“Second seat?” Cass asked.
“Passenger seat. It becomes the second seat, when I have a helper. I'm in the first seat, and my helper is in the second seat. Having someone with me, helps make the miles go faster. Keeps me more alert,” I said.
“Cool. I'm glad I'm not just taking up space,” he said, sounding happy not to just be taking up space.
“Can I put my gym bag behind the seat?” he asked.
“Toss it on the bunk. That leather curtain keeps the light out and the bunk stays clean. Brush the bottom off completely, before putting it on the bedspread. I don't let anything out here go on my bunk. The sheets stay clean that way. Clean sheets are a luxury I look forward to, while I'm out on the road, and yes to your initial question, I always make my bed, after getting out of it.”
“That's how you keep your sheets clean,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said.
“Makes sense,” Cass said, forgetting his frustration over the mileage deal..
“You make your bed, when you get up?” Cass asked.
“When I'm going across the country, I don't spend a lot of time in the bunk. I strip down before I get into it, keeping
my dirty clothes up front. I fall asleep a lot faster, if my sheets are cool and clean. It is the only place where I escape the diesel smell, and grease that gets on everything. Be careful. The grease jumps on you, if you aren't careful.”
Cass looked like I'd stretched things too far.
“Sounds dangerous. How i s it you are so clean?”
“Just left the house yesterday. I start out clean,” I said. “I just don't end up that way. Truck stops have showers, when I have the time, I shower.”
“Elk City is where we're stopping?” he asked.
“Yeah. If you need to go, go there. We won't be making another stop until tonight. Once I fuel up, and we pick up some snacks. We'll be good to go, until we hit New Mexico.”
“You hungry?” I asked, as we closed in on Elk City..
“Actually, I am. I had a nice breakfast a couple of hours before you picked me up, but I hadn't eaten for the last day. I guess I have a hollow leg, like my mom says.”
“I stop for fuel at the Elk City Love's fuel stop and store. They have hot food, sandwiches, drinks of all kind, and I usually pick up a few things there, so I don't need to stop again, until I get well into New Mexico. There's a Mexican restaurant east of Albuquerque, where I always stop for dinner.”
“We'll be in Albuquerque today?” Cass asked.
“Close, I'll catch a few hours sleep, where we eat. We'll go through the city later on. It's not one of those cities where you get backed up at rush hour, but there's a lot of Albuquerque, and I like going through at night. Not much out there after that, until Flagstaff. We might get breakfast at Little America,” I said. “That's in Flagstaff.”
“I won't bother asking you how far it is to the restaurant where you plan to eat dinner,” Cass said, giving me the evil eye.
After looking at my face for a few miles, he said, “You know where you'll eat dinner tonight, and breakfast tomorrow?”
“Uh huh, I drive this road on an average of once a month. When I back up under a load, I know what time I'll hit Elk City, and the Mexican restaurant. It's built into my schedule. I was a thousand miles from Oklahoma City, where this run started, after I've been at the house, if I'm coming this way, I need to be in OK City by noon on the second day. I'm running a little ahead of schedule.”
“That is amazing,” he declared. “I drive from my parents house to school, when I'm starting a semester. I don't know when I'll get there,” Cass said. “I do know when I am there, though.”
He gave me an impish look.
“I bet you do,” I said, with my coy smile.
“Did you go to college? How can you keep all that inside your brain?”
“It's second nature. I've never asked other truckers about it, but I imagine, after being out here a few years, the things that are present in our brain, are simply from experiencing it over and over again. Repetition.”
“I'll take your word for it,” he said, unconvinced.
“It's my job, Cass. I need to know that I'm on schedule. Usually I want to get as many miles behind me as I can. Then, I can take time for myself,” I said. “The stops are built into my schedule.”
Cass listened to every word I said. He looked at my face while I spoke, and I felt like he was interested in hearing what I had to say, because of how he watched me.
“If we're hammer down for most of the night, we'll be in Flagstaff for breakfast. That's in the middle of Arizona.”
“Wow! What's hammer down?” Cass asked.
“Well, hammer down means pedal to the medal. I'm able to go into the mid sixties range. That keeps me out of trouble, most of the time. I could set my truck up to run at seventy or eighty, but this truck needs to last me.”
