Drive

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'If something ever happened to me, you'd tell my wife I love her, wouldn't you?'

The words were out of Gary's mouth before he even knew he was going to say them. Ron looked at him from across the table, fork lifted halfway to his mouth.

'Ah man, why you gotta be like that? Nothing is gonna happen to you and you know it.'

Gary shrugged. 'I dunno, I don't even know why I said it. But... you would, right?' He looked at Ron intently, showing him he was serious.

'Hell, sure I would. Although if Irene sees my ass standing on your front porch she might chase me off. You know she don't like me. But yeah, man, sure thing. You bite the dust, I tell Irene you love her.' The waitress appeared and leaned over the table to pour coffee. Ron caught Gary's gaze wandering, and snorted. 'I'll tell her you love her just fine, man.'

They finished their meals and walked out of JC's Truck Stop and headed towards their respective trucks. Gary pulled his cap onto his head and clapped Ron on the back. 'See ya on the other side,' Ron said as he climbed into his truck. They had done this routine for so many years now, he couldn't remember when things had been different. Late breakfast at JC's, then on the road again for another four days. Then they'd meet back here, have dinner and head home. A line from a Talking Heads song drifted into his head... Same as it ever was, same as it ever was...

Irene had asked him once (once, when they were actually still having meaningful conversations) whether he actually liked driving. He had thought about this for a minute, realizing then that he had never actually thought about it before. He had done it his entire adulthood, had known he would do it since he was five. But did he like it? He supposed maybe he could give some poetic answer about it being just him and the open road, seeing miles and miles of this fine country but that was just bull. For one thing, the road was almost never 'open', you always had to share it with someone, whether it was a cop riding just behind you, making sure you didn't speed up, or some punk teenager thinking he's invincible as he clips in front of you for no good reason, or some mini-van driving soccer mom who is paying more attention to the clan of kids in the car than she is to the road. As for seeing the country, all he really ever saw was blacktop and loading bays and truck stops. He'd like to think that there was a hell of a lot more to this country than that. But did he like it? Finally, after a long moment's thought, he had nodded. 'Yeah. Don't ask me why, I ain't got a clue,' he'd told her, already thinking about how he should go about undoing her blouse, 'All's I know is, I do. Done it for too long not to, don't ya think?' She'd smiled at him, love still showing there, and ran her fingers along the nape of his neck; he decided on the perfect angle of attack, ending the conversation right there.

So now, this Saturday in April, with four days of driving still in front of him, and many years behind, he thought about it again. One thing about driving, it gave him plenty of time to think. And he supposed that was one of the things he liked about it. He could lose himself in thought, the roads and highways so etched into his mind he was pretty certain he could literally drive them blindfolded (and one hand tied behind his back, ha ha). It was predictable, and one thing Gary Tucker liked was predictable. He was not one for surprises, giving or receiving. He took comfort in knowing exactly how things would play out, what was waiting around the next turn. He spent a lot of time watching the other drivers, and every once in a while he'd pick one that was likely to be in front of him for a while (you could tell these things after a while, who was headed up the road for a grocery trip, and who was on their way across the country, even without being able to see into the car), single out someone that he could 'study on' for a bit. If he followed them for long enough, an hour or two, he could get a pretty good sense of their driving style. He could predict when they'd hit their brakes, when they'd back off from traffic, when they would pass. He'd use that to build himself an image of the person behind the wheel, what their personality was like, how they handled things. He did this all without really thinking about it. You spend 10 hours behind the wheel of a truck, you need something to fill your mind. And in the end, it all came down to the same: predictability. He had studied on one such car through three states before finally losing it at a rest stop, and by the time they had parted ways, he had become amazingly accurate in his predictions. Had even known that it was going to be pulling off at the rest stop. Ah, yes. Predictability.

He looked now at the picture of Irene that had been taped to the roof of the rig. It had been there so long that it had started to fade; he had put it up there to shield it from the sun as much as possible. An impossibly young Irene smiled down at him, sitting on a picnic table and holding a hotdog in one hand. How many years had it been since Irene had even thought of sitting on a picnic table, he wondered. When was the last time they had even seen a picnic table? Funny how life could change so much.

A car merged onto the highway in front of him, and his thoughts drifted away. He swatted the back of his neck; a low, tickling sensation had started there. He tried to rub it away, but it persisted. Probably the heat, he thought to himself, and rolled the window down a bit. He checked out the car in front of him. Small, sporty looking. Gary's experience put sports car drivers into two classes: the 'I am invincible because I drive a sports car and therefore can speed like there's no tomorrow' class, and the 'I spent way too much money on this car, and damned if I am going to take any risks in it' class. Strange, though, because this one didn't seem to fall into either. It held a steady, reasonable speed in front of him, keeping an even but not overly-cautious distance from the traffic in front of it. The crawling feeling persisted at the back of his neck, and he realized with something of a start that he was covered in gooseflesh. He looked back up at the picture of Irene, and she continued smiling down at him. A voice in the back of his mind told him to get away from that car, just floor it and go, there's plenty of room, plenty of time, get the f**k out of Dodge good buddy, just GO! But another voice, less frantic, and much more commanding, simply said 'Stay right where you are.'