“Truckers who run fast, need to replace their trucks more often?” Cass asked.
“Yes. A diesel will run forever, if you take care of your equipment, but running it hard, with the roads in the condition they're in, things will wear out faster, and you'll need to replace your truck sooner. I don't need to go all that fast, as long as I stay on schedule. I'm more relaxed, and my equipment is happier,” I said.
Cass laughed about my equipment being happier.
It wasn't yet one, when I was fueling at the Loves. One truck sat at the fuel islands, and there were only a couple of people in the store, where I paid for the fuel, and picked up a hot meal and some snacks for later. It was then, I explained my policy about passengers to Cass.
“I'll pay for your food, as long as you're on the truck. That's a perk my passengers get. A guy on the road isn't flush with cash. If you stay, and you want to help with the unloading, folding blankets and such, I'll pay you for the work you do, so you'll have a little extra cash,” I said.
“Are you kidding me? You're offering me a job on your truck?” Cass asked, a delighted sound in his voice. “And my food goes with the deal?”
“You aren't required to do anything but ride, but a guy that helps is cutting down the time I spend in one spot. The faster I get done, the sooner I'm on another load.”
“Show me what to do, and I'll do it,” Cass said.
“Pick out a couple of items. One to eat right away, and some kind of snacks for later. It'll be close to eight, mountain time, when we eat dinner, and you'll want some snacks for later. Their hot meals are surprisingly good, fried chicken, chicken fried steak, or burger and fries if you like. Pick up a drink with your meal, and something to drink as we go along. The afternoon sun dries me out, big time,” I said. “It sets right in our face this time of year. Our next stop will be the Mexican restaurant, and that's over three hundred miles, six hours driving time.”
We were back on the road, after our quick stop. Cass was busy eating his chicken fried steak. I got the burger and fries. I could eat while I drove. With traffic thinning the further west we went. I felt it was safe.
Not only did I enjoy a hot meal, but I felt lucky as well. Cass was more than a fine looking college boy. He packed his jeans like he knew what he was doing. I figured they were last year's jeans, because of how tight they were, and I was betting, he had no trouble with getting rides.
Cass had it all, and he knew how to show it off, in a world that loved hot young men in tight jeans, but it left a question in my mind. Why was he out on the highway?. I wouldn't ask, because I didn't interrogate guys who got on my truck. It was a good way to run them off, and Cass was definitely a keeper.
If he was anything like the boys who usually sat in my second seat, the story would come out, before we got too far down the road. For now we ate, and the miles rolled by.
Cass had wheat colored hair, vivid blue eyes, and a very fair complexion, like many Wisconsin boys. He ate his meal, polishing off a root beer. Then, for the next couple of hours, he slept. It was a good sign. He was comfortable enough with where he was to sleep.
I imagined he'd want to talk, once he woke up. He was friendly enough, and he had begun to adapt to the road. He was less up tight, now that I'd offered him work.
A boy who had no idea where he was going, or what he'd do when he got there, now had a job, and a place in the world, albeit, one with wheels on it. A guy who was interested in such an offer, would want to talk about it before much longer. If only to be sure he hadn't dreamed it, and he hadn't.
Thirty miles outside of Amarillo, Cass blinked awake. He was surprised by the barren landscape surrounding us. Elk City was still in the grasslands. The further west you went, the less there was to see, except for dirt and rocks.
“What's this place?” he asked, still slumped in the seat.
“We're twenty or thirty miles east of Amarillo,” I said.
“Doesn't anything grow out here? It's nothing but rocks and dirt,” he said.
“That's what grows here,” I said. “If the globe was a person, this would be the asshole.”
Cass laughed.
When we passed the Cadillac Ranch, he couldn't believe his eyes.
“What is that?” he asked, a delighted sound in his voice.
“Cadillacs grow like that, right out of the dirt in Amarillo. You didn't know this is where Cadillacs come from?”
He laughed, as we approached and passed the row of Cadillacs planted nose first in the Texas dirt.
“Those are Cadillacs?” he asked, looking at how the noses of each car was buried in the dirt, and the tail fins stuck straight up in the air.
“They are a variety of ages. I think from late 1940s to the early 60s. Can you imagine cars over twenty feet long, and all the cars had huge fins, like those,” I said.
“How would you park a thing like that?” Cass asked.
“Very carefully,” I said.
It was hard to picture cars a third the size of big rigs. All cars had big fins in the 50s. It was required. If it rained, and kept on raining, they'd have made nice boats,” I said.
“You don't have a car that size at home?”
“No, I don't have a car. It was get a car, or go to college, I decided that I needed to go to college,” he said.
“You're a far piece from college,” I said.
“Tell me about it. I'm traveling for my health,” he said.
“You're about as healthy a looking stud as I've seen lately, Cass. That doesn't make a lot of sense,” I said.
“I was going to school. I had a job to pay the bills. My life was coming apart. I couldn't concentrate. I quit my job and dropped out of school,” he said. “Here I am, and I've got to tell you. I have a new appreciation for how beautiful Wisconsin is. Texas sucks.”
We were looking at each other, as Amarillo drew closer. Questions came to mind, but no answers crossed his lips. Since he'd started a conversation, I followed his lead.
“Just like that, you left it all behind. Not an uncommon story from most boys. I've picked up a lot of guys who told me similar stories.”
“Many college drop outs?” Cass asked, looking at me.
“None. Some high school drop outs, who had no reason to stay, and more than one reason to take off. The road is full of those stories. No college dropouts,” I said. “One now.”
“No. I've met plenty of high school drop outs. It's the nature of the beast. Things are hard and home. There's no reason to stay. They hit the road. No college guys,” I said.
“No college guys,” he said.
“Some guys want to talk. They tell me about leaving home. The stories have a similar ring. Other boys don't say much. I figure, no one has ever listened to them. That's the way they see the world. No one cares about what they have to say. Some are high school dropouts, if they're in high school when they decide it's time to leave.”
He looked at me, when I talked. He was listening. Cass was learning. If you want to learn, first, you need to listen.
“I take guys the way they come to me, Cass.”
“When they talk, you listen,” he said.
“I do. As you can tell, I have a lot of time on my hands, and miles ahead of me. Listening to the stories helps the miles go by faster. Once a guy become part of the rhythm of the truck, he might start talking, and I listen well, but now, I'm repeating myself.”
Cass looked away, watching the road ahead of us. There wasn't much to see. The Big Texan billboards came more frequently. The free seventy-two ounce steak came with a caveat. You needed to eat the steak, and all the trimmings, in an hour. When you lived in Amarillo, it didn't take much to attract attention. Travelers see an add for a restaurant, and if they happen to be hungry, they might stop there. I never did.
His silence wasn't an indication of anything. He said what he wanted to say. Not everyone wanted to tell a truck driver about his problems. Not everyone wanted to talk about the life they left behind. It was all good.
As the far reaches of Amarillo began to appear, Cass was looking at my face again. He had something on his mind, but I wasn't a mind reader. We'd met each other that morning, and it was only the afternoon. It took time to get to know someone. Even if being on a truck speeds that up, because you are so close for so many hours each day.
“I like talkers. They keep me alert, and if I learn something about them. Knowing where someone comes from can't hurt.” I said, glancing his way.
He continued to stare straight ahead, watching one truck stop, after another, as we reached the outskirts of Amarillo.
“You don't stop at one of the truck stops in Amarillo?” he asked. “There are a lot of them.”
“Three hundred miles back to OK City. A lot of truckers want to stop at truck stops. They tend to be crowded and they aren't as easy to get into and out of as a Love's stop.”
“You aren't a man who wastes a lot of time,” Cass said.
“I'm working. If there's a reason to go into a truck stop, they are handy, and there's plenty of room to park. At one time they had the best food, and a reasonable price on fuel. I stop where the fuel is cheapest, and the food is outstanding, when I have time to get a good meal.”
“You might say, you're a captive audience,” he said. “No one said something that had you putting them out?”
Cass had been thinking about what I told him earlier.
“No. What would he say? I'm a truck driver. There's nothing worth trying, I haven't tried. We are the cowboys of the highway. Cowboys are rarely go by the book guys, Cass. Driving a truck means being alone a lot. You've got to like yourself, if you're going to be alone with yourself.”
“You'd rather have someone go along,” Cass said.