Stay he did, despite the ever-growing feeling of anxiety. He lit a cigarette, maybe that would help. He gave the car a good once over; Ford Probe with Pennsylvania plates, enough dirt and grime on them to show the car had been owned for a while, although the car itself didn't betray that. Its metallic blue coat gleamed in the sunlight, the mirrors and windows postively sparkled. His angle was too high to see inside, but he had a good feeling (a strong feeling) that it was a woman behind the wheel, a woman in her early thirties. She was listening to a classic rock station, he knew, smoking a cigarette. He sensed that she wasn't supposed to be smoking it, although why that would be he couldn't say. He squeezed the accelerator a little, wanting to close the distance between them without knowing why. As he moved forward, it struck them that it was almost a defensive move, not of him, but of her, as if he were moving forward to protect her. But protect her from what? There was little traffic on the road, nothing to be concerned about anyway, and traffic was keeping a pretty steady flow.

Nonetheless, he crept forward until there was two car lengths between them, enough space to not make her anxious (and as a truck driver, that was something he rarely took into consideration, he had driven this rig for God knows how many years, he knew exactly how to handle it, whether the car in front of him believed it or not); yet little enough space that he could close the rest of the gap if necessary. He pondered that thought wonderingly. Why on Earth was he thinking he would need to close that gap? What possessed him to feel protective of this one little car, one of the millions he had seen over the years, not at all remarkable, not looking in the least as if it needed defending. 'Stay right where you are,' that voice prodded again, and he listened. Craziness.

An image of Ron came to him suddenly, Ron, lying in the hospital after his heart attack. 'Thank God he wasn't behind the wheel when it happened.' That had become the mantra of everyone who spoke of the event. Ron had been driving, had been into day three of the work week when he decided to stop at McDonald's for lunch. 'That stuff'll kill you one day,' Gary had always told him. 'If something kills me, Gary, it ain't gonna be Mickey D's, it'll be that cholesterol stew they spoon up at JC's. Been eatin' that shit for what, 20 years now. They'll write it on my tombstone. Here lies Ron Mercer, killed by a greasy spoon.' And, as it turned out, Mickey D's hadn't killed him, it had saved his life. He'd pulled his truck off at a McDonald's / Mobile rest stop right off the highway (there were tons of them), climbed out of the cab and keeled over onto the ground, clutching his chest in true Hollywood style. Ron Mercer was no small man and the thud he made when hitting the pavement turned heads in a hurry, and off he went to the hospital for an emergency bypass.

He had recovered amazingly, and was back on the road in just a few months. Even when he wasn't driving, he'd met Gary at JC's every Saturday, although for several months, he only joined him in a cup of coffee and a muffin. 'God knocked, man, and damned if I am gonna ignore it,' he'd proclaim. A few months back onto the road, though, and God's knock had been forgotten in a sea of sausage gravy. But the image of Ron lying in the hospital bed, with wires and tubes and what-all poking and sticking every which way; big, beefy man looking somehow small and insignificant, that had never left Gary. Neither had the memory of walking in there the first time, Ron asleep and snoring as loud as ever. Gary had walked over, picked up his friend's hand and held it in his. 'I love ya, dumbass,' he had muttered down at him, and when he heard footsteps coming from down the corridor he had dropped Ron's hand in a hurry. He looked at the nurse and walked out of the room past her. 'I love ya, but not that much,' he thought to himself, both amused and ashamed for thinking it.

The car was, of course, still in front of him (who names a car 'Probe' anyway, for crying out loud?) and another image occured to him. This one was of the car pulling him along in a tractor beam, a la Star Trek. He was a faithful 'Star Trek: The Next Generation' viewer, although he wouldn't admit this to Ron, who thought TV was only good for football games and bass fishing tournaments (and the occasional swimsuit fashion show, of course). Most of Gary Tucker might have been rooted in reality, but every once in a while he gave flight to his imagination, and Star Trek seemed to fulfill that quite nicely. In his mind's eye, he could see the blue hazy light wedging backwards from the Probe towards his truck, sweeping him into its grasp, pulling him along, keeping him in tow. He wished the car would slow down, give him a reason to go around it. But it kept its steady speed and he knew that even if it had slowed, he would have stayed dutifully behind it, bringing up the rear. Maintaining his defensive stance. But what the hell was he defending? And from what?

He shook his head and turned his thoughts to Irene, and that crawling feeling intensified briefly. Hell, he was losing his mind he thought. He glanced over at the cell phone lying on the seat and thought briefly of calling Irene, but he knew she wouldn't be home. One thing he didn't envy that woman was being married to him. He would always boast loudly of having the best life; a woman waiting at home for him, and an excuse to get away from her. He loved her, from the very depths of his heart he did, but he very rarely told her, and he felt a little guilty for it. But hell, she had to know, right? He came home to her every week, and wandering eye or no, he had been dog-faithful to her the entire time. Ron had picked himself up a hussy or ten here or there, a lot of drivers did, but Gary never once did. Some things you only get once in a lifetime, and the feeling he got from being with Irene, making love to her every Friday night, there was no where else he was ever going to find that. And he knew if he went lying in another bed, even just once, those nights with Irene would never be the same. Just as he knew that, despite the odds, despite the fact that he couldn't blame her if she hadn't, she had been faithful to him the entire time too. Maybe the gleam of love wasn't quite there anymore, maybe they didn't say sappy, dopey things to each other anymore, but one thing he knew was that Irene was all he really had in the world, and he loved her more than he even realized. Without her, he thought to himself, shivering a little, I'd die too. There'd be no reason to go on...

To be continued

Kate Schechter

13.11.03 Front Page

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