“It's easier to have someone with me,” I said. “But I'm often alone.”
“You get along with everyone who gets on your truck?”
“No way. Some guys do the damnedest things, and some guys start talking, and don't know when to shut up. Some guys want to argue about everything. People are unpredictable. When I see a guy on the side of the road, I look for age, how he dresses. I want to see his face.”
“You like young, good looking guys,” Cass blurted.
“If that was true, you'd sure fit the bill. Once a guy gets into his mid-twenties, he should have no meed to be on the road. That's a factor. If someone is well dressed, even if his clothes are dirty, and he needs a shower, if he looks like he has some pride, that goes in his favor. If he looks dangerous, I keep on moving. It's common sense,” I said.
Cass looked at me like he took in every word I said.
“You know what you're doing,” Cass said. “I've never met a man more comfortable in his own skin.”
“I've been at this for over ten years. I know what I'm doing. I'm not working a nine to five job, because I won't conform to someone else's idea of what work is. I am my own boss. My dispatcher knows what kind of loads I'll take. If he offers me loads I don't want, I get a new dispatcher,” I said. “I own my truck, and I go where I want to be. Life is too short to be miserable for half of each day. I love what I do, and I love to keep moving.”
“It shows. You are one of the good guys, Joe Buck,” Cass said.
“I've heard it all. I've done most things worth doing. I think of my truck as a sanctuary for me, and for guys who are in between here and there. Some guys are looking for a place, where life isn't pressing in on them,” I said.
“If they want to talk, I don't repeat anything I hear, and when a guy says, 'Let me out here,' I let him out there. No one stays a minute longer than he wants to stay.”
Cass watched me talk, even when the traffic had picked up, and I kept my attention on the road.
“The best helpers get handed a card, before they leave. It says, To talk to Joe Buck, leave message at this number.”
“In case they need you?” Cass asked.
“Riding the roads gets old. Young men like being on the move, but they are looking to experience what life has to offer. Just because they get tired of riding, doesn't mean they won't miss it, or need it in the future,” I said. “Once I know them, and I like them, I hope they'll call, but if they don't call, I figure they're OK.”
“It also gives them someplace to go, if things aren't working out for them,” Cass said.
“It does,” I said.
“Any call that number?” Cass asked.
“All the time. I have four regulars. I'll hear from each about once a year. I take them on, even if I have a helper. If they call, they might need me. I won't let them down.”
Cass continued to watch my face, as I watched traffic.
“You bought me lunch. You offered me a job, which I want, by the way. How do you know you can trust me?” he asked. “I could be an ax murderer,” Cass said.
It was my turn to laugh.
“I didn't get as good a look at you as I might like, because of where you were standing, but my first reaction was, I liked your looks. I did get a chance to look you over, while we were in Loves, and unless that thing running down your right leg is a club, I think I'm safe. Have you ever owned an ax?”
“No. Not even one. I do have a problem with constant erections. I can assure you, it isn't a club,” he said.
“It's difficult to hide anything, when you're on a truck,” I said. “It all comes out sooner or later.”
“That's an interesting concept,” Cass said. “I'll keep that in mind.”
“Certain things do keep coming up, while you live on a truck,” I said. “It's more apparent on some than on others.”
“I'm not bashful. When it gets hard, it gets hard. If guys want to look, it's a free world,” he said. “If that little bunk is where you sleep, where does your helper sleep?”
“Surprisingly, I've slept two in the bunk with no loss of comfort. In this culture, it's not surprising how many boys start out sleeping in the seat. After a few weeks, once we become comfortable with each other, most end up in the bunk. Nudity no longer bothering them. I'd like to think it's my winning personality, but that seat is hard on the butt.”
“Two naked dudes in a bunk can also be hard on the butt, if you know what you're doing,” Cass said with a smile.
“I've heard that,” I said.
I pulled my cowboy hat low on my forehead. With that and sunglasses, the glare wasn't too bad, but it wasn't unusual to fight the setting sun for four or five hours, as you traveled west this time of year.
I stayed in the outside lane. I wanted to give the four-wheelers all the room they needed, as they merged on, and then off the Interstate. Most cars didn't go far, but it was rush hour in Amarillo, and I needed to be alert.
“The cowboy hat keeps the sun out of your eyes,” Cass said. “That's smart.”
“Yep, and the cowboy boots elevate my heel. It's easier on my foot, and it lets me keep driving longer,” I said.
“I didn't notice you had boots on,” he said, leaning on the doghouse to look at my feet. “Cool. I like the color.”
Cass not only looked good. He smelled good. He took his time moving back into his seat. His smell lingered.
The traffic began to thin, and we left Amarillo behind. The long, smooth, straight stretch was left behind, as we dropped off the Oklahoma-Texas plateau, driving down into a new landscape that was New Mexico.
The brown Texas dirt gave way to black lava fields, red, and orangish hues glittering in the sun set. The sky was a clear blue, and the horizon looked pink, and It appeared as close as it had been in the past five hundred miles.
New Mexico closed in on us, and after stopping at the port of entry, and then, blowing past Tucumcari, it was an easy drive to the Mexican restaurant where I planned to stop for a sit down dinner. I'd catch a few hours sleep, and then go through Albuquerque.
The restaurant was on an exit that took us up and away from the Interstate. There was a secondary road that could have passed for a road to nowhere. There was a motel that looked deserted on the far side of the highway, and the restaurant was on the near side.
There was a huge gravel parking lot surrounding the restaurant, and there was plenty of room for big trucks, but I was the only truck, and there were only a couple cars. The restaurant wasn't crowded.
The food and service was excellent. The salsa was as good as I'd had anywhere in the country. The waitress had to refill it twice, before Cass and I got enough, which tickled Maria's fancy.
“You are really liking the salsa?” Maria asked.
“We are really liking it a lot,” I said, leaving a very nice tip, since the bill was much lower than a restaurant like that in the east.
I was using their parking lot as my bedroom for the next few hours. That had to be worth something. I was both fat and sassy, before I got ready to go to bed.
We were far enough away from the Interstate, that there was hardly a sound in the lot.
I pulled off my boots, putting them in front of the steering wheel, putting my hat on top. My shirt went on my steering wheel, and I balanced my ass on the back of my seat, to slip out of my jeans. I did not wear underwear, and after putting my socks beside my boots, I was ready to get in the bunk.
Cass was watching me, and he didn't stop looking, once I had shed everything, before getting in my bed. As I dropped my butt on the bedspread, he was unbuttoning his shirt, as I slipped out of sight.
He'd make up his mind where he wanted to sleep, and I'd said all I intended to say on the subject. I suppose I was as comfortable with Cass, as I'd been with a hitchhiker on the first day. He seemed to be a guy that went with the flow, but I didn't know if he'd flow into my bunk or not.
As hot as he was, I voted for him getting into the bunk, but what he did was up to him. Every hitchhiker was different, and I could not predict which ones would get into my bunk, or how long it might take them to decide to do it.
I moved the bedspread to the foot of the bed. It was still warm, because the engine had just begun to cool, and a certain amount of heat warmed the interior of a cabover truck.
The leather curtain stretched in front of the bunk, and I couldn't hear Cass. He'd had plenty of time to undress, and he was still in the seat. I left plenty of room. Closing my eyes, and being prone, made me drowsy.
I'd been on the road hours before sunrise, after a couple of hours sleep last night, and while I couldn't fall asleep behind the wheel, I could drop right off, once I hit that bunk, and thoughts of Cass couldn't keep me awake.
I was almost there, when I felt something moving into the bunk, and I was wide awake, as the leather curtain was held to one side, as Cass' smooth white butt moved into the spot I left for him.
Just for a moment he was on his back, his hand on my groin, but he quickly moved onto his side, and unfortunately, he moved his hand.
“Sorry about that. It wasn't a planned move. I'm a little new at this,”
“You're doing fine. I'm not at all traumatized, but I sleep here every night,” I said.
“I want to ask a favor?” he said, sounding serious.
I could hear him saying, 'Don't touch me,' in my head.
“There is a guy at school, Joe, and he got it into his head that I belonged to him. Well, I didn't, and I don't, but he's ruined me on facebook. He's put the most disgusting things on the blogs, and he has friends ruining my life. I had to leave, and that's the reason I'm out here.”
“That's crazy,” I said. “You can't deny what he's saying? Tell people the truth?”
“You don't understand. If someone decides he's going to destroy your life, and he has friends helping him, they are able to ruin your life. If enough people believe what they are writing about me, no matter what I do, a certain number of people are going to believe those pack of lies. You don't know what it's like, having everyone looking at me.”
“I don't know what to say. I don't have much time for social media,” I said.
“I know it sounds crazy. I feel so dirty. It's like someone through a bucket of shit on me, and I can't scrub it off. I couldn't stay at school. I quit my job, and I hit the road Monday. I'm not sure what I'll do, but I couldn't stay there, knowing what people were thinking.”
“As I've said, you can stay as long as you want. You don't need to work as a helper. You're obviously over qualified for the job, but I don't know what else I can do for you. What you describe is beyond my ability to understand it. I do not dabble in social media. It's wasted time,” I said.
“It's not that. I want the job. I want to be on your truck. I would like to help. It'll give me something to do to keep my mind off of what's going on at home. I believe you are a good guy, Joe Buck. I know you don't know me. I know I have no right to ask you for anything, but there's something I need right now, more than I've ever needed anything.”
“What is it, Cass. Whatever you need, if I can help you, just tell me what to do.”
“Put your arms around me, Joe,” Cass said. “Hold me. Please, hold me.”
I had nothing to say.
I put my arms around him, holding him gently. I'm sure he was crying. He thought his life was over, but it was only a bad stretch on a rough road. The life he'd left would fade a little each day, until he didn't remember what it was that made his life feel so hopeless.
Holding Cass wasn't much to ask, but I felt like I wasn't doing enough. I wanted to remove the pain, excise it from his mind, but he wanted to be in my arms, and in my arms he stayed, drifting into a sound sleep, and I followed him.
I woke three and a half hours later. I did something I never do. I lingered there, enjoying the feel of Cass against me. I didn't want to disturb him, but I had work to do, and so I eased myself out of the bunk, without waking Cass.
I let the leather curtain move back in place. The noise would be muffled, and no light would wake him. I reversed last nights disrobing, ending up slipping into my cowboy boots, and placing the cowboy hat on the doghouse, between the two front seats.
I hit the start button, and the engine purred to life. Shifting into first gear, I eased out of the lot and onto the road that took me back to I-40, moving down the ramp and onto an empty road, for as far as I could see.
Once I reached the top of the hill, which would take me down into Albuquerque, I stopped at an all night fuel stop, to fill up my tanks. That would get me to California, where there were no cheap fuel stops, but I'd fill up one tank before leaving California, and that would get me back to where fuel was cheaper.
Going down, around, and down, and down, the early Albuquerque exits were a half hour away, and then it was the middle of tow, out across the Rio Grande River, and then the climb up out of the valley of the sun, but it was pitch black, as it was hammer down, and out of New Mexico, and into Arizona, where it was more brown, more rocky, but the road was good and the traffic remained nonexistent.
I glanced back into the bunk, and Cass was dead to the world. The road was smooth enough that it should wake him up, and as the sun was rising behind me, the sky was clear blue, that day was clear, and the driving was easy.
Cass slid into the seat, and he sat there naked for some time, before he slowly put on his clothes. He hadn't even looked at me, and I wasn't sure he was a waked, once he got up front.
“How far to Flagstaff?” he finally asked.
“Maybe forty-five minutes,” I said.
“Good. I'm starved,” he said with a smile.
He leaned over the doghouse, brushing his lips against my cheek. I was a little startled by the move.
“Thanks,” he said. “You may have saved my life, but I'm betting it isn't the first life you've saved, Joe Buck.”
Epilogue
It was sausage gravy over biscuits, and keep the coffee coming, for breakfast at Little America's Flagstaff restaurant. The gravy was hot, the biscuits fluffy, and the coffee was strong. They were both ready to finish the run they were on.
That night, not long after it got dark, but it was West Coast Time, Joe pulled over at the top of El Cajon Pass, getting far enough off the highway so he didn't hear the traffic, and he slept for four hours, getting up and driving to where he would deliver in the morning, in Long Beach.
It was a safe trip. He would deliver on time, and he had one hell of a nice helper with him.
The End.
Posted: 07/30/2021